I'm trying to make sense of the pattern: Pentagons in a circle, leaving a pointed star in negative space. Five such stars, all in a circle, connected by incomplete eights. Chiseled in exquisite detail into monolithic windows. My brain is running short of the juice required to understand the mind of an sixteenth century artisan.
The sun filters through stone, and forms stars on my face. The past makes no noise. Afraid of succumbing to silence, I get up. And rush through the stone archway into the balcony that faces the Eastern garden.
Trumpets! The city is here. Here I stand, on the majestic balcony, flanked by flag-bearers, watched by the ladies in their veiled terraces. And in front of me, the city stands. For they have come to see their king!
Trumpets! The city is here. Here I stand, on the majestic balcony, flanked by flag-bearers, watched by the ladies in their veiled terraces. And in front of me, the city stands. For they have come to see their king!
"Jahanpannah," I hear, whispered. And someone speaks in an ancient dialect that I understand. The flag bearers advance, and I proceed to - ironically - follow their lead.
The king's elephant, draped in armour and red gold, stands at the base of the stairway. As I look up at the great beast, it falls to its knees.
"Sir," said a voice that broke into my universe.
"Can you step aside? We want to click a photograph."
"Of course," I said, and took off my AR Wear. I looked back at the great monument in awe, the one I built 400 years ago.
