I’m visiting Bangalore, and to get around I usually rely on the trusty auto-rickshaw.

Trusty-ish.

When I do let one of the auto rickshaw (drivers, pilot-navigators, sailors, masters/commanders, directors) charioteers know of my intended location, they give me a sad look.

Not just any sad look, not the sad look of one who has discovered that his close friend is a serial killer who enjoys lightly sauteed civil-engineers, but a look far more profoundly and deeply sad.

A look that lets me know that my desire to go to Koshy’s is unnatural and will bring about my doom and that of the greater Bangalore area, will cause the ice caps to melt into pools of fire, will kill a puppy, and will cause internet connections the world over to be slow. A look that lets me know that I should know better and shame on me.

I’m going to run late again.