experiments with truth; or write as it comes.

Sarfaraz (SR) has on a solid pink shirt, of which the sleeves, elbow downwards, have each a purple stripe. Sarfaraz (SR) has orange, sometimes ochre, hair standing on end; brilliantine now slightly dulled with the day's grime. Sarfaraz (SR)'s white-framed sunglasses hang from the back of his collar while the pink teddy bear trinket dangles from the end of his cellphone, spilling over the right pocket of his ragged jeans. Sarfaraz (SR) has his name tattooed on his pink and grey bag and perhaps unknowingly, has embraced metro-sexuality with just the right balance of indifferent flair. Sarfaraz (SR) stops twitching his gleaming white shoes and jumps up for the Senior Cetizen, who has the greater claim to the seat. Sarfaraz (SR) scans the bus modestly. He knows his chivalry is likely to cull favour with the ladies.

The Marwari in the white Swift speaks into a white cellphone while his left hand dexterously, alone, veers left, right, left, reverse and out of its parked space, only to be halted by the unmoving traffic. Unable to lie inert, the left hand, as dexterously, begins to empty The Marwari's nostrils of redundant pith. A motorcyclist rolls in behind, and smiling through the reflective, rainbow helmet, asks for an inch forward. The Marwari, who is not done talking yet, scowls while the orange tika on his forehead peels off some more. The traffic stolid still, the nose adequately aired, the left hand steers the Swift back along the same and opposite trajectory into Square A. The Marwari gets off, apologising for the goddamn noise.

Mrs. is very flagrantly Bangali. In times of such dubious identities proliferating like blind mice, one must do one's best. Mrs. clutches her handbag to her chest as she rocks gently with the bus over potholes and around circles, sleeping. Mrs. will probably not alight before me, I think, as my heart continues to fall apart in slow, violet petals and Glabicki continues to croon, Won't Be Long, Won't Be Long. Won't Belong.