I can feel the sun, heating up the floor underneath my feet!
Soft warm winds with rays fighting the printed linen, to seep.
Trees on toes, in vain; not tall enough in standing!
Streets lengthened by a red lining, shadows straightening!
May be this is what is called 'lining up the broadway"!
To me, just another day in good old Mussoorie, quaint and gay.
The Quran's being opened yet again, enchanted in reverence.
Agarbattis fill the air with the ever so recognizable fragrance!
A sound that needs no voice, a smell little insecure.
The morning namaaz in sync with the temple prayer!
Allah meets Ram, 6000 feet above the ground.
Sherpas; steel bodies, benign expressions, circling town.
Breathing beedis. True to its last stretch, a constant grin.
NewYork, Paris, Mumbai,Tokyo?
Gun hill chalna hai saahab?
Winding paths, known yet unknown.
Daily nuances, mundane chores, still cause a rush of blood.
As I stroll down, steps beg to speed, eyes popped out,
Looking to see, seeking solace, for once the future is a reality.
Turn after turn, familiarity strikes, anticipation satiated.
Panditji's grocery store, Omi's sweets. I can guess it all!
A sense of security prevails, my hills intact.
People love change, I love the unchanged.
I follow water, down stream, trickling as it does.
Only it shares my exuberance, my passion, my love.
We communicate with our characteristic giggling,
holding virtual hands, it dodges its bumps, while I evade mine.
New waters, old friends, race to the finish this is, with two winners.
Eggs buoyant on boiling water, topped with salt and water when done,
Corn, coated in lime, honey and spices, freshly charcoaled, blackened.
I scuffle my coat, for a 2 rupee coin, Sun's beaming on Doon Valley.
Got to hurry up! For I know I have to bargain, before I catch a glimpse.
Telescopes don't rent out cheap, on a fine bright Summer morning.
Bauji, calls out the rifle shooting vendor. Haanji sir, yells the horse lender.
Authoritative in my voice, I reply with a chosen dismissive response, local.
Persistence vanishes into the thin air. The rest, as they say, is history.
I move on, with my hands in my pockets, city walk, amused, triumphant.
I realize relativity. No trace of speed of light around, but for my thoughts.
Engaging me in a seamless motion; stretching perspectives, contracting times.
The will to see the life in a second, and all you have is a bunch of emotions.
I assort them, frantically. Time's of essence, yet another life's to follow.
Stopping intermittently, smiling profusely, tapping the barricades,
I retrace my steps to 116 Landour bazaar, my ancestral home.
Bowing with folded against every alternate shop, is Kawarraj's puttar!
Sharing second glances, second greetings, but rejuvinated warmth.
Tandoor's awaits at its harshest temperatures to be fed yet again,
hands clapping against it, flours been cast into a holy shape yet again.
I totter my way up the steps, comforting my demanding stomach.
Engulfed in a flavor of maa ki daal, yelling "Beeji, Rajma chaul banaye ne ?"
