kala ghoda
many years ago
they would amble
into the cafe
with its arms always open
one by one they would
troop in
masters
of prose
of rhyme
of colour
of the seven notes
to watch their muse
go about another day
they would watch
the sun
as it bathed
the horse outside
and marvel
at the few rays
cutting through dust
spreading inspiring shadows
on the tarmac
they would wait
till the shadows lengthened
and
the clock in the tower yonder
keeping time
would signal the moon
to take over
they would watch
the rains take over
when the clouds
would wash off
the tyranny of summer
and bathe the quadrangle
for photographers to capture
the statue finding home
in the puddle below
they would watch
that season come and go
which others call winter
and which we call
the Tibetan one
smiling faces with
optimistic sweaters
finding refuge under the statue
for a bit
there used to be a time
when the masters
would gather
and attempt
to capture Mumbai
in poems
in pictures
in stories
in paintings
in songs
the masters are no more
the cafe is gone
the house of music is desolate
all that remains
is
a gasping gallery
a lonely horse
and a parking lot
full of memories
