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The Bazaars of Hyderabad

I have been living in my grandmother's house in Hyderabad for three years since the unforgettable demise of my parents last summer. After their loss, I was ready to fall into the abyss. But for the transcendental marketplace below our house. Domiciled near the historical monument The Char Minar, I stand amazed by the sheer beauty of Hyderabad which comes alive as twilight fades into night.
I have a strong intuition that while writing her legendary poem 'The Bazaars of Hyderabad' Smt. Sarojini Naidu pictured the marketplace near my house for it lies untouched by the dynamic nature of time. It has the unforgettable charm that Hyderabad offers to its residents and visitors, standing strong and resilient against the perils of modernisation.
At daybreak, I wake up to the five o'clock namaz prayers that enchant the children as they spring up from the bed ready to face the challenges the day has to present to them. A strong scent of tea hangs in the air as labourers and residents wake up from their slumber.
The market place is marvellous in every way! Punctually at three o'clock, the scent of biryani fills the air and it never fails to make my mouth water. There is an exodus of crowd that travels up and down this narrow lane day and night. As I stealthily peep out from the window during my study hours , I see Rajiv's mother with his siblings in tow and Karishma's grandfather squabbling with the vegetable man bulldozing him to reduce the ever- soaring prices of the lady-finger and potatoes. I hear the seller of cheap cloth who creates a din to add to the chirping of the birds and sparrows as they bask in the glorious sunset.
A variety of trades and occupations represent themselves all along the street. However my favourite scene is that of the file of mahendi designers who await their customers and make wonderful designs on the slender hands of perhaps brides-to-be. I silently wish to be as beautiful as them.
After sunset it is like a lion waking from his slumber. The street lights up as if it were Diwali and the sellers of junk food rise to earn their wages. A band of musicians place themselves in some corner and serenade the crowds with their transcending qawwali. The vegetable sellers are overshadowed by the cloth sellers and the sellers of Indian artefacts and jewellery who have a competition to attract customers. Here's where I learnt Darwin's theory-The survival of the fittest.
And n the midst of this melody, I usually fall asleep. The cries of the goods sellers are my lullabies and I wake up to yet another day of this magnificent market place!



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This article has 4 comments. Post your own!

JustPaperAndPencil said...
Apr. 24, 2012 at 9:32 am:
This is really good! it was written very well! Good job! (:
 
TheDoubtMachine replied...
Apr. 24, 2012 at 11:34 pm :
Thats so nice to hear! Thank you very much! :)
 
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HimeGyaruDoll said...
Apr. 23, 2012 at 3:51 pm:

This is one of the best peices of writing I've read in a long while, and I was utterly enraptured by it. My origins are rooted in India as well, and this makes me feel a bout of nostalgia for the magical and iridescent shades of the ever-beautiful/diverse India!!

So fantastic job again! I LOOVEED it!!

 

 
TheDoubtMachine replied...
Apr. 24, 2012 at 12:32 am :
Thats wonderful to hear! Thank you very much! I believe that good writing comes when you write from your heart and when I wrote this I was well...Excited! It was a lot of fun writing it! 
 
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