States, the roadside mochi..Or the lack of it.

“A dollar for a dime” he said, expecting a foreigner in his land to be lured by the seemingly profitable barter and those antiquated wrinkles that told stories of his poverty in the most ‘powerful’ country in the world.

I walked on. I had crossed the world and flown back in time to arrive and walk upon another piece of land where, for some still inexplicable reason, people say dreams come true. Or so they used to in Anurag Mathur’s book(s), Kal Penn & Jimmy Mistry’s movies and some other equally erudite sources.

You have to hand it to the red, white and blue though. Never have I come across such abundance of resources, such determination to move ahead, such a motley of people existing together despite having migrated from almost every country there exists, such a push and nudge from educational institutions to only allow for better interactions with some incredibly brilliant minds.

If there’s been anything I have frowned upon here, it would have to be the lack of a skilled roadside mochi to fix my Jacket zipper, the local buses halting where the passenger stands instead of sadly, vice versa.

The noise and the bustle is missed. So are the simple smiles on the rickshaw wallah’s faces while they rest among friends in the calm shade of the Banyan tree, just passing away the afternoon criticizing the government, praising the lord, with  Radio Mirchi providing the perfect background score to the noon.

The differences are stark, the cultures are unique and separate, the jacket zipper still remains broken and this experience is like none other.