Time Traveller Dining At Sidewalk on Burns Road

 Dr. Agha Inamullah

Friday, 26 March, 2021

Each window tells me a story of its golden era, and weeps as if a lost child on last train to Hindustan, parted from  Sindhu,  a life within a life...…. occupied.

I can see the century peeping from her bedroom window down at chariots, and carriages wheeling and can hear the clattering from metal hoofs of horses' on wider roads.

A basket rolled down from an adjacent terrace fence wooden bar; tied to an edge of Parvathi’s colorful dupattas she collected, gifted from her beloved's family.

Kirshan flying kites with Muhammad on roof top.

Few Seagulls fluttering, near their kites who apparently lost their way from fish harbor at Keya Mari.

Umrao in her Ferozi Gujarati sari arches on her belly bending forward to hang a bed sheet over terrace fence soaked last night in caustic solvent. Hubby yells, “careful Umrao Jaan”

Deepak playing strings on Sitar softer tunes; an early morning practice for next concert

Zaibu, the naughty lass in her short sleeved, deep square cut neck, black net blouse on Persian blue bell bottoms, thrusts the door open to walk across the road from her apartment on ground floor. Heading to next building hopping a Bambi speed clearing tram track in haste.

Kishor dares stares and meaningful romantic blinks from his balcony.

Vendor chants "Chooriyan", colorful glass bangles matching shades with clothes.

Belly buttons deep enticing wells; in fairest and some in dark skins; in bazars peeping 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; 80 years old Parsi Arzoo suddenly appeared; wearing dark shaded lipstick widening lining of lips; with Jasmine flower garland fixed at the rare lifted edge of her hair revealing seductive hump shimering gold in sunlight from bleached tiny tips of hair. Hanging snake turns of hair down the temples which danced like juglers' metal springs with her each nod, and a fuller mouth giggle as she walked passed beside the sidewalk I was dinning on.  I thought she said Hi to me!!! Was I being paraonoid! How do I know her name and age!! She flashed back in time tunnel, like T' Ping & Mr. Spock in his teleporting glass chamber in Star Trek;  to go back to 1865 exactly 100 years before my birth.

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 spying for British Raj with his head duck behind newspaper stretched at 180 degrees.  Headlines read," Burns Road to become Bin Qasim Road; claims a Time Traveler from 1947. Pretending to read the paper; keeping an eye on many like me who pose threat to System, and are doomed to be labelled rebel. Train of thoughts ran a marathon between three centuries, ended breathless at 2021

I got up fishing with my fingers for a wallet in rare pocket to pay the bill. I couldn’t make up how much. Kept sliding money, my mind boggled on sound of violin tunes caressing my tympanic soothing my ear drums. Was I hallucinating or did someone wind the key on record player. No nothing. I sailed back in time as I walked to cross the street unlike Zaibu'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. Thought to walk over to him. He was busy highlighting paragraphs sunk deeply in his book. I changed my mind to let him be and not disturb. But I couldn't walk away without capturing him. The depth of his attention seemed quite sustainable to the noisy flow of traffic; unmuffled motorbikes & Rickshaws or Busses' typical loud honks, and even vendors near him calling out 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 disturbed his gaze, but it continued ignoring the flow of passerby. I turned away after the click. He appeared just another time traveler to me; lost between programmed destinies. Was he Charles Dickens re-born!!!! Oh no not again! What made him drop out of school again this time! The quest to learn has kept him still. Unlike his father imprisoned; has he escaped a mental asylum! 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 office, I was breathless. I could hear the cannons now. Napier has it. Sindh is gone. My mind completely taken. Peccavi, yes I heard someone call out Peccavi. Charles!!! Where am I? Napier road!!! No no..no..no...going bonkers. 

" Jaldi ajao sahab, CM sahab 7th floor per hein. Security reasons, gate bund karna hy, the guard at the entrance of Sindh Secretariat.