I love watching the curving sweep of the expressway as the bus glides onto it every evening, taking me away from the cacophony of speaker-phones in cubicles, stingy windows covered with Venetian blinds and managers adept at making life miserable for you with aplomb. The sun blazes out brazenly glorious, lighting up the clouds which let it through in fine rays, bathing the city underneath in a sheer web of fine gold. It glances off polished surfaces, blinding your eyes when you least expect it.
There is something exalting about this sight- it atones for all the trouble you have been put through, wiping away the discordant voices and the disgruntlement, making things worth enduring, if only for a ten-minute ride with the clouds and the vast, limitless sky for company. Blue, white and gold. And the delicious thought of stacks of books waiting for you at home. Knowing that, once you unlock the door and let yourself in, you can open the window, slide the wire-mesh away and let the evening breeze in, bearing the delighted cries of playing children. Turn on the television and fill the room with the drone of the vuvuzela. I'm not complaining- their drone isn't more irritating than the noise of certain Indian commentators, and if they choose to celebrate that way, so be it.