Every morning there are set rituals on our road and more or less every road.u00a0First thing is the noises of the incoming trains. The rattle and roar of the autorickshaws, which destroys the best part of the night's sleep. As that subsides, the mullahs proclaim the Greatness of God, from their minarets which fill the Cantonment area.u00a0 There follows an hour's respite, then the roar of the city gathers momentum. If I am sufficiently awake I can distinguish the cries of the paper boys. It would make for a beautiful setting for a chorus like the Covent Garden scene in 'My Fair Lady' or the 'Who Will Buy?' chorus from 'Oliver', Each of them has a very individual way of announcing their trade. 'Paper... Paypot...Pepper...Wayvare... Papper...' and so on. Like people on TV they cannot allow an Air-Silence. Most days I cover my head and try to sleep. But once a week I am lying awake in tense silence because my column deadline has caught up with me. The batlee paypot-wallahs do their circuit in the cool of the morning. 'Papperu2026Paypaaru2026 Paypot..' over and over and over again. They come from Krishnagiri and Dharmapuri. It seems to be a kind of cartel, where newcomers are not welcome. Then I start speculating who buys these newspapers. So many publications and a new one every other month.u00a0 Once upon a time there were just one or two English newspapers. Not so, now. There is choice. Older citizens select a paper for the obituaries. Techies, presumably, buy the girlie magazines or gawk at the film stars. Political news is a bore, the same stuff everywhere. Sensation is no longer big news. Everyday has murders/suicides/communal attacks/religious fundamentalism and so on. It's tough to fill up the space. There is a shrewd new breed of 'tele-journalists' who cater to people's obsession with being in the news. You pick up a phone and question a dozen 'celebs' to ask for their opinions. Or ask questions like 'What was Bangalore like 50 years ago?' Bangalore provides quite a lot of sensation, With a murder a day or a rape or a suicide, wife swapping.... Shouldn't that be enough? But the populace has become quite blase. But my attention is distracted by train noises, traffic noises, bird-noises (crows, if nothing else) add the chirruping of the 'paypot waallahs'. I can remember days when people compared one man's rate with another before selling their waste. Haggling over even the price of old bottles. Of course those were the days of yore. Of 'Waste no Want Not' and other such healthy maxims. Now it's an era of marketing warfare. Conspicuous consumption. Planned obsolesce. As we begin to be choked by the smell of our garbage, we have a new priority.... 'Waste disposal'. As I write I have one ear on the road. I am listening for a 'paypot wallah' to whom I can give my papers. He won't pay me. But, as yet, I don't have to pay them to take away my junk.

Every morning there are set rituals on our road and more or less every road

Pay-pot anybody?

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Pay-pot anybody?

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