From the sky the land is green and red.
Rich green vegetation wanders over hills and vales of rich red soil.
Palm trees march single file next to roads. Hawai’i has only meager outposts compared to this display of might.
They stand watch over the farm towns and roads, and keep the peace.
My watch says, “Nine in the morning.”
My body says that it is closer to noon. Although in Dubai,
Where it just was,
It is only half past Seven.
And back home, where it was yesterday (another uncertain concept), my wife would be contemplating a late dinner.
My body has been awake for most of 36 hours, and the last 24 contained only the briefest of naps.
The sun is still low, although brighter and hotter.
The very idea that it is noon,
Is clearly wrong.
My body is awake, nonetheless. And bright. Like the airport, and
The green and red fields.
The airport is like an old man. He is awake and alert. He is weary not from sleep. His joints are worn. His shirt is stained.
His glasses are damp from heavy breath.
He is not like SFO, who is young and familiar and ready to grow.
He is not like Dubai, dressed in extravagance, eating rich foods, with an eye on the next hour to pray.
He only needs walls, so there are only walls. He only needs security, so there are only simple ropes to guide you through.
I am quickly greeted by a man from the hotel. He has a paper with my name and company, to ensure he is who he says he is.
He takes me to a man with a cab. He tells me of the many fine places to visit within a few hours drive.
I am confused and lost in the names of these places.
I am in the car, and he waves me off, like the airport was his home and he has more guests to greet.
The driver takes me down roads, where the number of cars multiply.
And weave and swerve and honk and brake and dart and speed and turn. Brake. Honk. Speed. Honk. Swerve.
It is more like a metallic herd of sambhar deer fleeing from an unseen predator.
Move forward. Quickly. But, these beasts with bellies full of petrol are graceful and pass each other by inches without an awkward collision.
The drive takes over an hour. The driver of the sambhar I am in is named Ram. He uses his horn often, but gentle against his brethren.
He takes me down a highway that passes piles of rubble, dirt ditches, cement buildings bright with Sprite advertisements painted on them, cement buildings in ruins and occupied, garbage heaps, and brightly painted temples with an array of gods living on the roof, shining shopping centers, glittering offices, McDonald’s, and modest food stands.
He tells me of many fine places to visit within a few hours drive.
I am confused and lost in the names of these places.
Except one. I make a note in my head to visit the great palace of Mysore, the Ancient Capitol.
But first, the new Capitol, Bangalore awaits.
Ram glides through the tangled roads where the herd is much larger and louder. Great Nandi Trucks, Elephantine Busses, Spotted Deer Rickshaws, Peacock Motorbikes, and Egret Bicycles join the migration in droves. Ram’s horn warns them to keep their distance.
The City Auspicious rises from the green and red land, cracking it into rubble and spilling garbage.
This city stirred under plagues, sultans, and kings, and rises now to say:
I am here.
I have arrived.
This is my hour. Let us change the world.
And so, it changes.
