Send this

Do not send me a postcard
of the city that once lived here,
its water-courses and its domes.
No photograph can show that this
was once home, and that home
is long gone.

Do not send me a miniature
drawn with a camel's-hair brush
to hang on my wall, or tell me
you were in the Anarkali Bazaar,
or say the gulmohar trees were aflame
and koels sang there.

Everything changes. Remind me
of this when the light falls aslant
on things not quite made, girders laid
over half-drawn plans, haggled over
and paid, the truth retold and sold
in new-built malls. 

With the wrong key, I come
to this place and try to unlock it.
Air-conditioners rattle and spit
at the back of suburban villas.
Someone here has built a room,
left space for a window,

opened a door, a desire.
Do not mock it. In an almost-done
world, send me this, knowing
nothing is ever fixed. I will carry
the unfinished walls of my city
with me, in my pocket.