Urdu, bloody at his lips
and fingertips, in this
soiled lane of Jama Masjid,
is still fine, polished
smooth by the generations.
He doesn’t smile but
accepts my money
with a rare delicacy
as he hacks the rib of History.
His courtesy grazes
my well-fed skin
(he hangs this warm January morning
on the iron hook of prayer).
We establish the bond of phrases,
dressed in the couplets of Ghalib.
His life is this moment,
a century’s careful image.
– Agha Shahid Ali
The above poem was later published in a revised and edited version as below:
The Butcher
In this lane
near Jama Masjid,*
where he wraps kilos of meat
in sheets of paper,
the ink of the news
stains his knuckles,
the script is wet
in his palms: Urdu,
bloody at his fingertips,
is still fine on his lips,
the language polished smooth
by knives
on knives. He hacks
the festival goats, throws
their skins to dogs.
I smile and quote
a Ghalib line; he completes
the couplet, smiles,
quotes a Mir line. I complete
the couplet.
He wraps my kilo of ribs.
I give him the money. The change
clutters our moment of courtesy,
our phrases snapping in mid-syllable,
Ghalib’s ghazals left unrhymed.
– Agha Shahid Ali
* Jama Masjid is the great mosque of Delhi. Ghalib and Mir, two of the greatest Urdu poets, are especially known for their ghazals.
Juvenilia 