Evening Balcony … Haseeb Hashmi

Evening Balcony, Reading Ghalib

Haseeb Hashmi

The sun leans against the old city walls,

its light folded in creases of dust and prayer.

Rickshaws hum below like tired insects,

and a hawker calls out the price of guavas

in a voice cracked by centuries.

I stir my tea,

steam curling like an Urdu couplet

that forgot its rhyme midway.

Ghalib rests open on my lap,

his words breathing between sips—

“Dil hi to hai…”

and I nod, as if he still watches

from a Haveli window somewhere,

amused by our small tragedies.

A breeze lifts the page,

carrying the scent of rain and roasted corn.

Somewhere, the azaan unthreads the traffic,

and for a moment,

everything pauses

the honking, the heart, the world

just long enough

for poetry to feel like prayer.