A pageant of jalebis, with dahi and otherwise,
A clutch of eager paans,
A garrison of rasmalai and gulab jamun,
A party of mangoes,
Kulfi on a mission,
Armed, intense kebabs,
Mughlai parathas beset with
madness,
Ghar ke khane ke vividh swaad,
all aromatic with kindness.
In the
city where faith is immovable (literally) and djinns roam in the night time
(literally?) I found myself unwinding to the belief that there may be things
beyond science. Well, that belief certainly makes life more interesting. Barely
recovering from the wide-eyed-ness of meeting the rain of the plains, I soared
into the city on the wings of fantasy.
Sleeping
cycle riskshaws wait in glittering lines
outside a cemetery. People have passed by it for at least a century now and to
them there is really no restless lure of romance to draw their eyes to scan for
a story or a djinn in repose against a headstone. But in the quiet rings of
trees and in the sleepy aisles between the rows of inhabitants, they are
there. The djinns have written the
fortunes of this city in magic.
(I left this post halfway and still have a lot to say. It's the only reason why I sinned and fudged the date and time. What was written then needed to be put up. What is to come will take a different, more reflective tone.)
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