At the stoplights before Forum Mall, a motorcyclist who'd stopped ahead of me spat on the ground, aiming at a spot by his foot. A gust of wind broke his shot and a part of the spray blew into my fender, catching the sun and glinting as it came. I glared through my windscreen at the jet-black back of his head and at his red backpack, but the chap seemed so young, the more I stared I only melted. I tried to place him—wondered where he worked, how much money he made, and from which town or village he’d perhaps arrived in Bangalore. Oblivious to my eyes upon his back, he shifted and shook himself and resettled on his bike and bent forward anticipating the green, and when it came sped off with a stylish loop round the car ahead of him.