A note on finding life

There are some things you remember with your whole body. Not just the sights, the pale stone of Hiran Minar glowing, to the point where between the fading copper stone of the pavilion, the unwavering, solid blue of the sky, cloudless and unforgiving, and the glare of a sun made invisible by the intensity of its own light against the rich algae green of the humble square pool of water beneath it, though that will no doubt remain vivid. You remember the motionless air, furnace hot pressing down on every bit of you, almost as though it’s holding you up with sheer will, skin buzzing as it greedily takes in the warmth, eager for the comfort it offers. You remember how dry it is, opening your mouth to taste the dust in the air, pounded up by your own footsteps, heavy-footed and clumsy with awe, the sun-baked dirt road heating the bare soles of your feet, the scuttling, shuffling sounds of insects and the shrill chattering of birds dancing around your ears, seeming very far away and right beside your ears all at once. The first time I visited was the second time I’d been to Pakistan, and I remember being disappointed by the city, by the way it was so tied to western culture, despite being so geographically far. But Hiran Minar itself, the ornamental arches and artistry in the windows, carved from stone, was rigid and unaccommodating to the outside world, and seemed to almost pull me into its own past, to the reign of the Mughal empire, to the courts of Emperor Shah Jahan, or the grounds of his favourite deer, Mansuraj, to whom the entire monument was dedicated. I felt sort of complete as we stepped away from the clutch of modern civilisation, bare feet a liberation, head tipped back in laughter, the sun warming my face as all my cares fell away to the sweet sounds of the sacred “Heer” being recited, an age old song of the truest form of love. It couldn’t be called an eventful trip by anyone’s standards, but one that allowed me a perspective that keeps me grounded to this day. Even I didn’t think the journey was going to be inspiring in the least. But I found myself, when in England again, surrounded by the cold, and the grey, bland, voiceless air, feeling an odd ray of sun, a warmth on my face, or catching the smell of dust my body remembers before my logical brain has a chance, slipping away from responsibilities and bills and nine-to-five shifts, and back to the dulcet songs of devotion and freedom.