Spill the ink: My nostalgia
The era I’m nostalgic of
is the one I have never lived in
To questions of my existence,
the answers lie therein.
Who knows, the matrix could be glitched
upon my coming in.
Or is it oblivion?
the things that keep callin’:
Jingling in pockets, coins of tens;
That hand-drawn well, across the fens;
Old polaroid’s broken lens;
13 black cats and bad omens;
Them glowing smiles on granny’s face;
Uncle Ghaalib’s leather suitcase;
That rusty scooter’s noisy race;
Those norms of chivalry and grace;
Old cars in the streets of Lahore;
With radio-sets but jazz no more;
Classic hats that gentlemen wore;
People who told the great folklore;
All this and many more of these,
Infect me like a sweet disease,
When out cometh that mystic breeze,
Of vintage smells and subtleties.
Writer: Faheem Iqbal