So.

My carefully numbered days at home are nearly over. The city that's part of my soul is still bleeding away, with temporary breaks here and there, but mostly just open wounds that we've learnt to ignore. 40 dead. 28 dead. 70 dead. Dead dead dead dead. Sitting at Hotspot and someone's parents call, telling them to get home asap. Shehr ke haalaat kharaab hogaye hain..
We take our time, so what's new? Finish our frozen yogurt, light a few more cigarettes, watch the smoke spiraling from the end of the burning cherry. Someone's talking about getting high. Someone else wants to go to the beach. Let's get drunk, are you mad? It's Ramazan!
I'm listening and watching, and every now and then I will add my two cents to a conversation that doesn't mean much either way, to anyone. We're all guests here now, going soon to run after a better future. But who's to say what's better? It's all so relative to these ideas of what you think is right and wrong. Things move along, change so fast that if you were to chase the past running to the present and try and catch up with the future, all you'd end up with is a stitch in your sides and not much else. That's how I feel. A little bit tired, and a little puzzled about how I got here. I do try to take out the time to find out why, but time is exactly what none of us have here. Too fast, this world, these days.

We leave Hotspot. The beggars swarm around our car. Lock your doors, they might try to open them. This is so uncomfortable, he's asking me for ten rupees, Baji aik sou pachaas rupay kaa juice pi saktay ho, das rupay nai desaktay? (You can drink juice that costs Rs. 150, but you can't give me Rs.10?)
Somewhere in the back of my head my conscience pinches me. But I ignore it.

And then we drive away.