I love Hyderabad.
And, I miss Hyderabad this evening all of a sudden. Unlike sad
nostalgia for home that I’ve experienced in the past, this time ‘round the
reminiscing is happy.
Yes, a happy recollection of place!
As my mind wanders through a field of thoughts, one thought that’s
surprised me today is: would I still have loved Hyderabad as much had I not developed
a natural affection for it having been born and raised there?
Yes! A resounding yes.
What do you make, O ye
goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,
Frail as a dragon-fly's wing,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the kings.
Hyderabad is everything Sarojini Naidu encapsulated in “In
The Bazaars of Hyderabad” and more. The city’s attributes and my tastes line up
perfectly. That’s what makes me love the place. I love its absolutely
captivating history in the old stone buildings and narrow gallies of purana sheher,
the genius loci of its rocks, the royalty of the khada-dupatta, rumi-topi pehnawa and
this-is-what-heaven-tastes-like cuisine.
In The Bazaars of Hyderabad by Sarojini Naidu
What do you sell, O merchants?
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.
Richly your wares are displayed.
Turbans of crimson and silver,
Tunics of purple brocade,
Mirrors with panels of amber,
Daggers with handles of jade.
What do you weigh, O ye vendors?
Saffron, lentil and rice.
What do you grind, O ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna and spice.
What do you call, O ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.
Saffron, lentil and rice.
What do you grind, O ye maidens?
Sandalwood, henna and spice.
What do you call, O ye pedlars?
Chessmen and ivory dice.
What do you make, O ye goldsmiths?
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,
Frail as a dragon-fly's wing,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the kings.
Wristlet and anklet and ring,
Bells for the feet of blue pigeons,
Frail as a dragon-fly's wing,
Girdles of gold for the dancers,
Scabbards of gold for the kings.
What do you cry, O fruitmen?
Citron, pomegranate and plum.
What do you play, O ye musicians?
Sitar, Sarangi and drum.
What do you chant, O magicians?
Spells for the aeons to come.
Citron, pomegranate and plum.
What do you play, O ye musicians?
Sitar, Sarangi and drum.
What do you chant, O magicians?
Spells for the aeons to come.
What do you weave, O ye flower-girls?
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.
With tassels of azure and red?
Crowns for the brow of a bridegroom,
Chaplets to garland his bed,
Sheets of white blossoms new-garnered
To perfume the sleep of the dead.
