In Front of the Qutub Minar
In the small days of my childhood,
whenever the bioscope man came,
a flood of children poured through the lanes.
And the moment the magic box opened,
the very first frame revealed
the Qutub Minar.
A slender reed of red and tawny stone, p
iercing the sky,
outstretching the tall areca palms,
conversing with clouds,
colliding with sandstorms and smoke
from half-burnt straw,
it has stood for centuries—
alert as a steadfast sentinel.
Even now it rises before me,
amidst ruins, half-built walls,
and rare architectures,
gathering memories
from the hour of its making
to the pulse of the present,
breathing the earth, the water,
the shifting air of locality.
It has watched Delhi’s endless cycle
of ruin and rebirth—
the swagger, the cruelty,
the dazzling pretence of rulers,
the choking sobs of common folk,
their cries, their restless anguish.
It has seen the chameleon steps
of power-hungry courtiers,
the sly manoeuvres of brokers of the throne.
From the flight of birds
circling its crown,
the Minar has witnessed
how the six hundred thousand villages of India
are slowly squeezed dry
by the ink-blot greed of Lutyens’ Delhi,
how the ever-swelling NCR,
like a many-mouthed demon,
swallows its neighbouring towns and fields,
chewing the green edges of farming villages,
its hunger endless,
its appetite like a rakshasa
grinding everything into its dark maw.
Migration, urban glitter,
the deceitful charms of “modernity”
spin their new web each day,
draining the stored lifeblood of the rural.
Foreign capital twirls like bar dancers,
and our new generation,
bedazzled by neon dreams,
wanders in this dazzle,
half-awake, half-lost.
These are not merely domes,
stones, arches, or stairways.
This monument—this Qutub Minar—
with its tiers, its windows,
its latticed balconies, its carved arches,
is not merely a shelter for pigeons.
In silent tones it tells
of the past, the trembling present,
and the secret spells of what is to come.
Even when epochs are erased,
it stands, unwavering—
like unburnt posts left whole
in a field of scorched harvest.
Lakshmi Kant Mukul is an Indian writer, poet, critic, rural historian and serious scholar of folk culture, born on 08 January 1973 in a rural family in Maira village, District Rohtas, Bihar province, India. His literary journey began in 1993 as a Hindi poet and since then, he has published three books in Hindi and has been published in more than two dozen anthologies and hundreds of journals. Apart from Hindi, he also writes extensively in Urdu and Bhojpuri and also translates them into English himself. His two published poetry collections are- “Lal Chonch Wale Panchhi” and “Ghis Raha Hai Dhan Ka Katora”. His published book on rural and local history is- “Yatrion Ke Najriye Mein Shahabad”. He has received many awards for his work, including Aarambh Samman for his poetry writing in Hindi language, the prestigious Hindi Sevi Samman of Bihar Hindi Sahitya Sammelan. His English poetry has been published in many international anthologies and translated into many languages. The notable achievements of his literary career are – recognition as a farmer poet and expertise on the changes taking place in the rural environment in the global era. Having studied law, he has adopted the modern style of farming. postal address -LAKSHMI KANT MUKUL Village _ Maira, PO _ Saisar, SO _ Dhansoi, Buxar, Bihar [ INDIA] Mob.no._6202077236 Postcode – 802117 Email – kvimukul12111@gmail.com
