Meri Mannat Tu {You Are My Destiny}

4: dust + daybreak

Kahin door jab din dhal jaaye

Saanjh ki dulhan badan churaye, chupke se aaye

[Somewhere far away when the day gets old, the bride of dusk sneaks up shyly]

✨

The auto rickshaw that I had hailed from the taxi stand near Nanna's home pulled into the loop of traffic around Ring Road, which connected all of Hyderabad with the flyover built over its top, and weaved effortlessly between the bikes, sedans, and cargo trucks that dominated the midmorning rush hour. I settled into the bench seat in the back of the cab, the roof of the auto blanketing the glaring rays of the sun, the whirring hum of the motor muted out by the vehicles speeding past. Before leaving the apartment I had grabbed my AirPods out of habit, but leaning my head against the side of the auto, I realized the melody around me was far more enticing than any that could play from my phone. As we covered the short distance to Dadi's house, bits and pieces of Hyderabad appeared in the dusty mirror of the auto like vignettes, fleeting and bleeding one into the other: streetside vendors auctioning their wares, pushing wooden carts laden with fresh herbs; smoke rising from the chimneys of the fast food shanties that had popped up along the main road, spits of meat and vats of rice stewing within; cow bells knocking into one another, a steady rhythm to which the rest of this corner of the city revolves.

    It has been but a day since I traveled down these roads, in the Ahmed family sedan. Today, Sahir is not with me and in some ways, I don't mind. My love affair is not just with the boy next door–it is with this city too. My parents' birthplace, the stem of my roots, and the place where I have almost felt the most at peace, and the most restless too–as if time was running out, as if there was somewhere I needed to be, as if the city was waiting for my footsteps, exploring, falling, becoming. Tere sang chain bhi mujhko, tere sang bekarari hai. The words from a hit Bollywood song pop into my head, as I peer into the streets of Hyderabad passing by, baking beneath the morning sun.

    A stray glint of sunlight catches the rhinestones embedded into the bangles on my arm. A slow smile spreads across my face. When I was younger, I was adamant that whatever outfit I wore had a set of bangles to match. More often than not, it would be Nanna or Nanu going down to the shop below their apartment building to purchase a doublet of metal or glass bangles, one for each arm, in whatever color my dress of the day was. As I grew older, a worn leather watch–the only tangible remainder of my mother I had–replaced one bangle-laden arm. However, the other one was always full of a fresh stack; you would never catch me in Hyderabad without my beloved bangles.

    Today's was a mixed set, courtesy of Haseeba, the woman who had taken the shop over from her mother who has passed on a decade ago. We had that in common, Haseeba and I–parentless in the big city, we looked for little joys where we could. As always, she had been delighted to see me return, crushing me into a hug and commenting on how I had blossomed into a fine young lady. Taking Sahir's rupees, she had perused my suit under my burkha, and paired lilac with violet, silver and plum to form a dazzling prism of purple, which now jangled on my arm as the auto hiccupped over a bump, turning off the congested main road into an equally crowded side street.

     The auto had glided over the smooth concrete on Ring Road, but here the old pavement was cracked and uneven, groaning under the weight of the auto as it lumbered on. This part of Hyderabad had seen its fair share of development, too, fast food brands including McD's and KFC with their bright neon signs flooding the plaza that headlined the neighborhood, beauty salons and coaching centers interspersed throughout. But behind the flashy facade was an old, tired, neighborhood, the paint on the houses chalked with dust, the bricks crumbling.