On very rare days, I feel I can look into the eyes of an untamed bird and believe that we are capable of not scaring each other.
In this sandy weather, with an empty and painful stomach, I look across the heavy skies. The view from a 7 floor building is not breath-taking but intriguing enough.
The trees finally look like a group of mystical dancers and not melancholic individuals nodding in solitude. They are emerald and not to mention crisp with dusty bombs of hard rains. They move their heads in circular motions and concrete buildings began to appear as a confinement which stops them from just flying away like my head is keeping my brunette curls from flying away into the sails of nimbus sky.
Far in the sails, I see a minaret hanging. And not just an ordinary minaret, mind you. World’s tallest one of course. Watching the city like a king’s guard. Taking lives now and then. And then, suddenly, we are prohibited to see from his eyes any more. Because of the lives it took. Some say people die while climbing its (379) stairs. Others take their own life. Nonetheless, the minaret is one to blame.
In his own golden days too, under the reign of Qutb-ud-din Aibak, the first Sultan of Delhi, it not only took the life of its laborers but also of the other builders whose jealous efforts of sculpting a more monstrous minaret ended into their own fatal fate. Their lampooned work still stand near Qutub, somehow magnifying its glory.
Today too, its silhouette stands as rigid as ever, beaten down by hideous rains. Ancient. Red. And dusty. The green cover around it blazing as gems reflected under gentle rays and standing in stark contrast with the dark abode, above.
Standing far away at my terrace, I take shelter in history. I imagine myself as a panghat girl (Girls who brought water from far away wells.) and try to decipher the meaning of minaret myself.
A dimension to escape towards god, the place from where one could see heaven, the sleeping guardsman or perhaps a landmark.
What do you think?