The Hour of Domes
From a terrace in the old city, the skyline turns into paper cut-outs.
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Every evening at about a quarter to six, the old city stops being three-dimensional. The domes go flat, the minarets go thin, and for twenty minutes Lucknow looks like something cut from paper and held up to a lamp.
I have been climbing the same terrace for a month. The owner, a retired schoolteacher, charges nothing and asks only that I bring him a print of the best one. I have not found the best one yet.
