Her regular auto ride

She gathered her spirit back. She smiled to herself while the wind kissed her face treading in the streets of her city. She felt a powerful gust of strength flowing through her veins as she smiled to herself. She knew her Lord lover was right when he'd mentioned it to her that she should write more. She enjoyed writing in the auto, on the dining table, on the bave window, in her myriad chaotic journals named and unnamed. She looked at the red car next to her three wheeled auto rickshaw. The bald guy was driving with full zeal. She realised she noticed the bald head first and smirked at her judgemental personality. She noticed the shops on the street, the darshinis, the restropubs, the kirana stores, the supermarket and empty sites with a tired dark contractor commanding the daily wage workers. A guy eating a PARLE G biscuit in a filter kaapi hotel raised only his left eyebrow looking at her, he probably dunk his biscuit far too long, it fell and in a split second life seemed to be back on track.

That's the thing about streets, you see people, you smell people, you feel people. There's a disappointed senior citizen ajji waving at my auto for a ride probably to visit her nonexistent NRI children but I'm very much here and I'm going to see my therapist. There's a food delivery app scooter guy rushing in front of me, I decide not to order from them only for today. There's a cigarette, paan kiosk and a girl is mouth fagging with her not so good looking partner who's dragging a grand puff. There's a girl in pillion seat of a royal field with a orange coat and an orange bag. I would say she should have worn a purple jacket. But it's me who has the purple jacket. She knows she's not street smart and that's why she writes about the shenanigans of the street. She's the tharle ji commenting on the sad state of the Parle G. Whattewoe.