The Wooden Balconies of Old Lahore
for Tasneem Raja
When it begins to rain on this summer night,
I step out onto the balcony to watch with nostalgia
the shirtless boys of our mohalla thrash about
in the flooded plaza below. Down each
of the three narrow streets that arrives at this triangular
juncture hang balconies carved of wood by hands
that lived in the century before the last, each enchanted
structure a small portal to the past, the fantastic
imaginations of the families who commissioned their ornate
designs still on display. Some showcase a geometric
intricacy on par with the inner trellises of the human brain;
others bear the likenesses of bears emerging
from massive Ottoman tulips, camels crossing sand dunes
shaped like ocean waves, even cat-eyed serpents
swallowing their own tails, as if predicting
the floundering tomorrows of our fought-for nation.
Our balcony, seemingly conceived during a monsoon
like tonight’s, quite possibly by someone seeing the same
splashing scene of playfulness that I am seeing
from above, depicts a series of mermaids swimming
through coils of seaweed, reaching out to their
mirrored twins, seeking rescue. I see I am not alone,
that others have come out to delight in the rain rinsing away
the dust and longing of another brutal day spent seeking respite
in shade. Even the unmarried daughters of the old
Haji Ali Samdani look on with their lusting
eyes peeking out from dark scarves to see their future
husbands frolicking beneath the falling sky,
measuring the wildness of each prospective lover to guess
at the lastingness of his goodness. Everything seems
more perfect, more everlasting, during the rainy season,
when instead of noticing the slow but inevitable
decay of wooden things, or the dimming
vitality of our aging bodies, we feel suddenly young
again, held intact within the timelessness of these miniature
museums whose magic will inevitably end
in collapse, in the kind of crushing stillness that follows
the last drop of rain, the last silent grasp of breath.
From Catamaran, Summer 2017
for Tasneem Raja
When it begins to rain on this summer night,
I step out onto the balcony to watch with nostalgia
the shirtless boys of our mohalla thrash about
in the flooded plaza below. Down each
of the three narrow streets that arrives at this triangular
juncture hang balconies carved of wood by hands
that lived in the century before the last, each enchanted
structure a small portal to the past, the fantastic
imaginations of the families who commissioned their ornate
designs still on display. Some showcase a geometric
intricacy on par with the inner trellises of the human brain;
others bear the likenesses of bears emerging
from massive Ottoman tulips, camels crossing sand dunes
shaped like ocean waves, even cat-eyed serpents
swallowing their own tails, as if predicting
the floundering tomorrows of our fought-for nation.
Our balcony, seemingly conceived during a monsoon
like tonight’s, quite possibly by someone seeing the same
splashing scene of playfulness that I am seeing
from above, depicts a series of mermaids swimming
through coils of seaweed, reaching out to their
mirrored twins, seeking rescue. I see I am not alone,
that others have come out to delight in the rain rinsing away
the dust and longing of another brutal day spent seeking respite
in shade. Even the unmarried daughters of the old
Haji Ali Samdani look on with their lusting
eyes peeking out from dark scarves to see their future
husbands frolicking beneath the falling sky,
measuring the wildness of each prospective lover to guess
at the lastingness of his goodness. Everything seems
more perfect, more everlasting, during the rainy season,
when instead of noticing the slow but inevitable
decay of wooden things, or the dimming
vitality of our aging bodies, we feel suddenly young
again, held intact within the timelessness of these miniature
museums whose magic will inevitably end
in collapse, in the kind of crushing stillness that follows
the last drop of rain, the last silent grasp of breath.
From Catamaran, Summer 2017