Moon at Half Past Noon

Sangam Vihar is one of Delhi's largest unauthorized colonies, located in South Delhi. Its development began in the 1970s and 80s, primarily as a settlement for migrants from across India seeking affordable housing and work. The area was originally characterized by a lack of basic infrastructure, including paved roads, sanitation, and a consistent water supply. Over the decades, residents worked to build their own homes and community spaces, transforming the once barren land into a densely populated, bustling urban neighborhood. The poem captures this historical journey from initial hardship and isolation to the creation of a vibrant, rooted community.

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The Old Tree of Sangam Vihar

My weathered, bony limbs recall the dawn,

a foreign land where memories are drawn

from faded dust. I came here on a train,

the city’s vast and unforgiving plain.

Past Tughlaqabad, past forts of stony sprawl,

I sought a space, a place to stand up tall.

Beneath my feet, sharp stones and grit were spread,

I slept alone, like some wild creature fed

on silence. Roof of tin, with walls of clay,

still held a dream I built here, day by day.

The morning sun would burn, I’d sweat and strive,

with blistered hands, barely feeling alive.

The hand-pump groaned, a slow and weary creak;

one bucketful of water, earned with sleep,

its iron taste a promise, cool and deep.

The air was thick with mosquitoes’ low keen,

the open drains gave off a stench unclean.

We burned cheap coal and splintered wood for heat—

its bitter smoke made bitter days complete.

But slowly, neighbors came, their doors swung wide,

and small shops bloomed, a river from side to side.

From one small room, our walls began to climb—

we built our future, leaving trace of time.

Look now—a crowded world stands where we began,

a tangle of wires, the busy work of man.

My grandchildren’s laughter scatters in the air—

what was all quiet now is vibrant there.

And sometimes when the night moon climbs on high,

a certain breeze, a ghost from years gone by,

whispers, “Where’s the man who lived beneath this sky?”

But no—the dust of Sangam Vihar is in my bone,

my roots have claimed this stubborn, breathing stone.

This sun, this struggle, all I’ve come to know,

is in the dust that made my marrow grow.