I take chettan’s hand and turn for one last look at the impending night sky. The last of the Sun is gone; the tiny sliver had dipped in a fraction, just when we turned. Amma shakes her head at the poor timing, but I smile. The Sun wasn’t collecting stories as a bribe to set; he was holding on as much as he could to listen to our stories. And what was he to do, than retire for the day, once we stopped telling stories and started walking back? The warmth floats through me, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the tired white dog return. He walks along, drops us till our car, and looks on as we drive aw
She saw them too, the humans who never left her or the old ways of life. The kind woman selling bangles outside Tansen ka makbara, the guard who proudly shows off whatever is left of Ustad Amjad Ali Khan’s legacy, the keepers of Scindia ki chhatri, the young man laughing at kids taking his ride at the mela, the hagglers of Rajiv Plaza, the abundance of life overwhelming her old buildings at Maharaj Bada, the giddy little humans breathing in life at what they called City Center, the shadows at Katora Tal, streets full of clay Ganeshas and her dear wanderers who bring new stories to share. As far as she could see, they claimed her land but kept her alive, filling her with the sweet aroma of kachori and jalebi.
