[Kempegowda International Airport]

[Kempegowda International Airport]

[Kempegowda International Airport]

[Kempegowda International Airport]

Shrinking Comfort Zones

As published at SubStack, 12/28/22:

[Chennai, 12/25/22]

 

[Chennai, 12/25/22]

After a month in India, I’m back in Bangkok.

My last four days in Chennai were eventful in unpleasant ways. I finally ate or drank something that kept me bedridden for most of two days. Finally strong enough to seek much needed nutrition, I went to a nearby restaurant, Liza, for a proper meal. I had had reasonable luck there.

Noticing their noodles with shrimps could be prepared four different ways, “Schezwan,” “Manchurian,” “Singapore” and “Thai,” I opted for the Lion City, only to end up with a dish so greasy I woke up repeatedly that night with a sore throat.

Great, I thought, with a bad stomach and a tortured gullet I will fly to Bangkok with a marathon layover in Bengaluru! “When a man dies, he will pass through his own bowels,” Da Vinci wrote in a notebook. I’ve quoted that before, I know. So what? Few, if any, have.

My last full day in Chennai, I still had to eat, so I walked nearly a mile to a momo joint. Steamed dumplings seemed the safest option. Since it had rained, many streets were flooded. I waded ankle or shin deep through copper colored water. Waiting for my order, I was engulfed in by the smell of urine, which didn’t improve my constitution.

Carrying my momos back, I passed a dozen scrawny white horses in their sad stalls just off the sidewalk. A skinny man scrubbed one. Kept apart, a downcast pony had mange. In my $20.31 a night room, I ate then lay down. To keep Sheraton Grande smelling reasonable, incense sticks were constantly burnt in hallways, but this fragrance, too, became overwhelming.

In Bengaluru, there’s a cosmopolitan oasis around Church Street, with its sushi, tacos and excellent burgers at Seigneur. Its Paris Delice with beef patty, beef bacon, grilled mushroom and cheddar cheese “drizzled with Franco-Honey Sauce” tastes like a Philly cheesesteak combined with a first-rate cheeseburger. At Amintiri, you can get Lamb Bolognese, Cajun Prawn and Green Apple, Vegetarian Dagwood or Caramel Baked Cheesecake, etc.

[Seigneur’s classic cheeseburger in Bengaluru, 12/5/22]

Just on Church, there are several pizzerias, a Chinese buffet, an Iranian restaurant, rock and roll clubs and Rasta Cafe. Though I wandered all over Bengaluru, only around Church did I see so many foreigners, predictably, but why come to India only to escape it?

With its Indians, many still in traditional dress, Church Street is India enough. Plus, you still have street vendors selling chai, samosas and momos. There are some beggars looking ragged enough. Granted, there are absolutely no cows, none, but foreigners can see and smell enough of them away from Church Street.

In American English, a meat and potato man is basically a Joe Sixpack. He needs his beef and mashed or baked potatoes, then a sixpack of Bud or Miller as he watches a ballgame. In Oriental countries, meat generally means pork, so the Vietnamese rice vermicelli with grilled meat [bún thịt nướng] is served with pork. It’s a given. Braised meat [thịt kho] means braised pork.

While we all know Muslims shun pork, few are aware beef abstaining Hindus also avoid pork, since pigs eat shit. In India, the most commonly found meat, then, is chicken, with lamb also offered, but often in tiny quantities, since it’s expensive. If you pay just 12 pennies for a “lamb samosa” on the street, how many milligrams of such meat can you expect, cheapskate?!

Lying on my Chennai bed, I started to fantasize with great bitterness and self-pity about several hunks of roasted pork with crispy crackling over a bed of white, unseasoned rice, with stalks of boiled, unseasoned bok choy on the side. A bowl of clear broth with bits of uncooked scallion completed my hallucination. Inhaling deeply, I filled my lungs with stifling incense.

Though death with its fecal breath was surely seconds away, I couldn’t, for the life of me, crap my soul out. There I lay broken hearted. Tried to shit, but only farted. OK, OK, I’ll cut this shit out.

On my day of departure, I took the subway to Alwapert to have breakfast at Bread and Chocolate. My only other time there, I had its Mezze Platter for 475 rupees [$5.73]. With its pita, hummus, tabouleh, tzatziki, beet and lentil salad, boiled egg, caper berries, toasted almonds, carrot, cucumber and squash, it’s a light, subtly flavored meal, so certainly very welcomed, though without olives, a grave omission, but I wasn’t in Beirut or Cairo. This time, I ordered “Turkish Eggs.”

Waiting for my order, I emailed an Indian friend living in the US:

I fly tonight to Bengaluru, then Bangkok in the morning. Considering my low energy and rather confused state, India was very stressful, man. There’s no way I can last here for two or three months, much less a year.

Bengaluru was more pleasant than Chennai. I’m sitting in Alwapert, a sophisticated and relatively calm oasis in this messy city. Near me is an Oriental guy, probably an employee from the Thai Embassy. Like the Indian elite, expats or foreign employees survive in Indian cities by staying mostly inside more comfortable enclaves. I saw not a single foreigner near my Chennai hotels during +9 days.

As a restless walker, I tend to spend hours on the streets each day. In India, this is almost suicidal. As of 10/31/22, there have been 714 traffic fatalities in Bengaluru this year. 228 were pedestrians. Add to this frightful tally are many more who were merely maimed.

After breakfast, I lingered at Bread and Chocolate a bit, then walked a few blocks, with my luggage, to exchange money. Halfway, I went down into a subway station to rest. Then I had my final meal in Chennai at Cafe de Paris. With still hours to go before check in at the airport, I needed a comfortable place to sit.

Dehydrated, I drank three Earl Greys and a mixed fruit juice, then had some American comfort. My cream of mushroom soup wasn’t creamy but gray, without bits of mushroom. Still, it calmed me. Then came my beefsteak with mashed potato.

“Do you want some vegetables with it, sir?”

“Sure, why not.”

Slightly singed, super tender and with a touch of blood, the steak was excellent, and the mash was soothing enough. The vegetables were OK. With its bell pepper, baby corn, broccoli and carrot in a gravy infused with soy sauce and, get this, black bean sauce, it’s not something ever plopped down by Grandma Daisy May Moses.

You can’t fool me, motherfucker! My daddy owned two lousy Chinese restaurants, in Redwood City and Santa Clara. I was one of his wok jockeys. You need kung fu arms and dancing legs to work one of those iron bitches. With your right knee, you crank up or lower blue flames.

So we’re talking about comfort zones, obviously, and nothing defines them better than food. It’s impossible to love just two cuisines equally, much less two or three thousand.

When a white sexpat told me he “loved Asian food,” I knew he was clueless. There’s no such thing as Asian food, only Japanese, Korean, Thai, Cambodian, Malaysian, Filipino, Cantonese, Hakka, Hunan, Fujian and Vietnamese cuisines, etc., and we’re only talking about East Asia. A lover of Japanese food may hate most Vietnamese dishes, and a Vietnamese may prefer only food from southern Vietnam. Anything from the central or northern part of the country, he can’t stomach.

A Philadelphian may reject a cheesesteak made in Baltimore, much less overseas. When I sent to a Philly buddy image of a cheesesteak I had in Cape Town, South Africa, he blurted, “That looks like vomit!”

[Philly cheesesteak at Wanderlust in Cape Town, 10/28/21]

If forced to, a man will eat anything, however. “A phoenix, starved, will eat chicken shit,” goes a proverb.

Beyond food, each person also has very specific likes and dislikes regarding everything, from weather to the width of a sidewalk. None of us can be like Lawrence of Arabia, who was said to be “extremely indifferent to what he eats or how he lives.” A genuine masochist, he could walk a thousand miles over freezing mountains or across scorching deserts.

Though so soft and fussy, we’re going to be seriously tested. Knowing this, millions are paying attention to YouTube vloggers who offer tips on how to live in a car or forage for food, even in cities. Of course, the prepping movement has been growing for decades. Alarmed by the accelerating collapse of society, they’re trying to erect private comfort zones, if not bunkers.

Homeless for +5 months, Ava Carl has these videos, “Car Life—Trying my luck at the Walmart Parking Lot (a total fiasco!),” “Car Life—Doing Laundry in the kitchen sink at my office,” “Getting bags of ice to use as air conditioning for the night in my car,” “Dating while living in my car,” “I make music in my car!” and “Weekendphobia—Why I dreaded Fridays,” the last with a sobbing emoji.

No older than 30, Carl’s pale face is nearly always shaded by sadness and worries, but her delivery is brave, candid and, often, even cheerful. Under mournful eyes, her thin lips smile. In one video, Ava rewards herself by buying a pair of Prada sandals at Neiman Marcus for $1,219!

This chick, then, is suffering but not quite broke. The irrationality of that purchase was a defiant gesture to show she still had choices. Already, there are many Americans who can’t scrape together $6 in loose change to buy a loaf of Wonder Bread and a packet of Kraft “American pasteurized prepared cheese product.” Soup kitchens welcome new faces daily.

Arriving at Chennai’s airport way too early, I was hoping to kill time by sitting in a bar, but they wouldn’t let me into the terminal. Finding a breezy spot, I slumped against a wall. With my eyes closed, I could sometimes hear steps and voices, until, finally, someone said, “Are you OK, sir?”

Standing over me were two security guards and three cleaning ladies. They were genuinely concerned. Though there are millions of ragged people sprawled on concrete all over India, you just don’t see a foreigner doing this outside a sleek international airport. They didn’t know my name was Sri Blogging Wallah Bum.

“I’m OK,” I smiled. “I’m fine!”

“Do you need some water, sir?”

“No, no, I’m really fine.”

To a cleaning lady, I even gave a thumbs up. They were all so sweet.

Soon after arriving in India, I met the poet and classical vocalist, Anand Thakore. When he said he lived in Mumbai, I immediately expressed a wish to see it.

“Don’t bother!” Thakore shouted with mirth. “It’s the greatest urban disaster on earth. You should only go there if you know a rich local with a large house, so you can stay in one of his rooms.”

Having lived in the UK, Thakore had returned permanently to his birth city, so he must have carved out a comfort zone within that greatest disaster.

In Namibia, my landlord for +5 months was an Indian teaching at that nation’s best university. Pradeep went from one of the most tightly packed countries to the third least, after only Greenland and Mongolia.

Driving though Windhoek with Pradeep one afternoon, I laughingly remarked about its sidewalks, “There’s, like, nothing here! You never see this in Vietnam.”

“Or India.”

Pradeep’s decision to establish roots in Namibia meant he had found his comfort zone.

Finishing this, I’m again sitting by the Bang Lamphu Canal, with its slight, occasional funk and water monitors. Showing up yesterday at Mam’s Guesthouse, I was asked by its receptionist, “Do you want your old room back?”

“Yeah, sure.”

For a week, I’m paying $101, a hard to beat price in downtown Bangkok. Already, I’ve visited never closed Hong Kong Noodle, just half a block away, three times.

Seeing a missed Skype call from my friend, Giang, I called him this morning, to find out he’s not in Saigon but California.

Soon as he saw my face, Giang cracked up, “You look just like your dad!”

He meant my dad on his death bed.

Two minutes away from me on Samsen Road is Bangkok Poutine. Though I’ve walked by there two dozen times, I never saw anyone inside but its Canadian owner.

Unfortunately, his comfort is not shared by anyone in Bangkok. Still, he keeps his restaurant open, like a shrine to the most arcane religion.

Fortunately, I’ve had poutine just once.

[Naidu Wines in Bengaluru, 12/16/22]

[Writers’ Cafe in Chennai, 12/23/22]

[Bang Lamphu Canal in Bangkok, 11/26/22]

Degrees of Homelessness, Belonging and Death

As published at SubStack, 12/22/22:

[Bengaluru, 12/17/22]

After 20 days in Bengaluru, I took a train to Chennai. Though I had just a month in India, I felt I should see at least one more city. Just as Philadelphia or Boston is so unlike New York, one’s impressions of any country is bound to be too simplistic, if not distorted, if based on only one place, fleetingly glimpsed.

Of course, two cities can’t begin to spackle the billion holes of my astronomical ignorance, but what can I do? My clock winds down. My synapses flag. No matter how farcical or vague, a virgin’s first brush with sex is also valid.

A person needs several lifetimes to dimly understand any tiny village or just his apartment building, with its infinite mysteries, such as why is that psycho bitch upstairs stomping around or dropping barbells at 3AM, again? Why is such a courteous and well-put-together woman, as seen in the hallway, so enraged?

A million lifetimes aren’t enough to grasp India, but thankfully, there’s reincarnation. We get to become defective meat again! Just don’t let me come back as a cow in any Indian city. If I need to ruminate regurgitated garbage endlessly, I can read the New York Times and watch American television.

Since traveling multiplies life’s uncertainties, one must be prepared for anything. Slash your leg by stepping through a broken grate in a wrecked city, as nearly happened to me in Beirut, and, just like that, you’re a stray dog baying for help.

If I couldn’t get a train ticket five days ago, I would have taken a tuk-tuk to SC Road, by the Majestic Bus Depot. With its sea of humanity, that area is filled with cheap hotels. Having prowled around it a couple times, I also enjoyed its invigorating if at times exasperating pandemonium. We’re here mostly to look, since touching is often too expensive a disappointment or just a no-no. Oooh, it tickles!

At Bangalore Cant’s ticket window, I was served, so to speak, by She Who Is Death, for Kali simply glared at me to command, “You must fill out a form!”

“Where?”

“There!”

There was nothing personal about her fierceness bordering on hostility. She did it to everyone, for we were all so annoying, if not stupid. Dumb peasants and foreigners shouldn’t take trains. Why didn’t I just walk to Chennai, a mere 222 miles away?

As required, I filled in my full name, gender (there were only two boxes, scandalously!), age, full address, train number and name, class, date of journey, then departing and arrival stations. I skipped berth choice and diet requirement since they’re not applicable.

Relieved, I skipped and bounced my way to Kali for her black-faced approval, only to be zapped by another glare, “You go to that window!” Her emotion was so pure, I briefly fell in love.

The second lady didn’t excite me as much. With magnificent magnanimity, if not mercy, this matron requested just 505 rupees [$6.11] for my six-hour trip.

Before my first Indian train ride, I had read this at my blog, from “Ron”:

I remember taking a regular train from Agra to New Delhi. When I boarded the train, all the seats were full so I stood in the aisle. There was a Danish man adjacent so we made conversation; foreigners out of place tend to do this. I learned that this was his first visit to India and that Agra (Taj Mahal) was his first stop in a 3 week solo tour. At one point, his eyes glanced behind me as his face turned a different shade like he was about to puke. I turned around and saw a kid around 4 feet tall with one foot the size of Shaq’s but much thicker. The kid had Elephantiasis. My response was muted as I had been in India for months but the Danish man was still shaken after the boy had passed.

[…]

I haven't been back to India in a long time so can’t comment on how much has changed except via Linh’s pictures. Pictures show me change has been very slow. Compared with China’s development, it’s night and day. Bangalore, one of the wealthier and more developed cities, still has that underlying Indian chaos. Since Western news is filtered, many don’t realize the birth defects are a result of irresponsible toxic waste dumping and malnutrition.

[…]

The one time I did feel like the Danish man, was during a second visit to India. I had at this point over 6 months of India the previous year. I landed in Mumbai and went directly to the Central Train Station to purchase a train ticket south to Goa. It was early morning (~5am) so the Station was still relatively calm. Walking around, I saw a disfigured man, legs bent backwards like a spider crawling in the tracks on hands and knees. This is Indian tracks and NOT Japanese or Swiss tracks... It's littered with garbage and defecation. As a human, all the emotions one feels for another human being surfaced. I looked away. As the Train Station started filling up what surprised me most was how the native people walking by didn’t even notice this man crawling in the tracks below. It’s as if the person was invisible. That is when you realize you are again back in India.

Traveling by train through India half a century ago, Paul Theroux starkly sketches a beggar:

A woman crawled into the rain from the shelter of the platform. She appeared to be injured: she was on all fours, moving slowly toward the train—toward me. Her spine, I saw, was twisted with meningitis; she had rags tied to her knees and woodblocks in her hands. She toiled across the tracks with painful slowness, and when she was near the door she looked up. She had a lovely smile—a girl’s beaming face on that broken body. She propped herself up and lifted her free hand at me, and waited, her face streaming with rain, her clothes soaked.

In December of 2022, I encountered no spider men or women crawling through shit and garbage across tracks. With workers constantly sweeping, Bangalore Cant was very clean. Signs forbade spitting and implored everyone to keep clean. Even tickets had this Gandhi quotation, “CLEANLINESS IS NEXT TO GODLINESS.”

There were dirt cheap concession stands and comfortable waiting rooms. Walls were painted with bright murals of laughing children. Granted, many people, including sanitation workers, ignored the foot bridge to walk across tracks, and some rural folks sat on floor.

Men invaded cars clearly marked “RESERVED FOR LADIES ONLY,” but as the Satanic West never tires of lecturing the world, gender is only subjective, and can even flip flop from moment to moment.

Huffing and flexing, a clitoris can become a prick and grow, with positive thinking and some efforts, hefty balls. Gashing itself bloody, a penis can declare itself a bonafide vagina. Anyone who doubts must be a Fascist, to be canceled, at least.

[Bengaluru, 12/17/22]

Drinking my 12-cent chai, the same price as on the streets, I nearly dozed off on a bench. Finishing a pastry, a man wiped his mouth with the hem of his dhoti.

Twain on the Indian countryside, “All day long one has this monotony of dust-colored dead levels and scattering bunches of trees and mud villages. You soon realize that India is not beautiful; still there is an enchantment about it that is beguiling, and which does not pall.”

Outside, Krishnarajapurm, Bangarapet, Jolarpettai, Ambur, Arakkonam and Perambur briefly appeared, with each station clean and orderly. What’s most surprising, though, was the emptiness of the landscape, with uncultivated patches even, and cows browsing grass, their tails swinging. In South Korea, Japan or even Egypt, each fertile foot must be exploited.

Beautiful it may not have been, but idyllic enough, yet hundreds of millions of Indians must move to cities or even overseas, to seek work. Though forced into slums or onto sidewalks, they don’t just stay, but get used to the worst of urban living, with its congestion, filth and incessant noises.

Much has been written about the smell of Indian cities. It’s easy to decipher if you remember it has unique ingredients in cow shit and piss. These overlay garbage, exhaust, spices and human urine. As for public defecation, I haven’t seen any in nearly a month, only rare evidences the morning after. As for never looking down, it’s not an option, lest you step into a hole in the broken sidewalk.

Engine fumes are almost fragrant here, for they block smells that have exited bodies, with those from humans we find most disgusting, for they hurt our vanity. We need not be Jonathan Swift to find it hard to square shit with our self-images as beauties, Adonises, philosophers and poets, etc. Imagine, though, how huge our heads would swell if we didn’t have this merciful reminder and corrective once, twice or thrice a day? Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!

On my last evening in Bengaluru, a screw in my glasses popped out, dislodging a lens, so I was mostly one-eyed, with half the world blurred, for the train trip.

Though I had no hotel reservation in Chennai, I was sure there were options around the train station, but I had to walk nearly ten minutes to find anything. Hauling myself into a blocky, four-story building called Marbara Palace, I was cheered to hear its daily rate was only 1,300 rupees [$15.71], so I paid for three nights. Later, I would discover there are rooms in Periamet for just 400 rupees, but those most likely don’t have private bathrooms. If somehow they do, they’re grosser than Hunter Biden’s resume, I’m sure.

It turned out my bathroom at Marbara Palace was funky enough, and there was a dirty towel with splotches left behind by the previous tenant. The Wi-Fi was reliable, though, and the padlock on the door was a cute touch. Directly across the street was a large mosque with prayer calls louder than anything I had heard in Turkey, Lebanon, Egypt or Malaysia, but this wasn’t a problem, since I always get up before 5AM anyway.

Still, I have moved to the Sheraton Grande. Tucked into a grungy alley, it’s also in Periamet and has nothing to do with the famous chain. This is obvious from the fact I’m only paying $20.31 a night. All over this hood, there are fleabags with fancy names like Royal Paris, Elite Residency, Central Park and Park Tower, etc. The last is four-story high.

The staff at Sheraton Grande is super courteous, and there’s even a doorman. If my visa wasn’t running out, I could easily stay here for months. Delighted to find someone who looked just like him, an Oriental from Arunachal Pradesh asked me where I was from.

Though I just got here, Periamet has already taught me much. Here, the homeless, slum dwellers and lower middle class are all mixed together. It’s an ecology I haven’t encountered elsewhere.

Take VV Koil Street, which is really an alley suitable only for pedestrians and motorbikes. From the corner of Muthu to Karpura, a distance of 30 yards, there are two hotels, of one and three stars, so too expensive for their immediate neighbors. Half are in makeshift huts of found wood, broken crates, plastic sheets and/or corrugated tin, leaning against grimy brick houses.

On a blue cot with a purple mosquito netting over a turquoise frame, a woman is cocooned in a yellow comforter decorated with burgundy-colored swans and green fish.

Four boys ask me to photograph them. The best looking has a slight smirk, and his confidence is further boosted by his ownership of a cellphone. Two others wear clunky watches.

Looking at young faces, you can speculate who’s going to get laid often, or pregnant out of wedlock, who’s going to make a fine spouse, if routinely cuckolded, who’s going to make lots of money, but enjoy none of it, and who’s going to jump off a bridge between noon and 1PM before his 32nd birthday.

Fixing and selling old shoes, a man with a trim white beard works into the night.

In other countries, no mini Hoovervilles would be found right outside three-star hotels. Stepping from a well-lit lobby, hotel guests in Western dress walk past the homeless or semi-homeless, sitting on the ground to chat, or squatting over a pot placed on a tripod of stacked bricks, with a curving tin sheet to shield the wood-burning flames.

Inside crude homes the size of American closets, there’s often a dim light bulb dangling from a wire. Sometimes there’s even a TV, showing a cricket match or some cheerful singing and dancing, with half a dozen neighbors gathered to watch. At a nearby pump, girls and women do laundry or collect water in bright green plastic jugs.

Each night, those without roofs tend to sleep at exactly the same spots. These coffin wide slots on a sidewalk or in an alley, then, are their homes. In colorful and often clean looking blankets, they are wrapped from head to toes, though sometimes a hand, head or foot may stick out. As if heeding an instinct for self-protection, they are often bunched together. At the Central Railway Station, I saw four male passengers sleeping on the floor in a compact mass, their bodies touching.

Recently, I said “India’s homeless are never bums in the American sense,” but I need to elaborate. Living outside, most must also beg, but at least in 2022, they do it very meekly, with, often, just a right hand to their mouth, the way Indians eat, or they call me “baba” in a small voice. Though some are as filthy as your dirtiest Tenderloin, Skid Row or Kensington “bums,” most Indian homeless do try to stay clean, as best they can, for they haven’t let themselves go or, this is most important, been evicted from the community. Their housed neighbors know them well.

Just off the oddly-named Wall Tax Road, I ran into a young man, with just his shorts on, bathing himself quite thoroughly at a water pump, in front of a mural of Jesus and next to yet another shrine to the Virgin Mary, with a baby Jesus sticking his head out of her sari.

What made this shrine unique was its Mickey Mouse tiles. Twenty American rats orbited around a reproduction of Da Vinci’s Last Supper.

Indian Catholics clearly adore the Virgin Mary, with Jesus often just an appendage, but a crucial one. His existence proves she’s not just a mom, but the greatest ever. She birthed God.

In richer, more Westernized neighborhoods, one does not see homeless shacks, or even cows. There are more cars and fewer tuk-tuks. Sidewalks are much quieter or even dead. Still, better-off Indians can’t avoid seeing or even rubbing against their poorer fellows, for they swarm over these urbanscapes. To escape such embarrassing or annoying hoi polloi, one must move to Fremont, Jersey City or Southall in London, but there, too, the more uncouth and colorful also turn up.

Worse, more local whites are becoming like Indian homeless. In previously pristine neighborhoods, they set up shacks. Fugging up your bougie eyes, they cook, piss and wash right out in the open. Their stinking bodies leave modest gifts for you to discover and sidestep on your way to work, until you, too, are laid off.

You may not know India has a space program. The subways in Bengaluru and Chennai are also cleaner, safer and smell way better than those in New York and Philadelphia. As one society struggles upward, the other jumps off an imploding skyscraper.

As one rejects Pfizer, the other pushes it, still. Leering, it wears a necklace of decapitated fools, with its long addiction to mass death nearing the inevitable conclusion.

[Chennai, 12/18/22]

[Chennai, 12/18/22]

[Bengaluru, 12/16/22]

[Bengaluru, 12/16/22]

[Bangalore Cant]

[Bangalore Cant]

[Bangalore Cant]

[Bangalore Cant]

Bangalore Cant. "Cleanliness Brings Happiness."

[Bangalore Cant]

[Bangalore Cant]

[Bangalore Cant]

[Bangalore Cant]

[Bangalore Cant]

[Bangalore Cant]