History peeping coyly through windows of far forgotten forts, palaces and temples.
Doubtful of how it is remembered, how it is twisted, how it is incorporated to attract, serve tourism.
Standing its ground for centuries, committed to the river that once embraced and washed its feet now swallowing sins of people. Being worshipped so that it would keep cleansing their souls while they pollute her.
Remembering the tenderness with which the sculptors chiselled each design, caressing, worshipping each goddess they carved.
Rustle of the silk of Queens, following their feet. Soft tender, adorned with heavy tinkling anklets.
The sound of the brass bell just before she entered the temple. Remembering the fragrant, colourful flowers she offered with her eyes closed and soul awake, pure, in reverence.
The blinding reflection of swords shining mercilessly in the first light of the Sun, metal and water of river turning into gold alike.
How it was, how it is remembered now, how was it written by whom? How it was kept true and intact, how it was changed! History like an old lady remembers helplessly, peeping through the windows of palaces, forts and temples.