Time Traveller Dining At Sidewalk on Burns Road
Dr. Agha Inamullah
Friday, 26 March, 2021
Each window from terrace whispered story of its golden era, and wept as if a lost child on last train to Hindustan, parted from Sindhu, a beautiful life with memories of shattered dreams carrying world of torment upon its shoulders.
I could see the century peeping to take a glimpse of me behind silk curtains, shy, and secretly smiling from her bedroom window. I could see chariots, and carriages wheeling and could even hear the clattering from metal hoofs of horses' on scented wider roads.
Suddenly my gaze disentangled to a rusty basket crafted from dry date Palm leaves; that rolled down from an adjacent terrace fence wooden bar; tied to an edge of Parvathi’s colorful dupattas she had collected, gifted from her beloved's family.
Krishan was flying kites with Muhammad on roof top. Few Seagulls fluttered near their kites who apparently had lost their way from fish harbor at Keya Mari.
Umaru in her Froze sari tied to midriff with shortest sleeveless choli arched on her fairest belly bent forwards to hang a bed sheet over the terrace fence, soaked last night in caustic solvent. Hubby yells, “careful Umaru Jan”. She took a good look of the road, stretched her arms to full, and walked back inside.
Deepak was playing strings on Sitar softer tunes; an early morning practice for his next concert. The melodic fluidity of expressive tunes resonated my soul with lingering meditative quality.
The flock of seagulls was distracted, on the periodic peal of bells which echoed from Merry Wither Clock Tower, a far.
Kishor dared stares with meaningful romantic blinks from his balcony, to Mumtaz staring eagerly at him from a residential complex across.
The sound of Bhajan soothed the neighborhood . Yet another terrace echoed with the yells of grumpy husband, shouting at his wife.
Zaib-un-Nisa, with sun-kissed complexion, in her sleeveless, deep square cut neck, black net blouse on Persian blue bell bottoms, thrust the door open from her apartment on ground floor and headed to next building across the road, hopping a Bambi speed, clearing tram track in haste.
Vendor chanted "Chooriyan", colorful glass bangles matching shades with clothes.
Belly buttons; the deep enticing wells; in fairest, and some in dark skins; in bazars peeped through chiffon, reaping few charming but, half scared distracted smiles.
A side walk on food street was occupied with dining chairs and tables; as inside dining is banned due to Corona cult. Just as I tasted my first bite of tandoori Naan; scooping with it Nahari soup, sprinkled with spice, lemon extract, and golden fried onion shreds; a 60 years old Parsi Dina Ardeshir suddenly appeared; wearing dark shaded Cleopatra red lipstick, clearly bordering lining of her lips; with Jasmine flower garland fixed at the rare lifted edge of her hair, revealing her seductive hump shimmering gold due to sunlight reflection from her bleached tiny tips of hair. She had long hair and those on side of temples had snake turns which danced like juggler's' metal springs, with each nod , and a fuller mouth giggle as she paused to have a chat with me, and then walked passed beside the sidewalk I was dinning on. Was I being paranoid! How do I know her name and age!! The only Parsi lady I have known is Anushka from Institute of Behavioral Psychology. Who was this Dina!! Dina flashed back in time tunnel, like T' Ping & Mr. Spock in his teleporting glass chamber in Star Trek; and it took me back to 1865 exactly 100 years before my birth. I tried to resurface to present, but an invisible force from an apparent worm hole took me to another galactic portal back in 1865, and I could only vividly focus; when I saw James.
I could see the century peeping to take a glimpse of me behind silk curtains, shy, and secretly smiling from her bedroom window. I could see chariots, and carriages wheeling and could even hear the clattering from metal hoofs of horses' on scented wider roads.
Suddenly my gaze disentangled to a rusty basket crafted from dry date Palm leaves; that rolled down from an adjacent terrace fence wooden bar; tied to an edge of Parvathi’s colorful dupattas she had collected, gifted from her beloved's family.
Krishan was flying kites with Muhammad on roof top. Few Seagulls fluttered near their kites who apparently had lost their way from fish harbor at Keya Mari.
Umaru in her Froze sari tied to midriff with shortest sleeveless choli arched on her fairest belly bent forwards to hang a bed sheet over the terrace fence, soaked last night in caustic solvent. Hubby yells, “careful Umaru Jan”. She took a good look of the road, stretched her arms to full, and walked back inside.
Deepak was playing strings on Sitar softer tunes; an early morning practice for his next concert. The melodic fluidity of expressive tunes resonated my soul with lingering meditative quality.
The flock of seagulls was distracted, on the periodic peal of bells which echoed from Merry Wither Clock Tower, a far.
Kishor dared stares with meaningful romantic blinks from his balcony, to Mumtaz staring eagerly at him from a residential complex across.
The sound of Bhajan soothed the neighborhood . Yet another terrace echoed with the yells of grumpy husband, shouting at his wife.
Zaib-un-Nisa, with sun-kissed complexion, in her sleeveless, deep square cut neck, black net blouse on Persian blue bell bottoms, thrust the door open from her apartment on ground floor and headed to next building across the road, hopping a Bambi speed, clearing tram track in haste.
Vendor chanted "Chooriyan", colorful glass bangles matching shades with clothes.
Belly buttons; the deep enticing wells; in fairest, and some in dark skins; in bazars peeped through chiffon, reaping few charming but, half scared distracted smiles.
A side walk on food street was occupied with dining chairs and tables; as inside dining is banned due to Corona cult. Just as I tasted my first bite of tandoori Naan; scooping with it Nahari soup, sprinkled with spice, lemon extract, and golden fried onion shreds; a 60 years old Parsi Dina Ardeshir suddenly appeared; wearing dark shaded Cleopatra red lipstick, clearly bordering lining of her lips; with Jasmine flower garland fixed at the rare lifted edge of her hair, revealing her seductive hump shimmering gold due to sunlight reflection from her bleached tiny tips of hair. She had long hair and those on side of temples had snake turns which danced like juggler's' metal springs, with each nod , and a fuller mouth giggle as she paused to have a chat with me, and then walked passed beside the sidewalk I was dinning on. Was I being paranoid! How do I know her name and age!! The only Parsi lady I have known is Anushka from Institute of Behavioral Psychology. Who was this Dina!! Dina flashed back in time tunnel, like T' Ping & Mr. Spock in his teleporting glass chamber in Star Trek; and it took me back to 1865 exactly 100 years before my birth. I tried to resurface to present, but an invisible force from an apparent worm hole took me to another galactic portal back in 1865, and I could only vividly focus; when I saw James.
Mysteriously staring at
me, Mr. James Burns leaned beside a wall at the corner of huge residential complex,
now fluorescently painted mustard & metallic green. A Scottish doctor
otherwise, but I know he was spying for British Raj. He had his head ducked in newspaper, held in his fully stretched arms at 180 degrees. I could focus on back page with news that read, "Burns Road to become Bin Qasim Road soon; claims a Time Traveler from future 1947". Pretending to read the
paper; keeping an eye on many like me who pose threat to the System, and are doomed
to be labelled rebel. The train of thoughts ran a
marathon between three centuries, and exhausted at 2021.
I got up, and with my right hand fingers, tried to fish for my wallet from the pocket on my right hip to pay the bill. I couldn’t make up how much it was. My head seemed heavy, and clouded may be from a food rich with high cholesterol, assorted with imagination riding on hippocampus saddle throbbing and hammering my temples, congruent with the thumping pulse, breathless like a prisoner who escaped from a dungeon. My mind boggled again, this time on sound of violin tunes caressing my tympanic soothing my ear drums. Was I hallucinating or did someone wind the key on gramophone. No !!! nothing of that sort. There was no one playing the music. I sailed back in time as I walked with heavy thighs, to cross the street unlike Zaib-un-Nisa's hops, squeezing my way cautiously between motorbike wheels and Rikshaws'.
An apparent intellectual bare feet in rags, sat with knees flexed beside a closed Paan wala cabin, busy highlighting paragraphs, sunk deeply in his book. I thought to walk over to him, but then changed my mind to let him be, and preferred not to disturb. But I couldn't walk away without capturing him. The depth of his attention seemed quite resistant, and sustainable to the noisy flow of traffic; unmuffled motorbikes, Rickshaws or Busses' typical loud honks, or even vendors near him calling out loud to customers.
I got up, and with my right hand fingers, tried to fish for my wallet from the pocket on my right hip to pay the bill. I couldn’t make up how much it was. My head seemed heavy, and clouded may be from a food rich with high cholesterol, assorted with imagination riding on hippocampus saddle throbbing and hammering my temples, congruent with the thumping pulse, breathless like a prisoner who escaped from a dungeon. My mind boggled again, this time on sound of violin tunes caressing my tympanic soothing my ear drums. Was I hallucinating or did someone wind the key on gramophone. No !!! nothing of that sort. There was no one playing the music. I sailed back in time as I walked with heavy thighs, to cross the street unlike Zaib-un-Nisa's hops, squeezing my way cautiously between motorbike wheels and Rikshaws'.
An apparent intellectual bare feet in rags, sat with knees flexed beside a closed Paan wala cabin, busy highlighting paragraphs, sunk deeply in his book. I thought to walk over to him, but then changed my mind to let him be, and preferred not to disturb. But I couldn't walk away without capturing him. The depth of his attention seemed quite resistant, and sustainable to the noisy flow of traffic; unmuffled motorbikes, Rickshaws or Busses' typical loud honks, or even vendors near him calling out loud to customers.
Nothing could disturb him. Absolutely nothing at all. Not even my silence, and an abrupt halt to zoom him in, that could have probably distracted his gaze, to take a look at me, but he continued ignoring the flow of passerby. I turned away after the click. He appeared just another time traveler to me; lost between programmed destinies, reincarnating between parallel universes. Was he Charles Dickens re-born!!!! Oh No, No, not again! What made him drop out of school again this time! The quest to learn had always kept him still. And unlike his father imprisoned; did he escape a mental asylum! Or was he re-writing his 1837 bestseller " The Pickwick Papers". Is he really here. I was being paranoid. I began to stretch out fuller steps to reach to my office. I was breathless, and hallucinating. This time I could hear pounds of the cannons. Someone shouted from across the street, "Napier has it. Sindh is gone". My mind was completely taken. "Peccavi", yes I heard someone call out Peccavi. Charles!!! Hey Charles!! Are you there!!! Who is it??? Charles Dickens!!! Or Sir Charles Napier!!! Is this 1824, or 1843.Where am I really? Napier road!!! No, oh, no, No. I think I am going bonkers. Abruptly I heard the gatekeeper, "Come in quick sir, Chief Minister is on 7th floor. Need to shut down the gates for security reasons, the guard said at the entrance of Sindh Secretariat.
waooo good thought & Work.
ReplyDelete