I took a walk down a street well known, and discovered a turn I had never known.
The path less traveled it wasn’t. Crowded, dingy, chaotic were its names.
My feet beat down the trodden path, which told tales of woe, abuse and years of show.
It was poor but rich. Old but new. Faded but blooming.
The real business in the city does not happen in the gleaming, chrome-plated, air-conditioned offices of this city. That is where the people sit. But it is in this little place that money is doled out in plastic bags, gold stacked in gunny sacks and clothes shimmer from all corners.
The names of the place might be confusing to the uninitiated. There is a secret to be discovered every time you visit.
The bustling hive of Bengaluru, with its books, both old and new, pipes, paints, clothes, gold, silver, on clothes and on people, with its reams of paper, a thimble full of silence, a bucketful of dirty water, this is where the action is.
I had forgotten about this little place. I had been clueless about its hidden treasures.
I jumped drains, skipped across holes… and discovered this little place where you can find anything, if you just look long enough, they say.