Tabak, tabak, incredible, the sound of the horse's hooves,
the golden days, the olden days of a century old,
come riding past on the horse's back
as the cartwagon pulls through the alleys and the obscure past, where memories are wrapped,
wakes up and peeks from behind a veil.
On a cold and windy December, Old Delhi stirs
reluctantly to the sound of tabak tabak;
stretches her arms and looks at the blinkered horse.
The aroma of coffee in Cafe Coffee Day
mingles with the vapors of Delhi's winter fog.
And the horse and the wagon ride away.
The mind is stirred and I walk past the way
following the magical sound:Tabak, tabak