Impressions of a year gone by...

Few words aptly define 2010 ---- scam, scams and more scams. Be it political scams, journalistic scams, telephonic scams, economic scams, onion scams, social scams, personal scams, lusty scams, emotional scams, idiotic scams...,after all, scams ruled the minds. More than hundreds of millions of Indians were washed, unwashed, dressed and undressed in the public over the four letter “revolutionary” word scam.

I will say my life, too, was no less a scam in 2010. I was jobless for almost half the year, after being rejected by more than half-a-dozen prospective employers. Finally, someone succumbed to my repeated begging, and I got that much-elusive appointment letter.

In the hindsight, when someone tells me that 2010 finally managed to get rid off the financial coup of 2008, I simply want to beat the blues out of the economists. What the F…? I struggled, literally begged, ran from one swanky office to another for a job? But, no employer even considered giving a cursory glance at my much-polished CV. Or, is it my lack-lustre work record? I am still in doubt. I thought when the economy is in its pink, it should accommodate all and sundry. If I am not one, than of course, I am one amongst the sundry. I deserve a job, so do millions of my unemployed brethrens.

At a time, when finance ministry is shouting from the rooftop, that GDP(oh! Please explain that what does that mean), will touch the double-digit figure by 2011, and business houses wag its tails in celebration, I could not understand why an average Indian like me have to slog and slog for a job? Perhaps, this is another scam (or in the making), beyond the understanding of common mortals.

The second scam of my life in 2010 is something I don’t remember very well. Oh, yes, I can now recall it vaguely, my loss of memory. I have lost it, yes, lost my memory bank. I don’t regret that. It’s but natural to experience memory loss when age is catching up fast. In fact, I thank my stars, for the loss of memory. I can at least have the bliss of forgetting most of my unsavory experiences.

The last, but not the least, my third scam is a secret. A secret I don’t want to reveal. I, too, want the CBI to hunt and chase me and find my secret. With CBI, the media will also follow. I will get my 15-minutes of stardom. The nation will witness me in the breaking news section of TV channels and few anchors will definitely gurgle before screaming my 'tainted' name again and again. My niece will be delighted to see her aunt on the television, forgetting her favourite cartoon characters for few hours. I hope a few media houses have already started planning their stories, revolving around my secrets. And of course, an obituary of a common (wo)man.

Mountains, my only refuge

The air has almost lost its moisture --- dry and taut, a blanket of gloom across the city. The sky, too, seems to be in no mood to rain down relief. There is no sign of those proverbial pregnant clouds, dry days are sure to stay for long. The Met department has made no such predictions, but sometimes age-old intuitions, too, should be respected. And, I do that. Call me a fool, I don’t care. My mind, remains in a state of suspended animation most of the time. And it’s during such hours of life, I long to go back to the hills.

I have always been a child of the hills. I have grown up in the green, deep valleys of Arunachal, my umbilical cord still tied to the land. I’m sorry this city culture and comfort don’t suit me much. Interestingly, sometimes I feel I’m a threat to the city.

No, I have no connection with any of the terrorist groups of Northeast India. The guns drive me crazy. After witnessing victims of bomb blasts on several occasions in Guwahati, I shudder even at the mere mention of it. At times, clarifications come handy as most of the Northeastern people are ‘suspects’. If you are a Northeastern, like the Kashmiris, you can be easily arrested under the monstrous Armed Forces Special Powers Act AFSPA. AFSPA is a special law and applies to not so special citizens of India.

I have reasons to say that I am a threat to any city, though a few genuine and some nonsensical. In spite of spending years of my life in various cities, I am yet to understand the psyche of motorists. They make me spend agonizing moments under the sun every time I have to cross the roads. As the busy world moves ahead of me, I wonder if I am the only one who has got all the time. During such moments, I jaywalk my way braving past the motorists, who scream and hurl abuses at me for violating traffic rules. That way, I am a threat to the city. Someday I could be the reason for an accident, I must confess.

They also call me an outsider, the self-claimed city dwellers. I don't speak their language. In fact, there isn’t a single language that I can speak properly. Not even my mother tongue. I suffer from learning disability. That way, I don't belong to any country, or city, or any one land. In a way, I have become a curious case of homelessness, a vagabond they call people like me. My crime is that I cannot speak any of the recognised languages properly. This is freaking. Now, I can choose to speak gibberish, hope nobody has a problem with that. I can actually write songs in gibberish. Don't worry, I won't make you listen to them. These are my secrets. Every individual has the right to carry secrets in their hearts -- secret bank accounts, secret defence deals, secret affairs … the list goes on. I, too, have a few secret engagements, and I don’t have any regrets about that.

Thankfully, my absence never raises questions by friends, relatives, colleagues… no one.

A self-acclaimed non-city dweller with a few secret engagements… This again makes me a criminal. But, I know the law won't follow me. It doesn’t have the time to follow petty criminals like me. So, for the time being, I, and all those of my ilk, can run amok and enjoy our freedom with those uninterrupted feet.

But then what about traffic jams? The cities are infamous for that. I stand almost 90 minutes on crowded buses to travel 14 kilometres. These days, I don't have a steady posture. My steps are always shaky, unconfirmed. Perhaps, that is why people give me those strange looks. Moreover, my features don’t go down well with the mainstream crowd. I bring inclusiveness to the unicoloured society. I threaten the system, which is known for knowing, loving and appreciating only established facts of life.

Threatening a peaceful, established society is a crime and I don't want to be privy to such crimes.

My crimes are many, but my skin has become too thick to get affected by accusing fingers. I am unabashedly uncivilised. But I, too, need to breathe, breathe easy and breathe my share of air. Where else, but the hills I can take refuge in.

Much blood has spilled down the Brahmaputra

The emperor of France and one of the greatest military commanders in history, Napoleon Bonaparte used to call himself son of the revolution.

In a direct rip-off of the legend’s famous self-given title, I and my friend Pammy call ourselves “daughters of revolution”.

But sorry, we don’t share an iota of Napoleon’s military exploits and conquests.

Neither do we ever, even in our wildest dreams, imagine ourselves to live a life or to die a death for which people would remember us forever.

On the contrary, we both are happy in our anonymity.

However, it’s something else for which we feel like that -- our birth --precisely the fateful year of 1979 when both of us were born.

Those were turbulent times, when our birthplace Assam was undergoing unimaginable social and political changes, a time when the entire population -- the old and young, rich and poor, intelligent and not-so-intelligent -- yearned for change.

“You know what, History books might describe Assam Agitation (1979-1985) as a movement against the illegal migrants from the neighbouring country of Bangladesh, but if you probe deeper, it was the time when the greater Assamese society came out openly against the establishment and wanted freedom from all ills,” Pammy spat out.

“Why the hell are you talking about Assam Agitation,” I almost shouted to stop her from again getting into the same debate.

“Can we change history, that too sitting in a far-off place like Bangalore.”

My curt response may have silenced Pammy, but the agony was quite palpable.

The pain of going through hell as silent spectators when the revolution was at its peak was evident in her eyes. Of course, we both were pretty young that time to understand the futility of the revolution.

Pammy, born to Sikh parents originally from Punjab, but her umbilical cord still seems tied to Assam. I -- the so-called indigenous Assamese -- never get so emotional on any issue relating to Assam and rest of northeast as Pammy does.

“We are the daughters of revolution. Perhaps that is why we’re so angry,” Pammy sighs vaguely as smoke from my cigarette rose slowly into the ceiling.

“Perhaps the failure of revolution still burns in our hearts. We cannot cry out loud, nor speak out loud to the outside world,” I too nodded in agreement.

So much blood has been spilled, so many homes burnt down ... still left with nothing in the end. In fact, all that the revolution did was to leave us with a bad taste in mouth, bitterness in heart and tears in the eyes.

“Where is the end to this dark tunnel? When will we get our peace?” Pammy said looking at me, searching for an answer.

I had nothing to say to console her.

I lit up another cigarette, leaving a trail of rings floating in the air. As she got up to leave the room, I realized I succeeded in blowing smoke rings but failed to answer the queries of a tormented soul, a distraught daughter of revolution.

Prayers.....

My friend Pammy, a great orator and waitress in one of Bangalore’s posh eateries, was asked by her friends to say a few words on a subject everyone's been talking about — peace. The request came in the wake of a verdict on a long-drawn religious battle. In fact, it was the restaurant’s manager. Considering the fact that he is often very sarcastic about "Pammy talking too much", the request seemed to be more special.

Pammy has the gift of gab and in her two-year-long stint in the eatery, she has managed to attract a size able number of fan following, which she sometimes flaunts about too. I am also one of her many fans. She not only serves hot-piping coffee to the stream of dedicated clientele of the eatery, but often ends up giving her views
on red-hot issues.

Pammy’s husband calls her a lunatic, and Pammy has the grace to accept it as a compliment. She feels that she is better read than her husband, who only knows how to code and decode software language.

"Why the hell do you have to kill people with your irrational talk? Can’t you keep your mouth shut for a second?" are the usual words her husband would grumble.

But, Pammy is Pammy. Nobody can stop her.

But that day was different. Instead of grabbing hold of the opportunity offered by her manager, she refused to speak on the issue.

That left everyone disappointed. Some of her fans were hurt, while some others were surprised.

“It’s time to talk about peace. In peace lies our future. I find her refusal very prudish,” whispered one of her fans.

Pammy did not reveal the reason behind her refusal. She kept everyone guessing.

However, at the dead of night, she sent me an SMS.

“Ishwar Allah 'Terror' naam, sabko sanmati de Bhagwan,” read the text.

I smiled and went off to sleep, chanting the same words, but this time
with more respect.

“Ishwar Allah tero naam, Sabko sanmati de Bhagwan...”

Life's escapades..

I am infamous among my close-knit circle of friends for running away from my troubles, which invariably causes lot of pain (ouch! both mental, psychological and at times heartbreak). I hate discussing issues at hand. I feel after seeing and experiencing series of never ending troubles, that time “would surely deal with it.”

But, my buddies feel that there is nothing called “time healing” therapy. It’s us and only “us”, who need to deal with the “situation”, before the situation turns out of control, kinda ugly.

And I, as always, “ulta dimaagwala” (as my friends call me mad), calmly look at them and say in a prophetic manner, “shouting and screaming would do no good”.

“Already the harm has been inflicted, the bruises are open, what use it would be.”

They’re, after all my friends, stubborn like me, won’t budge an inch from their stand.

After “fireworks” of arguments would end, I would head away to an unknown destination, most often on a bus. I have no privilege of learning the skill of cycling or riding a two-wheeler.

So, I am always at the mercy of public buses, which are always overcrowded, and always with little space for my huge self, takes me every time, where I never thought journey is destined to be.

This time, quite recently, I went to Bangalore’s Hebbal flyover, took a bus from Marathahalli and zoomed past the Outer Ring road.

"Ticket," asks the ticket-collector.

"Where is the bus going?," I ask.

Surprised at my declaration, the ticket collector in his broken hindi says, "Aap ko pata nahi to bus me kyon charte ho? (If you don't know your destination, why did you board the bus)"

To stop further embarrassment of stares and glances from co-passengers, I immediately ask the fare for the last destination of the bus.

"Hebbal, Rs 35," says the ticket collector.

The concrete facade, the struggling greenery and few dying lakes, make quite a view. I was lost in my thought, my own self, and tried to find answers to the troubles of life.

I am of course, no lord Buddha, having the guts to leave home and family in search for answers of “life”. I just make mini-escapades, I am a coward, as my friends say and I too agree silently.

In my escapades, I try to see the life outside the confines of my “secure space”. Life on roads has always intrigued me. I always want to enter the shanties, just protected by sheets of plastics, half naked children running around and mothers washing their woes and utensils over a bucket of water. In those times, I call myself, “luckiest child of god”.

Moreover, I find myself “lucky”, when I meet people like the “brave lady” at Hebbal. Such chance encounters, re-confirms that life is to live, not to run away from it.

“You are lucky to be educated and confident,” says the woman, whom I met near Hebbal flyover, five minutes after disembarking from the bus. She is any other ordinary woman, she is poor, never in newspapers, but I salute her from my heart for being brave, for being a winner in life.

A woman, who was thrown out of her home by her husband, after inflicting unimaginable violence, a woman who with cut marks and bruises on her face (courtesy her husband), decided to live her life.

“I wanted to live. After all, I have no right to kill myself. Only god can do that. So, to survive, I turned into sex work. I am a sex worker, don’t call me prostitute. Sex work too is a profession, like any other. I am no thug or thief,” she smiles, as I look directly into her eyes, trying to conceal my shock on her confident declaration.

“I am a street sex worker. This is my regular place, where I wait for my clients. A client is on his way. He’ll soon be here. What are you doing here? The evening has already descended,” she queries.

I wanted to tell her, I was trying to run away from life's trials and tribulations, but here I meet people, who have defeated all odds. One of them is you.

Instead, I smiled back and ran after the bus going back to Marathahalli, where I stay.

Rain of memories

When it rains, it surely evokes unexplainable emotions. Perhaps that is where the beauty of rain lies. I guess I realized it pretty early in life, as a five-year-old, while growing up in Arunachal Pradesh.

There when it pours, which often is the case, it pours really hard.

Last evening when it rained in Bangalore, accompanied by strong gusts of wind, after a hot sultry day, I could not stop myself. I quickly opened the door to my balcony and got soaked to the bone.

I felt a sense of relief. It was nothing short of divine empowerment. Again, hard to explain how those big droplets washed away days of weariness.

I didn’t dance like the neighbourhood kid, but quietly felt blessed, silently thanked the “unknown” forces. For, it rained when it mattered most.

But contrary to this sudden gush of emotion, there were times when I used to curse the rain, especially because of the cities where I stayed – all vulnerable to artificial flooding even after a few hours of mild downpour. That is when a curse would just slip out of my mouth.

“Oh! Don’t you realize the drains are clogged by poly bags strewn all over? Please rains, come some other time. Or else the water, few metres away from the verandah of my house will enter the sitting room,” I would cry, looking heavenwards.

Sometimes, rain (god) has been kind, but most often not, making our tough city life even tougher.

Notwithstanding the ugliness left behind, I also remember once I shrieked a curse to the sky for days of relentless rain in Arunachal Pradesh. However, flooding wasn’t my cause of worry since no rains can inundate the hills. It was the despondency that would descend upon every soul as the wet clothes refuse to dry in the unending companionship of rainfall. And most importantly mother wouldn’t let us go out to play.

After an incessant monologue of rain when the sun would peep from behind the hills illuminating the early morning sky, children used to be the happiest lot.

It’s true rain evokes several emotions, from innocent smiles to raising a disgusted eyebrow. Human emotions have many shades just like the colours of a rainbow left behind by a downpour.

Today, I am again looking upwards, not to shriek a curse to the sky but to search for traces of rain on the floating clouds of an early evening.

Now,Sania-Shoaib “Suhag Raat” coverage by media?

Forgive me, if I am trying to intrude into the bedroom of newly-wed Indian tennis star Sania Mirza and former Pakistani cricket captain Shoaib Malik, by using the “S” word. I have no such intentions.

But, trust me, Indian media would find it hard to resist the temptation.

Perhaps the so called “sabse tej” television channels have already started making preparations, by installing close circuit cameras into the prospective rooms, which are likely to bring the “love birds” closer.

You never know, for that exclusive footage to be screamed on your television sets, Indian media can cross any line of control (LOC). For, media there exists no LOC, neither any sort of self-censorship.

The Indian media has been “honestly” and super closely monitoring the so called cross-border love story, since the day Mirzas of Hyderabad made a public announcement of their daughter’s wedding to the cricketer.

Media first celebrated Sania-Shoaib alliance as a step forward to bring much needed peace between war-mongering nations, almost on the verge of a nuclear catastrophe.

As, if the wedlock is going to give birth to the baby called “Aman Ki Aasha”. Sorry, here there is no intention of pun on a huge media campaign started by two powerful media houses of India and neighbouring country Pakistan.

Anyway, after “Aman” it was the turn of Ayesha, the bomb from the closet of Shoaib, another Hyderabadi girl who claimed to have married the cricket star earlier.

But, the cricket star calls his ex-wife Apa (elder sister), for she is fat and ugly and have no oomph factor like Sania.

But, as the matter took several twists and turns, again here media played a keen role by acting as "messenger" between Ayesha’s family Siddiquis and Sania-Shoaib.

First the media takes the interview of Sania-Shoaib, then media goes to Siddiquis, the merry-go-round continues and so are the allegations and counter allegations, for almost a week.

Finally, some sort of sanity settled on Shoaib, he gave divorce to his “Apa” and, married Sania, within hours of his divorce to make her his second wife.

The media made a bee-line at Sania’s house in Jubilee Hills to cover the wedding day. Reported extensively on the red sari Sania wore on her d-day. So, are the diamonds and rubies bedecking Sania hogged the limelight.

The mouth-watering Hyderabadi fare enjoyed by 100 –odd guests at Taj Krishan, also made for hour-long episodes for TV channels. While giving minute details on the wedding, news anchor of a reputed English TV channel excused herself, by saying that there is no harm in following Sania and Shoaib closely, as by now the sports stars are accustomed to the intrusion of media in their personal lives.

Yes, very true, Madam Anchor!

Now, TV reporters are sweating themselves out under the 45 degree Celsius mercurial fire of sun in Hyderabad to cover the mehendi ceremony and reception party of Sania-Shoaib.

All the best reporters! Hope you survive the ordeal and hope the audience also survive the same old stale story.

To air views, or not to...the dilemma continues...

Of late, Pammy, my dear friend has been maintaining an uncanny silence. This is something unusual on her part. So, it’s kinda giving me headache of sort. For a person, who would not take seconds to verbally thrash governments, literally to the ground, for their infamous mis-governance, sports stars failing to bring laurels at international podiums, Bollywood relying on clichéd and hackyened ideas to churn out love stories after love stories, or for that matter, her boss’s “perversion” of digging his nose vigorously while giving a contemplating look in daily early hours office meetings.

As you meet an “often in a hurry” looking Pammy, and before you could manage to greet her, she is on her “marathon” of airing her views.

“Oh! God damn! When would Bangalore roads provide you space to move unhindered? Not in this lifetime. I had a good fight with the traffic constable at M.G. Road, I gave him my piece of mind. He’ll not dare harass anyone from now onwards,” Pammy would be interrupted, as I cleverly offer her a glass of water to bring some kind of semblance to my home, which for the time being has been slightly jolted by Pammy’s entry.

“Thanks dear! You know, I am tired with bull-shit all around us. Hope this ends,” says Pammy, handing back the glass to me.

But, of late, her visits are mostly quiet and she looks grave and sullen, as if under some great “moral” dilemma.

While I fry her favourite onion pakodas, she will watch quietly, smiling and munching one and two in between, and appreciating my culinary skills.

“What’s up? You seem to be upset? Very quiet, not in your chirpy best,” I asked her to know the reason behind almost “sealing” her mouth.

“Why? I am absolutely fine. Okay, you mean my silence? What to say, I am tired, tired of the state of affairs. In a way I am dumbstruck and in a way tired of people, who are always airing views, especially on idiot box. There seems to have come up a new breed of experts, who are ubiquitous on T.V. channels.”


“Let anything happen, be it a natural calamity or crash of the stock market, the expert tribe have expert comments on anything and everything. Every channel will have the same people. If at 9.00 pm news, the X expert is on one channel, he’ll be seen with all smiles at the rival channel’s studio within half an hour later. He’ll talk same, scream same and god knows what not.”

“If some are politicians without any portfolios or former cricketers-turned-commenters with a punjabi twang, others are great Indian journalists and few are page 3 people trying to make sense on why on earth inflation has crossed 17 percent mark in India?”

“I wonder their sense of intelligence and their sense of judgment and judgment of TV channels to bring these experts for every news show? I pity India and their experts. Seeing the state of the experts we could easily make out the state of the nation.”

I got Pammy’s point of view, she does not want to be in the rat race. For Pammy, is a common wo(man), who is rooted to the ground and knows the ground reality pretty well, and well, does not need to beat around the bush.

For a change would TV channels mind inviting commoners like Pammy to their shows.

Actually, her silence is killing me.

A Republican’s riposte

Pammy aka Prema Singh, my best buddy is busy making plans about how to spend her “hard-earned” holiday on Republic Day.

“Holidays come hardly for people working in corporate houses. Republic Day is one such rare occasion. And, I don’t want to miss the manna from heaven,” smiled Pammy while noting down things to be done on the D-day.

I was a bit annoyed with her almost “hysterical” behaviour on the prospect of enjoying a “holiday”. I couldn’t stop myself from asking her if Republic Day means anything more to her than just a holiday?

“You’re right! Republic Day is just another holiday for me. Where is the voice of the public, the aam janata in Indian Republic. Their voices are nothing less than chaos to be silenced by teargas and lathicharge,” said Pammy, unable to control her angry outburst to my question.

“In India, the world Republic has nothing to do with public, the people. In India, public has been obliterated from Republic”

“It’s just a holiday for many of us.”

“You are just another typical corporate executive, enjoying American dollar pie as salary,” I said, making up my mind to enter into a verbal duel before our regular patch up dramas.

“It’s no mean achievement to be a Republic for 60 long years with a democratic government at the helm of affairs. The Constitution of India is the longest and most exhaustive constitution of any Independent nation of the world today. We’re proud owners of words like sovereign, socialist, secular, democratic republic, as enshrined in our Preamble,” I tried to give her some “gyaan” on what does it mean to be a “Republican”.

Pammy laughed and winked.

“Yes, we are just owners of few heavily moralistic words, which have never been implemented.”

“India is corrupt. Here, scores of children die of hunger, families of brides pay dowry to marry off their daughters, artists bribe their way out to win awards at glitzy ceremonies. If this is a Republic, I am sorry to be called a ‘Republican.’”

Today, I too was determined not to be cowed down by Pammy’s usual verbosity, the thought crossed my mind quickly.

“So, why don’t you take up the reins of the country in your own hands and turn it into a heaven.”

“Yes, I wanted to. I wanted to end poverty, provide education to all children, equality to all women, homes to homeless…I wanted all good things in my country, but my countrymen failed me, and now, I am failing my country,” tears of agony burst from a dormant volcano even before Pammy could end her thoughts.

Along with Pammy, I too cried. Agreed that we both failed to make India a true Republic —one obeying too many rules, the other breaking all rules.

The layers within

While peeling off onions to add to my curry preparation for dinner, the imposing façade emerged from the unknown.

“Human beings are no different. They are just like onions,” there goes off my friend Prema Singh as she watches me putting all my efforts into chopping the bulbs into fine pieces.

“What?” I ask, unable to stop giggling at the strange comparison between humans and onions.

“Yes, it’s so hard to define them. Humans, like onions, wear layers of mask on their face. So hard to understand what goes behind a human mind? They are complicated.”

“But don’t you think the comparison is a bit strange and funny,” I interrupt wiping off the tears rolling down my cheeks.

“See! Like your onions, humans too never shy away from making you cry,” she smiles shrugging her shoulders.

She has logic! I couldn’t do much, but smile in agreement.

“Let me tell you something. There was an old man at my previous workplace. He used to act as if he was eccentric, wearing tattered clothes and depicting himself to be a follower of Gandhiji. What do call them… yeah, simple living, high thinking kinda. While talking about work ethics, he would always talk of Manmohan Singh, who never took a single day off from work during his first tenure as the Prime Minister of India, except during his illness.”

Prema goes on… “His talks were almost prophetic. But deep inside, the old, scheming man would leave no stone unturned to mar the image of his juniors in front of the bosses,forcing many a poor souls to leave their jobs. I never understood humans. Nor do I try to, but it’s just that sometimes onions remind me of the ugly and unpredictable side of human beings.”

“That old man was as pungent and rotten as onions. I used to feel like peeling him off completely with a sharp knife,” says Prema unable to control her anger for the man whose malicious acts must have hurt her too.

But, I could not muster the courage to ask what the “old, scheming man” did to Prema.

It has to be something nasty, otherwise Prema is hardly the kind who would display such anger.

Layers after layers, the onions bared themselves naked on the chopping board. The finely chopped bulbs almost looked vulnerable. The pungency caught my nostrils as I slowly dropped them into the hot boiling oil in a pan.

As the content in the oil pan slowly turned into golden brown, I think I understood what Prema was trying to say…

Deep and dark December, I’m not alone…

Welcome to Bangalore — India’s tech hub. Glassy corporate buildings facing five-star hotels with tuxedo-clad waiters, rock bands jamming in front of ecstatic crowds — this is India’s new city of (en)joy.

But, today I want you to visit the other side of the city — laidback and groggy. It happens on weekdays, especially during afternoons. As if after a heavy lunch, unable to carry its paunch further, Bangalore goes off for a siesta. On Brigade Road, I venture out stealthily, looking heavenwards, thanking him for a lazy afternoon with few mortals walking on the pavements.

The romantic sojourn begins with a visit to the Tibetan market for a bite of beef momos and a tumbler of lime squash — the big burp comes naturally. The next stop is at a paan shop for a banarasi and cigarettes.

After some time of meditation, comfortably numb and watching the vehicles zoom past, crossed-legged on the staircase of a mall, I see the world parched on two halves. No, I am not a junkie, but to get the kick, you need the right dose of food in your stomach and best possible ambience. Talking to yourself, the world seems “not that bad afterall”. A couple of Bollywood songs certainly come to your rescue. This December afternoon, I’m singing my heart out for Bangalore. I thank it, for giving me a roof to hide my giant structure and a piece of loaf to fill my stomach and ample time to sing and laze around.

Few minutes of window shopping, admiring everything and rejecting all (here purchasing power rules and I have none), I am again game for loafing and seat myself comfortably at Kohinoor. This place is a cosy corner. The daily routine at Kohinoor includes two-three cups of tea and a plate of chicken fry and some evesdropping — what are they talking about so animatedly. I listen quietly as they talk and at times flash a smile. Oh, it’s beautiful!

Suddenly my "dream" comes to an end on Brigade Road as the crowd swells, breaking the lull. The lazy afternoon of December starts echoing with laughter and roadside bargaining.

As I smell the air, I hear it echoing, run back to the hills. For, peace is elusive.