Along a broken road in Bangalore
1. The old peepal tree at the corner of a grafitti imprinted wall is shaking her head again.
Like she knew the breeze would shiver and tease through the bright green fresh leaves.
She has watched me skip across the pavement beneath her a hundred times.
I watch her.
I wonder if my soul has rings every time it grows
2. Sounds of yesteryear dining places have found themselves trapped in between the benches and tables, between the coffee cup and the clattering saucer.
And right below is a nest of a book store with cross legged readers.
3. An old classic is a coffee place where
The rose milk is divine. Taking me with it's milky sweetness to memories of hot summer days holding my grandfather's hand and skipping to a little shop.
The colours of taking enough courage to talk to a man in khaki shorts across, with an outdoor gear store has put me in paths I hadn't reached before
4. The coffee on the other end is famous as well. So are the Sunday brunches. I don't come here for the food though.
Okay, I do.
But I come for the conversation.
With someone who teaches me the world.
He sits across me, a white haired, small man with bird eyes. Constantly taking in everything he sees and watches. Constantly looking at the world. Constantly curious.
He always amazes me.
The waiters here are a a little cranky. They are the snarky uncles you grow to love and they grow to love you.
5. There is a tall guy who sits on a tall stool,
Glass wall , door wide open. Guitar in hand, guitars all around him. He watches the road for a minute before he plays.
His voice ringing loud inside, his music flooding the street. His heartsong flooding anyone who wants to listen.
I've been on this street for years now.
8 years in fact.
Books overflow to the street
Speaking their strange language.
Pulling you into their stories.
People overflow on the street
Speaking in laughter and quiet
This street has been paved with music.
This street has been paved with stories.