“Hey, you planning to kill me!” said Shruti in an antagonized tone when the meter ricked red and the wind howled for mercy, but the Honda City kept crunching grit on the road in the starlit sky which juggled in vision.
“The naan we just had are cuddling up with the dal, why would anyone muddle that?”
“Cool down 60 won’t annihilate you, even buffaloes today scurry at 70,” said Kushagra lollingly.
The stomach-churning but the crisp air cooled the limbs, Shruti wrinkled her nose as the hovel approached and then tried to sneeze the scent away.
If time was a measure for a drive to be long or minuscule this ride would have been long enough for serenity! 75 minutes was just a magnitude to realize, where every second was a light-year long.
The cardinal moment came when India Gate the, rangy cenotaph appeared long above the ground, lit as if surrounded with air clad of thousand stars, the ambrosial scent of the divine, the hubbub of the horde,
Constable Ramesh whistling the culpable. Amidst the bedlam, there were we tangled with wickedness and more refractory to follow.