by Sathyanarayanan Chandrasekar
Fifty-five minutes past the midnight, the roads have only canines marking their territories and preparing for a vicious onslaught on any unwelcome visitor; few hours ago this was a busy road, with traffic queues extending more than a mile from the junction, with aggravated honks and flayed tempers; it seems so peaceful now though, except for those canine howls. There is a whimsical police directive in place that no alcohol shall be sold later than thirty minutes preceding midnight. You walk along the road, talking about all the good times that were, the promises of good times to come, and of the good people who would join you in good times, gregariousness is the right word for the moment. All houses along the street have the lights put off, early sleepers; all shops their shutters down; the boisterousness of the group is tempered, realizing that there is no way of finding alcohol this late in the night. A rough, dishevelled individual emerges from the darkness and announces the password; which could mean he was trying to sell amphetamine, hashish, marijuana or plain grass to us; we shake our heads in disapproval, beer we ask; he nods his head in approval and motions us to stand far so as to not evince suspicion. "Premium lager" at hand the group heads back - boisterous and laughing at the city which made them prisoners of their own desire.
Sathyanarayanan Chandrasekar is a coding monkey, working out of Bangalore. He rues the large number of trees being chopped down in Bangalore in the name of road expansion, and the number of characters wasted on spelling his name. Left to himself he would want to be referred to as the "Kaiser." He blogs here.