The Fourth Seat

There is an unmistakable rumble around the corner. I hear the horn. It is a train snaking its way past over the south central railway tracks. On the other side is the traffic of the outer ring road. A steady stream of vehicles flowing like a golden Mithi river. From my windy perch, high above the ground, overlooking these two lines of transport, I see a bright white moon rising in the west. It is a cold night here on the outskirts of the erstwhile garden/lake city. The monster of urbanisation is slowly creeping up and making its presence felt. I am bombarded with the same brands in similar malls trying desperately to adopt a new avatar. That of the city which it is not. Amid the high rise steel and glass structures, thrives a populace still rooted in rural traditions. A few years ago they might have even looked at me with curiosity but I am the majority now, too many like me rolling around in our Uber-Ola cabs and company buses. In the supermarket, yet another gimmick of the

The best kind of experiences are unplanned. Today evening, as I made my way to Poinsur, I called up my friend Melvin - an original resident of this quaint east Indian village to check if he was around. Mel works in Human Resources but is an adventurer at heart. Every other weekend, you might find him wandering around the hills of Khandala quenching his thirst for adventure. He is a prolific blogger and inspite of living about 400 meters away from his gaothan (urban village) I had never met him before until Karen, our common friend introduced us. We met in the winter of 2016, a day after I wrote the TISSNET - the all Indian entrance exam for postgraduate programs at TISS where incidentally I study - human resources and labour relations. It also turned out that my guess about him being related to my teacher, the late Ms. Yvonne D'souza was correct. He was her son. It was a great evening. Ever since we try to meet now and then.  On his blog, aptly titled Away From The Crowds , y