Chai, dreams, streets.

By the time I got out of the auto my nose was frozen to the degree that I could break it off  of my face. The cold air had razored my cheeks like steely knives.

As we sped by, the highways got narrower, the life less fantastic, the day more ordinary. The auto-rickshaw meandered bumpy by-lanes, cutting many a crossroad and finally reached a little street. We pulled up beside a row of three-storeyed buildings that stood shoulder to shoulder. Muthu opened a nearly invisible gate that led to a completely invisible stairway. It was only as wide as an average guy.

We waited till a sleepy Aroma (who is one of Muthu's roomates) opened the door.

The room was tiny and dark, cluttered with girl-ammo. Shoes of every colour , bags the same, and piles of clothes rolling off the chair and onto the floor. There was one other room, a kitchen, a toilet and a little balcony. The floor was cold and hard. Muthu pulled down the mattresses leaning on the wall and sat me on it. She threw me a couple of pillows and a blanket and scampered off to make some coffee.

I liked it. This little nest, a tad cold, but it was definitely a fresh morning from my daily rut.

After a bit, Aroma whom I had soon christened Squeaky Toy (her voice), left for work. Muthu took me to her daily breakfast corner shop down the street. There were tables where you could stand, and tables where you could sit.I saw the cosmopolitan city in that mookkipodi-deppi  (the malayali would understand, his old snuff box )of a shop! There were IT professionals, coolies, small businessmen and us girls. There were no haughty stares, there was no hierarchy, there was just breakfast.

When we left, Muthu took a left to her office and I headed back home. I walked, taking long happy strides. The weather reminded me of Decembers of Muscat. The cold, crisp air  of a sunny morning, I loved it. I remembered how we played basketball at school on such mornings, in our white track pants and bottle-green tees. I remembered my friend Christina playing with me.

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The following days I would stay in, till Muthu came home during meal times. Each time we would go to a new place. We went to Achayan's, the Malayali oone kada, where the Banglore-Malayali could take a safe bite of his favourite red meat. Then there was Thulp! , a comic themed restaurant with funny names for dishes; Chaipatti was probably my favourite--a refurbished apartment (or office, I'm not sure) where Mr. Chirag,the handsome lean owner served his hot masala tea in Kulhads, in his cosy little tea rooms.

I watched the different kinds of people that swarmed the streets of this city. They walked fast, life was busy, they walked with purpose. I have seen people walk with purpose. Purpose palled over their faces in Trivandrum. But it was different here in Bangalore. Here people walked with purpose of making the most of their little lives. They were living to live. Even Mr. Chirag , who started off in garage, was now floors above that now. And like his name his face shone. He loved serving his masala tea in those kulhads. He loved that we loved it.

If I could bring back  home something, I would bring back some of that love. That love for life. After a final streak of shopping through the infamous Commercial Street, the time came for me to pack my (loot) bag with my newly bought goodies and go home. 

On my way back, I thought about life, and dreams and happiness. I fell asleep soon (there was no snoring man nearby).