Esha Rajan, a resident of Najafgarh, can certainly be dubbed a “poet of Najafgarh” owing to her close connection with the locality. She is well-acquainted with the streets and landmarks of Najafgarh and has a fondness for its mustard fields during the winter season. However, her true realm of growth and self-discovery lies within the campuses of Delhi University.

Esha’s journey of self-discovery led her to Jesus and Mary College in the South Campus, where she completed her undergraduate studies, and the Arts Faculty in the North Campus, where she specialized in philosophy. While strolling through a bustling Najafgarh bazaar alley one afternoon, she fondly reminisces about her college days, including the poetry society, open mic sessions at Lodhi Garden, and evenings spent sharing tea and poetic verses with her friend Aan, where they would mutually refine and enhance their poems.

A few weeks ago, Esha’s path took her through an Old Delhi lane where she encountered an elderly gentleman jotting down notes on pieces of paper. This nostalgic sight inspired her to compose a poem about something nearly forgotten: the telegram. Have you ever received one? Esha hasn’t, and she graciously shares her poem on this subject:

Telegram*

A telegram

A symphony of thoughts

Interwoven with the intricacies of self

The ink that unveils stories rarely told

Forgotten? A contemplation.

Amidst the chaos of bustling streets

The red postbox stands, waiting to be filled

With connections left to steep, on crumpled coffee-stained sheets

The ink

Has begun to fade

Infused like earth, dancing to the rhythm of the first rain

Grey shades of dreams unfurl like a cascading waterfall

Old city of people

Of bustling streets, resonating with the symphony of chaos

In their boxed abodes, secrets are whispered!

Whispers of desires that twinkle as the old city slumbers

I

Am the telegram

Breathing in the grace of dust, my silent companion

Waiting in the embrace of untouched moments, I observe

Master

Brushes off the long-forgotten credenza

A fleeting glance that raises his brows, he sighs

Perhaps, I am a fading memory or an unhealed flame

I, the telegram

Am the echo of concealed mysteries, imprinted emotions

Unheard amidst the city’s enveloping chaos

Unloved in my solitary world of dust

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