A black dog sits on the compound wall hesitantly whining about an intruder on one side while on the other, a narrow street gets respite from the pitch black due to the benevolence of a lone tungsten. The air is heavy with the concoction of a certain plant origin, or of many perhaps, and the distant skies are briefly painted with strips of lights from a club that you can’t hear. The blades of grass are translucent with life, eager receptors for tomorrow’s dew.
A skinny pair of iridescent legs passes me by, cutting the darkness in blurry blades and disappearing around the laterite corner. It is Dire Straits time at the karaoke, the same bad voices at the Village Royale seem to have offered to take the mike. The deserted entrance is bathed in yellow light; a dusty stack of scooters flanks both its sides. 
The crickets are the only familiar sounds of the night. It could well be 14th cross Malleshwaram or maybe, just after the rains. The sputter of the motorcycle could be from those that go over the tank bund along the hyacinth-infested lake outside Hosur- the one that leads all the way to the Mariamman temple. It still feels like winter sometimes, when doors and windows are shut tight and no one goes near the play grounds at this hour.
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