Harappa

The sound of the distant tubewell

Vast fields of yellow mustard

Memories cannot be erased so easily.



Early morning calls to namaz

Evening happy hours with colleges

Work on maps, pottery and my identity in between.



A hazy mist every morning

The walk to the site

Peace is easily found at this time of day.



Encapsulated in heat and dust

The constant banter of the workmen

and the sheer excitement of excavation.



Need an elevation reading?

Is this sherd category 32 or 33?

Are you an American?



Pakora’s and chai in the qasba

Moonlit nights at the Sirai

You are a Pakistani.



Clutching my duppatta as the wind rips by

Smoking on the roof tops

The Monsoon is in front of me.



Tears of frustration as I speak

I’m talking to you

Nahi, maiy aap say baat karahi hou.



Standing at the trench

Trowel in hand

I supervise my workmen.



The heat is harsh on my back

The lot forms are almost done

In the distance, I hear my azaan.



I walk as if walking in a dream

My work boots leave distinct footprints behind me

I leave them at the door as I go to pray.



Unearthing history -

Unearthing myself

Nothing constant but the sound of the distant tubewell.