A cloudy afternoon. The sun behind the haze makes the city glow orange.
At a stop light on the way to South Extension, my auto-rickshaw driver asked directions of the driver to his left who, in turn, asked the driver to his left.
In front of the public notary on Asaf Ali Road, every afternoon, a cadre of manual typewriters appear, manned by proud and patient typists.
Indians also have a thing for Chinese food. Chili and honey makes an amazingly good combination.
At dinner, an older, well-heeled German lady sat across from a young Indian man. Her guide? Friend? They leaned towards each other as they spoke. Does the global sex trade extend to both genders? Or is it merely a need for companionship? Traveling alone requires a certain fortitude.
I’ve got two mysterious insect bites, one on the webbing between my left thumb and index finger, the other on my right shoulder. I don’t have any anti-malarials.
The heat has gone from unbearable to atrocious. I’ve read that several people in Gujarat have already died from it. Soon, it'll be my turn.