It was the maiden journey
in that route.

Eyes wandered out
as the train
passed through Agra
hoping for a distant view
of the monument of love.

All at once,
in the eyes craving for
the rippling Yamuna,
puddled a muddy pond,
triangular in shape.

On one side,
a long row
of evening shitters;
On the second,
a row of pigs grazing;
On the third side,
men busy scooping flesh
from a slaughtered pig,
with rear legs
pounded on the ground
under firm feet.

Now
there is no Mumtaz
in memory;
Neither Shah Jahan
nor the frozen moonlight;
Only pig blood
permeating through mud!

Blood can wash away
even memories.