He passes the old red-bricked fort,
The majestic white-marbled palace
He spits on the walls of the magnificent minar,
He scribbles over parapets of filigreed finesse
Walking indifferently past the parade of jewel decked elephants,
He does not stop to admire the ceramic dolls,
The woven wares, the coloured kites, the mirrored wall-hangings,
Nothing seems to catch his attention at all
The early morning tunes of the sarangi
The soulful raag which accompanies the first sunrays
The powerful measured chanting of the mantras,
As the priests congregate in the sacred space
The aroma of freshly ground spices
The henna patterns adorning delicate hands and feet
It’s a pity that he is blind and deaf
To the hues and sounds of the busy street
As he accompanies his foreign guest around the city
He is bewildered by the awestruck look on her face
She stops to admire every monument and minaret
She gasps- “This is such an exotic place”!
Sadly the man will never know.
What is the beauty that his friend speaks of?
He has never heard, never looked, never understood.
If only he had taken one moment; one moment to just...STOP.
a certain way with words. like your blog :-)
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