When all fails, fail again.
I started this post with too many images in my head. None of which wanted to form themselves into words on the screen. Life here in the PG has been eventful, as always. In the morning, just a little after 7, when I am exercising, there is the alarming sound of someone trying to force
I had been seeing this restaurant in a few places. From as far as Whitefield to as close as Malleshwaram. I hadn’t really thought of going there even though I have been known to, on occasion, like Tex-Mex food. I do like Taco Bell! On Tuesday, I needed to visit my favorite hairstylist, Yogesh, who
I love spicy food. Amend. I love food. And I also love spicy food. I came to the PG today, and made myself noodles in a cup with the caretaker’s wife being kind enough to give me hot water. Apart from me, there seem to be 2 other girls who occupy this PG. The rest
Once in a while, Soul Muser will stop musing about the general lassitude of life, and instead focus on the one other thing that also moves her greatly: food. Last year, I struggled with food. A combination of a stressful work environment and some weird unexplained stomach problems led to one of the saddest situations.
Have you ever slept on a bed with the plastic sheets still covering the mattress? Now, I can cross that off my bucket list. Here’s what the bed is like. I think I am a 4-foot pixie, but I look gargantuan for the size of this bed. Anyone who is a little over 5-feet might
It sounds grand writing like this. At the end of another working day, I drive down 3.5km instead of 35km, and there I am. The road seems dustier than ever before. I park the car in front, the road leads to nowhere. In front, furious construction for some more identical multi-storied monsters that house these
It’s all very quaint and Victorian. We don’t call them PG for Women. Or men. It’s PG for Gents. And PG for Ladies. The “gents” in question live in some slovenly conditions. The ladies, it seems, are a little better. But they remain squashed. Sharing a little room with 3 or 4, and calling it
Wandering through the bylanes of Marathalli, Bellandur, and various other villages was a revelation. I am a traveler, and yesterday I traveled far and wide through some of Bangalore’s dustiest, narrowest, and barely livable localities. And no place I had traveled to quite was so appalling in its squalor. Row after row of houses. All
Looking down the far edge of the wall, there she was. At the same place as she always had been. She had this one place that she occupied, hugging the walls of Bowring Curzon hospital. In front, several fast food restaurants. And the hub and throng of Shivajinagar’s people as they moved through its narrow