The copper pod is flowering in Bangalore and on empty roads and bylanes, showers of these small yellow blossoms fill the spaces usually occupied by people and their things.
Stray dogs converge in groups, looking like they’re conferring about the future. One comes up, hungry, and licks my hand.
A cow nuzzles the rotting cauliflowers dumped at the base of an almond tree; a thin white cat stalks boundary walls between houses.
The koel sounds sharper, more inquiring, than usual. A grey-haired woman with a mask sits cross-legged on the pavement, trying to beg.
A rickshaw goes by with two horn loudspeakers on its roof and a cop inside with a mike, scolding anyone who lingers.
Every sunset the silence is golden.
Read the other articles in The Art of Solitude series here.
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