I have four pet snails. I don’t particularly adore snails, but perhaps they’re a quiet philosophical confession — a mirror of my present life: slow, withdrawn, almost apologetic. I could’ve bought fish, restless and kinetic, but I chose creatures that inch along like time itself here. Hyderabad moves at a snail’s pace — especially the Old City, where life often feels like a Sisyphean struggle amid narrow thinking and stubborn attitudes. Stray dogs, lurking dangers, and neighborhoods prone to chaos add to the weight. I’m not being snobbish — I still cherish the city’s heritage — yet I feel a deep sadness about what surrounds me.
As for life now: searching for a bride, rereading Vikram Seth, battling roaches and lizards like minor wars, reinventing mousetraps, nudged into blogging by my niece, and coexisting with Sona — a miniature wildcat who treats me like prey. Home alone, haunted by this place, allergic to television, oddly fond of scarecrows — life swings endlessly between hope and despair.
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