With my walk to the Godavari bus stop, I begin with my cover photograph.
Girl in clothes put together in two minutes-crushed kurta with yesterday's perfume on it and churidars marked with ink stains.A hurried line of kohl in her eyes.
The Nilgiri is for the fancy dedication.
A lovely set of carefully chosen words manicured and pedicured to fit within the brackets of fancy calligraphy.
By the time I have crossed the Kaveri tank and taken the right from the Nehru statue, the roads lay littered with the string of words that my footsteps sing to the road I tread upon.
I turn back and cringe at the litter and heave a sigh of relief when the sweeper's broom brushes them all aside.
I see how all the words stick to the thin sticks of the broom-all held together with a light electrostatic force.
The kind that lets the comb touch the strands of hair for a few seconds more before parting.
I hear a stranger's radio sing,
"...Sheher sunsaan hai, kidhar jaye,
Khaq hokar kahi bikhar jaye..."
It is funny how every little thing we do becomes a story.