Dwarfed mechanical devices stood ominously at the foot of the old trees that rimmed the golf-course where Kumara Krupa Road sweeps into Sankey Road. That was last week, and the next day the trees were gone—a daily view that reassured me that Bangalore is still the best Indian city to live in is rooted out. A vast baldness is the new vista but all is not lost: turn a whole round and drive in an upward spiral into the Windsor Manor and sit where they're now serving Guinness and Irish Lager and turn the mind inward and when time comes to attend to the effects of the beer, know that the restrooms are open that were for a long time closed for renovation. The bowls are set in a stylish arc and mounted above them are sleek televisions that are framed in old-style wood with gilded edges and while you are at it men and women of CNN talk world news to you, eye to eye, two feet from the face. Ours is a progressive city, it is argued. I am among them who clamor for infrastructure for it. I must mutely watch its mutilation.