Infosys’ buildings have now almost reached Hosur Road, only a thin fringe of the small old buildings of the consumed village are taking their last breaths. Each is a strange geometric structure and grotesque, one of them a glass pyramid, but I know they will all fall in place and look grand when the scaffoldings go and they are complete. Further down at the central-jail-cross there is a sudden commotion: a group of cars have somehow squeezed in, beacons flashing, it looks like the chief minister’s cavalcade and we grin that he has to go through this mess just like us, even with all the police cars round him. At Adugodi the black tawwas are throwing up steam from the dosas and more smoke comes up thick and white from the onions and masala in oil that the cook pours stylishly on them, standing and working, the evening very young for him at eight. Before Elgin Mills constructions are happening that are not a match for it in elegance. On the sand pile in front a guard in uniform and a straggler have flopped down comfortably into a chat, both too tired from the summer to do anything else. Before Barista’s, the family of (ragpickers?) that lives in front has packed up its world and stacked it all against the stone wall of the cafe, but no one is in sight, and I think it is because it is going to rain tonight and they have to go sleep elsewhere and cannot carry their things there. Temperatures have dropped and it looks like rain is coming any moment but the cafes and eateries at Nehru Circle look bright, pretty and set for business, and the people, happy. I am almost home and I have finished the final chapter, after a long slow read of many days, of Amitav Ghosh’s Antique Land, and am happy that I sat in the back seat and enjoyed Bangalore, and also Egypt and Mangalore on the long way home this evening.
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