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Mera Mulk, Mera Chowk.

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Steps swirling into pavements

And the pebbles coming out from the street tar,

Melting away till they are lost somewhere near the stars;

I have taken all of this and made a pole.

It stands tall in that busy street with a thousand people,

Talking. Sweating. Spitting. Hoarding. Talking;

Hugging tightly in my arms, I have the scroll

From the Mughal Shah Jahan.

Stating immediate arrival of a thousand and five men;

With incredible forearms, straight from the glen,

To be carried out on the sixth day of October,

They built another ruby in Dilli’s taaj.

The pole still stands tall.

The people still talk in appall.

The streets still melt in the heat.

The flies still hover around our feet.

But they couldn’t resist staring at this moment.

Those who said, “The pole is too dirty to look at”

At the minarets which touch the sky and

Smile calmly at them…

“You’re still eating the parathas, my dear. Don’t forget,

You’re in my mulk, my chowk.”

Shruti Singh

Bachelor of Arts (Honors), English

1st Year

Indraprastha College for Women, University of Delhi