take a breath, dear one, all is not lost.
revel in the humidity of this land, and its emotions far older than yours.
take strength in the standing fort walls of golconda, which once shielded the beds of wealthy nizams from war and fury. although inside, you know that they only lie in gentle ruins.
but take heart, sunshine, that these stories, whispered zubaan, tell you how life continues surprisingly despite circumstances of despair, or (dare we mention?) fallen love.
and if you raise your hands against the thick air, you can almost feel the thinnest membrane, a delicate separation of this world from an entirely different one.
one world that you can catch in a covert glance from the old man in a nehru collar sitting at the local dhaba, or the thin little boy in a white topi rushing across a busy road.
sometimes, even caught in the shining eyes of a woman sitting in the seat of a lumbering bus, her red and green glass bangles chiming disconcerted over every pothole and rock.
tip your head backwards and you’ll see how culture at its oldest and finest reemerges in the shape of dusty minarets and gleaming saraswatis.
contrasting white and green flags with the stripes of orange white and green, waving in every slight breeze.
dear one, i know what you are thinking. that though your heart may well with an unrequited feeling (i dont dare mention it this time), and you may find yourself staring at the sky for an answer, none will be given. what has happened twice before, cannot possibly continue its cruel circle for a third time.
so take heart, sunshine. this story of yours has made its ending.
and to those few people to whom you owe everything under the sun, save a thought.
that your decisions and actions are for a happiness other than your own.
and this city of nizams, perhaps it will deign to teach you a history of how love that is lost, can always be found again.
