banana puja

The sweet smelling incense sticks were impaled thoughfully into the pair of small bruised bananas nestling together on the dashboard. Freshly pujad the taxi was taking me across a strangely becalmed Bangalore, to the airport. The traffic seemed almost peaceful and we passed a tranquil, round park caught in the slanting 5.30pm sun's rays where a few large family groups gathered under trees boasting bright pink blossom. Yellow flowered borders meandered around it all. I savoured the leisurely drive through the city as I had savoured the mediocre vegetable biriyani at the railway station. It was all beautiful.

In response to my enquiry as to whether or not there was some kind of holiday which might explain the quiet traffic the driver simply looked at his watch and tried again to add Rs25 to the previously agreed fare. I glared into the rearview mirror at him.

At the airport no-one had heard of a flight with my number. The airport staff seemed to believe the date was the 16th, not the 15th which it actually was. Having won that dispute I had still to wait for the Singapore airlines staff to arrive an hour later to clear up the confusion and ascertain that all was fine, I was on the flight but it was leaving 3 hours late and had a different number to that on my ticket.

Now at slick Changi Airport in Singapore. A bigger contrast to India might be possible to find but only if all the staff here had antennae and scooped insects from the air with their tongues as a passtime.

Looking forward to Sydney and catching up with Mum and Sis, hearing about their trip and also to a Sunday morning practice at ashtanga yoga space in Paddington. Laid back Aussie hols are looking good.