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And then the evening descends. Neons light up the shops, vehicles crowd the roads, and people race against each other to go home. The roadsides come alive with vendors and hawkers. Bargainings go on. And despite the diesel fumes, dust, and honking vehicles I see people sighing a sense of relief -- the day has come to an end.

Isn't there something festive about the way each day ends?

I watch all these from afar, from the distance of a moving bus. I watch the bustle outside and say to myself, "But I'm in no hurry. I can afford to be late." Since I am not worried about reaching home, while commuting from work, I distract myself with little games -- often with words. I pick up random words and, in my head, arrange them into sentences, and sentences into paragraphs, and paragraphs into.... Well, it doesn't go beyond that. I lose track.

Thus, when I sometimes pick the pen and paper late at night, I find stray sentences and odd words coming out of my pen. Sometimes they fall in place and a little piece gets written (like this one). But often they don't and remain buried, unfinished.