The commute to KL11 is spent in a Tarzeny haze on dull days, hanging onto the stainless steel rods crisscrossing the bus that takes in everything, from seat-expecting mothers and that uncannily well-dressed elderly gentleman on his early morning booze run to the state-owned-and-operated IMFL store halfway to town and the backpacker who refuses to part with his violently swinging bundle of pain and entanglement and the disgruntled ticket checker (conductor of the symphony). The elderly drunkards drown the rainy days in quarters as if all that water hasn’t enough mojo. On busy days, suspended in a sea of bodies—warm except for the half-shut umbrellas fresh off a surprise shower—the kindle becomes extra padding to my sketchbook, warmed by the packed lunch and water-bottle, leaving me listening to interviews pilfered off the internets or to Kodaline on loop. Today, half way into the yatra, Pamuk’s long and often unexciting bit on “Strangeness in My Mind” gave way to Arundhati Roy reading from the “Ministry,” and it was three different kinds of odd and beautiful. The burqa-clad girl seated next door sent strange glances my way as I giggled inappropriately and looked at the Hindi numerals on the HMT when I noticed she noticed I noticed. Ms. Roy broke into ‘Kozhikkattam Chammandi’ and went on to spice up the translation with guts. I have had the hardcover on the table for almost three weeks now, and haven’t gotten past the first few pages.