The past brushes against you, on its way to a rendezvous with that other most treacherous of entities: memory. The frailty of the old buildings seems to mirror the hesitancy in my heart; the fragility of the relationships being formed over clandestine cups of coffee, even more so.

Have I been here before? But this city, in all its madness and magnificence, has been home for only the past seven months. Past life perhaps? That would lend credence to the vision of the nizam and his courtesans, being carried along on a wisp of sheesha smoke.

Plush little boutiques nestled softly in dilapidated houses. Pretty chanteuses skipping away from one café-with-a-ragged-signboard to the next.

My cup of chai is a poisoned chalice. It has drugged me into a cocoon of illusion. Yesterday/today, outside/within, native/nomad: the thin line is but a dream.

The past caresses you with a nonchalant whisper. It asks you to let go. You sense a chance. You let go.