We took the bus.
We jumped two feet in the air at every speed breaker, we giggled and laughed. We were excited and young and oh-so-naive.
Music, breakfast, and a round of folk art and theatre.
We took pictures, we marvelled at chariots and pretty pink leaves, we bribed a man to let us in. We had made a mistake, going on Ganesh Habba.
Moulding the clay, the endearing smile of an old man, dusty pots and cobwebs, the cool of Cauvery emporium.
We hitchhiked back to town. We took a rickshaw to where Sholay was supposed to be shot. The auto jumped up and down. Our bones rattled, we rued the expense. We got leched at, but we didn’t care. A tiny, ragged girl with matted hair waved at us. We waved back.
Huff, puff. Endless stairs. A beautiful spider. A temple. We couldn’t go on.
We got back. The auto driver laughed at us. We laughed right back. The main road gleamed at us, freshly tarred, beautiful and shiny. We got into another bus.
And came back home.
My first trip alone. Madhu. We need to do this again girl 
(Edit. Photo is hers. Stolen by me. Left:Her. Right:Me. Location: endless stairs)