Hauz-I-Khas

Approach The path is six hundred years old. On the way you will see peacocks And, if you are lucky, some deer. From this parapet The empty, dried lake looks like An immense ditch, A grotesque seventy-acre dugout— A gouged eye of earth. The old emperor chose this quiet spot For his grave. There he is- In a simple enclosure of sandstone That anyone can approach. Beside him lie a son and a grandson To keep him company, perhaps. Does she remember How this place intrigued us? We haunted it constantly, Walking here from her house To be alone, together. We speculated upon these ruins From the sketchy tourist notice Put at the entrance by the archaeological survey: Just this brief walk would turn centuries. We sat overlooking the pit, Holding hands sometimes While the attendant slyly looked on. Does she remember The December sun soaking into us? And how one day The birds flew away when we came, Flapping in an enormous mottled flock from the tomb. 'They're migrating,' she pronounced, In her characteristic, solemn, symbolic way. Does she remember? This hollow goes back to times before Altamash. But it was Firoz Shah who made it a lake Cementing the sides, clearing the bottom, Sealing it to hold water. The college, which Firoz Shah also built, Is almost in ruins. Only the pillared assembly hall still stands. The lawns are well-maintained And the walls of the tomb Are not disfigured With the names of vain lovers. Night. In the steely moonlight, The royal lake slowly fills up Before my eyes. I hear the ripple of gentle water. Behind me, the scholars are asleep In their cramped quarters. The burly, heavily armed Afghan guard, With a sharp, close-cut beard Dozes, leaning on his spear. From the dark An old Mulla in his long black cloak Walks into the balcony Counting his beads, His white beard quivering... It's time for the last prayer of the day. From a distance I watch the light in her house Go out.