Charming Charbagh

There’s a regular din of traffic from behind the roseate walls that envelopes the subconscious. The drizzle, accompanied by the wind flitting past, sprays my face with tiny droplets. I squint my eyes to keep the water out, then relax, closing them completely and losing myself to the invigorating concoction of air and water, and that musty smell of raw earth. The ground blushes as some of the drops rush forward to embrace it with a splatter, and then slowly disappear, imparting a tinge of rosy hue. I walk barefoot on the textured floor, a pebble pricks the toe, turning it a beetroot red. The breeze turns to wind, the vines swing and sing. I run my fingers along the wall, feel the crests and troughs on the uneven surface, quietly exploring the vertical terrain. I draw a little closer, tentatively, putting my ear to it, and hear the wall humming slightly, a dull vibration, a silenced thunder concealed under the stony bosom. The fountain makes one valiant attempt after another but sky-high is an ambition too tall for it. It rises a nimble foot, and plops back into the reservoir, an orchestra, a symphony of bubbles bursting to order.