Mus-e-Musafir

in dinoñ garche dakan meñ hai baḌī qadr-e-suḳhan  kaun jaa.e 'zauq' par dillī kī galiyāñ chhoḌ kar An anatomy of anachronistic artefacts awaited me as I alighted from the Metro. “Chandni Chowk!” the speakers called out. It was a junction of sorts where the crowd bisected. One part made its way to the Old Delhi Railway Station. The other, of which I was a part, moved headfirst into history.  It was a mellow September day. As this was my first solo trip to the alleys of Shahjahanabad, I banked on the modern flaneur’s best friend: Google. It is, however, known for its problematic ways, how it nearly always overlooks the concept of displacement. (Or maybe it’s me.) And so, after running around in circles for fifteen minutes, I was able to re-centre my navigator and my attention on the real purpose of coming here: a century-old record-shop.,. En route, I could see the back of the Jama Masjid. Its archetypal Mughal architecture is ubiquitous here. From handmade drawings on shop hoar...

It's Sunday, sunny Sunday. An occasional breeze succours the tire of the day, of the week. And beneath the sea of scattered clouds, lies a sleepy lane, static since the eighties. Of course, a fleeting glimpse of modernity persists in the eye, but there is certainly something romantic about its anachronistic aesthetics.  The paved lanes, the houses, the opposite park, all induce nostalgia. A nostalgia issued not only to personal memory but to a collective conscience. The fresh air frees our industrialised souls and minds from the fetish of smoke, the merry children rekindle innocence in the current wayward and selfish times. As our feet trudge forward, the lanes take us back to the good ol' days... The Gully Boy was hyped. His eyes furtively rolled about with wanderlust. The flaneur in me was presented an offer I couldn't resist. Together we set foot to explore the local bazaars of Rohtak. The town's favourite transport greeted us at the Railway Road whe...