An imagination where only women exist- as loudly possible. This present moment and your past
sweeped into stories of midnight, a grandmother sitting on the bedside. Stories of yesterday,
tomorrow and today, encapsulated in her voice, fading in and out.
The women! The women of the harems of the Mughal Courts! The torches are burning softly on
the walls and are lined at equal intervals. The drum beats are resounding till outside the gates
where the men will stand guard all night- it is a celebration after all. Their lehengas glimmering
in the night light, eyes bold with kohl looking up at the moon and towards the girls dancing- their
midriff glittering with sweat and every night, their ghungroo embellishing the aromas of the
flowers blooming in the night time. Vermillion feet on the marble floor, synchronised with every
tabla beat.

-chapter 1, 'Amaltas'

excerpts from my book

Flaneuse
// noun //
A woman who is or behaves like a flaneur
Flaneur
// noun //
A man who saunters around town and observes society
*
Meandering through the crowds, looking, thinking, the same walk, the same stops, the same
pace, everyday. Gazing around at the chai stalls, brown liquid spilling over, snippets of
conversation drifting from wooden benches. Just observing, strolling, looking.

-chapter2, 'Faqirah'

Shahjahanabad, a city of the moon and Yamuna, its silver anklet, flowing right through the
centre, from the Takht-e-Taus, the emperor’s feet and to the very end of Chandni Chowk. The
silver of a full moon night making the paayal shimmer with every touch. The stones, in the
shades of red and brown, uniformly spread against every gali and every chowk, sometimes on the
jharokhas of the balconies and other times, precious pillars- of palaces and of masjids. Chawri
Bazar is Jama Masjid’s shawl, tightly wrapped lest the Himalayan winds slowly erode it’s
grandeur- the entirety of the city is built around it. From within Jama Masjid emerges twenty five
thousand prayers into the immense sky above, spreading through every house, every intricate jali
window. And each time the dusk settles into a faint night, Bazar-e-Husn is lit up again.
Gauhar is setting her hair, looking sideways into the mirror, a last rajnigandha gajra around the
end of her braid, near her waist. The kohl accentuates her eyes perfectly, as sharp as her gaze.
The last flower, Zeenat tucks into Gauhar’s thick braid- they take turns to pick out the most
aromatic flowers from the early morning bazaar so the evening shringaar doesn’t lack. When the
tabla’s taals resound into their quarters and the smooth tune of the saarangi also lace Gauhar and
Zeenat’s hair and the waah-waahi- the prasing hours begin, an aura fills up the air and transcends
through every bylane till every person in the city is starkly aware of every jingle of the ghungroo
that won’t fall flat that night, they will echo. All evenings worth of precious performances and
undeniable glory- a glory that only time can witness, a glory that will fade very slowly into
nothingness.

chapter3 'Bazar-e-Husn'

There is still a haveli in Chawri Bazar, out of all the thousands. Perhaps in one of the winding
galis, through which only one person can barely manage to pass. And it has been long
abandoned, only home to some pigeons and their scattered nests- one would imagine a grey tone,
perpetually stuck in a dusk that never becomes night. A haveli devoid of laughter that had once
been- perhaps and a Tarikh Chacha who had once been- perhaps now in a graveyard of
graveyards or had he vanished that dawn into thin air with the fire on Nigambodh Ghat? No one
recalls this anymore.
Bazar-e-Husn is now a deplorable joke- for the lattice windows are dusty- whichever ones are
still left behind and not destructed by the perpetual desire of the human’s mobility- some remainif one bothers to look up from their rikshaw which is on its way to the grand Jama Masjid- one
must look through the spectacle of thickly packed wires and then slightly farther up, to spot what
had once been because now it is also a mockery- The Bazaar of beauty is now a wholesale
market for wedding cards. Most families come to get their bunch of invitations printed and then
never to return again unless one more wedding in the family has to come up because a great
Indian wedding demands so.
There are no more evenings here, no courtesans, no mushairas only a perpetual day that is spent
in business beyond which nothing exists- no intoxications, no decadent enjoyment, none of the
pleasures in good taste which had been- even the legacy erased lest it taint an ‘image’…
Something still remains - The hammam-e-Lal Quila and a possible memory of Zeenat and
Gauhar- their touch, their scrub and their spread out hair but a tourist must look at it from
around the structure- the memories too precious, too royal to disturb today to preserve their faint
scent of lilac which lingers- the doors must be locked with thick iron locks- no one must pry. Too
precious, too lovely. Let them remain, Zeenat and Gauhar-- and their husn.

chapter3 'Bazar-e-Husn'