There’s something quite novel about visiting a historical place. It must be the way the shadows waltz lazily in the tapestry of time. 

Each brick laid there’s the confidant of an artist’s tale. The walls, the hidden memories’ abode. Each crack and footprint in stone echoes the deepest of thoughts. The graceful swoop of a brush expresses the day’s toil. Each scrape of a tool, chipping away at a large rock that’s now long-gone. The mallet, carving the way for the finest of craftsmanship. Each contract completed is a ghost of an experience. Possibly, one of camaraderie amongst artists.

There’s something quite novel about the way the past engulfs the visitor. It must be the furnace-like, ever-warm embrace of the people who lived then.

For they, too, were humans, who must’ve truly lived. Thoughts of this invariably plague the hopelessly romantic tourists much after returning home. For they, too, must’ve hidden between the adorned pillars. Their uncontrollable laughter bubbling up at a truly horrible joke. For they, too, would’ve waited all day for that passerby in breathless anticipation. Experienced the kind of restlessness that hugs one a bit too tight. For they, too, must’ve sprinted and jumped and shouted and cried with reckless abandon. Maybe even in the streets the tourist strolls through today.

There’s something quite novel about the effect of a tour guide’s passion and knowledge. It must be the way it makes one wonder about mundane everyday activities as well as the grand happenings of history. 

How they must have feasted and partied under the stars! Dancing their hearts out during a particularly joyous gathering. How they must have loved to live and slowly accepted the end! The sanguine ones with stars in their eyes, the solemn ones with chins in hands and philosophical thoughts. How they must have experienced those fierce rushes of emotion! Maybe while staring at an ethereal work of art. How they must have fought bitterly and then grovelled for forgiveness! The difference with a loved one over something incredibly petty.

There’s something quite novel about an odyssey through time. It must be the way each piece of the monument traced by the tourist’s fingertips evokes a different emotion.

The feelings of pride they’d have experienced while looking at their masterpieces. The accomplishment, unparalleled. The feelings of elation they’d have experienced on a perfectly sunny day. With their favourite food and people around. The feelings of regret they’d have experienced on using a word too harsh. The wholehearted, deep frowns of both parties, swapped out with resolution. The feelings of fulfilment they’d have experienced on receiving some praise. The words spoken by the one most important to them.

There’s something quite novel about visiting a historical place. It must be the way the shadows waltz lazily in the tapestry of time.