I’ve found myself creeping into many cities at unearthly hours of morning, long before the crush of traffic in the metros sets in. I realize that’s my favourite time, and way, to arrive. Coming in late at night feels too much like crashing a house party when the party’s shut down.
Between four and seven in the morning, it’s slow. Leisurely. The air is cool and you’re one of the few people awake. Surat Thani, Thailand, at 4.30 in the morning, looks exactly like Ahmedabad, India, at the same time. At this time of the morning, the thickness of your _kafe_ in Surat Thani, wafts through the cold morning air. Your nose prickles. The only mad rush is the mad rush of your sleepy squabbles with the auto-rickshaws, and trying to find a decent bed to crash into. A year later, you’re fresh off the bus or train in New Jalpaiguri, Agra, Udaipur, Ahmedabad, and this morning – Bangalore – _still_ squabbling with auto-rickshaws (except they’re not called _tuktuks_ here), _still_ trying to find a decent bed to crash into.
The thickness of your _chai_ wafts upwards from its terracotta cup, and even as you strike it against the corner of a wall, it still smells every bit as sweet. All the more sweet when you realize that two mornings from now, you creep home, to that familiar but by now alien smell of _kopi C_ and _teh O_, and whatever they bring with them.
possibly related
Baby, You Can Pimp My Shaw /
Cameltoe /
No Lassi in Bhang Lassi /
The Worst That Could Happen /
Diplomats and Physically Challenged Only /
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Creeping
I’ve found myself creeping into many cities at unearthly hours of morning, long before the crush of traffic in the metros sets in. I realize that’s my favourite time, and way, to arrive. Coming in late at night feels too much like crashing a house party when the party’s shut down.
Between four and seven in the morning, it’s slow. Leisurely. The air is cool and you’re one of the few people awake. Surat Thani, Thailand, at 4.30 in the morning, looks exactly like Ahmedabad, India, at the same time. At this time of the morning, the thickness of your _kafe_ in Surat Thani, wafts through the cold morning air. Your nose prickles. The only mad rush is the mad rush of your sleepy squabbles with the auto-rickshaws, and trying to find a decent bed to crash into. A year later, you’re fresh off the bus or train in New Jalpaiguri, Agra, Udaipur, Ahmedabad, and this morning – Bangalore – _still_ squabbling with auto-rickshaws (except they’re not called _tuktuks_ here), _still_ trying to find a decent bed to crash into.
The thickness of your _chai_ wafts upwards from its terracotta cup, and even as you strike it against the corner of a wall, it still smells every bit as sweet. All the more sweet when you realize that two mornings from now, you creep home, to that familiar but by now alien smell of _kopi C_ and _teh O_, and whatever they bring with them.
possibly related
Baby, You Can Pimp My Shaw / Cameltoe / No Lassi in Bhang Lassi / The Worst That Could Happen / Diplomats and Physically Challenged Only /