Around the graveled path

Running through the criss-cross streets

And lanky alleys

Networking the cities Zamun and Lascovac

History mushrooms new stories

Into the veins of Gypsy air.

A gypsy boy shakes hand

From the horde of Roma.

Silent they stand

Glaring at the stream of history

That runs millennium back

As the group of Indian delegation

Looms around.

Another history is shaped

Near the confluence of Danube and Sava

As the Romas hug their brethren

From the land of their ancestors.

And then the long course of events.

The webbed grottoes of memory

Take short snippets

Of the forlorn glimpses,

Persian, Ottoman, Arabian, Balkan...

And entwine a rosary of blood-bubbles. 

The Bamti, Beldari, Dom,

Garodi, Gasai, Gulgulia,

Kandzari, Kolhati, Ladi,

Malari, Mianuali, Lahari

Nati, Odki, Phendari,

Sasi, Sikalgari, Banjara,

And  Lamani, Sharai, Luri,

All beads of the same kaleidoscope

Shimmer in Europe

But to be clouded.

At dusk

When the darkness shakes hands

With the Sun,

And the shadows

Of the shanties and trees

Start flickering before evaporation,

A diffident flash of kerosene lamp

And the overloaded

Single phase of electricity

Culvert the new dreams

Into the drain of indignity.

The hesitant steps

Row against the porch

Of the city gaff

To greet the men

From the country of their origin.

A carnival to reproduce

The marks of old glories 

They still cherish

Since they got strayed from India.

The early puffs of smoke

In the morning

Spring a new life

Into the slouched bellies

And pump in raw calories

In the feeble frames.

Should I stand for a while

To sense the perfume of the city

That the air jabbles against my nose,

And the velour of its sons

Which hasn’t gone in vain,

And craft the art of gypsy girls

Into the words curvaceous

To make an account?