Bicycles carelessly careening down narrow gallis, small cars bullying their way thru the already over flowing streets, and then pedestrians, human or otherwise, snuggling in what ever space left.
Forehead strained with a frown, dripping with sweat and skin aching to get rid of humidity stuck like velcro. Back itching with rash and olfactory senses enticed and offended.
Destination, Nai Sarak, is nothing but a vague memory from my childhood. Flashes of my chubby legs trying to skip over the trash, nallis and muddy puddles, trying to hold on to my grandfather's strong fingers, running to keep up with him. And of course, the smell.
It still wafts in the air. Try catching and catagorizing it. The humid air drenched in the pungent oil, sizziling with batter. The stench of the stagnant water, holding still with it all that lived once. Cloth bags holding onto colorful spices that tingle your nose with every hint of a breeze. Trash piling high against gnarled walls.
This ancient city, holding her head high, adorned by the blushing red Jama Masjid and its tall white minarets. The booming bursting world of commerce enconsed within her.
