Cars and cows, rickshaws and scooters. The horns beep and the hum of traffic fills my ears and colourful people fill the streets. I love the feeling of travelling through Indian traffic, be it in an auto or as the passenger in a friends car. It’s like a beautiful composition written by someone in love, the way different modes of transport including feet share the road and weave amongst and around each other. I don’t feel aggression or angst, stress or anger amongst the moving bodies and motors. Instead I observe the range of saris, superhero t-shirts and salwar kameez of men and women riding behind lovers and family members on scooters, zipping through traffic on their way home or to meet a friend or family somewhere. I’m on a love-filled ride to somewhere and nowhere, in my very own movie with the sound track of Aashiqui from my childhood running in my head, if i can squeeze in another sound. Crowded buses filled with school children in their grey uniforms, plaited hair, cheeky faces munching on street snacks. A young girl stops by my taxi waving jasmine in my face. A boy offers me a vase for 100 rupees with a grin, saying its not worth much so I could smash it in the face of an enemy, or simply throw it in the street. He laughs. I laugh. Little miniature statues of hindu gods sit like kings in the front of vehicles keeping the devil at bay and giving blessings. Some twinkle, some have flashing lights. Ganesh bling. A tired woman on her way home from work stares out of a bus window leaning her chin on her arm, our eyes meet. I’m smiling. It’s bloody brilliant.