A Kabaddiwalla’s shack marks the entrance to a dirt road into oblivion. His children run naked around a burnt out Godrej fridge, empty cardboard boxes, stacks of old newspapers. At night you can see the whole family snuggling beneath a thin blanket under the sparkling sky. But no one would dare tread this path in the dark.
Further down the same side of the road you would find the greedy ration lady selling government provisions at outrageous rates. Ignore the public toilet on your right as you squeeze through an unruly Lantana bush where snakes hide.
This minor hardship is worth the wide expanse of open field encountered on the other side. Stretch your arms as you kick up the dust where neighbourhood cricket champions search for a sixer-ed ball.
Your treacherous journey down one of the last dirt roads of the now hi-tech, Coffee-Day loving Whitefield draws to a close. The heavens darken above you as my village remains but a star in the night sky of your mind.