I sit on the street mound at ten am on a warm Bangalore Morning Joint in hand. Three travelers carrying a couple of bags of luggage each give me puzzled glances. The stare at the hand holding the joint, pause for a second and then go their way. They wonder what I'm doing here on a Monday Morning. They would be shocked by what I was holding. Or heck they might have thought I'm sitting here cigarette in hand, inhaling away to glory, relaxed, with all the time in the world to spare, to sit and stare at how everyone is rushing to work, always tense, always in a hurry.

What am I doing with my live they ask. And people have asked. You are young and you have your whole life in front of you . They talk about working hard, about achieving and about purpose in life. About how it makes life worth living. They scurry along rushing to whatever twenty story building houses their office, the stress showing on their faces. What if I'm late they think. Maybe the frown on their faces has to do with forcing yourself to work on a Monday morning. Maybe they worry about the next deadline to meet, the next person to answer to. Life gets easier as time goes by. Promotions, more power, a better salary. Worker bees of yet another colony, slaving away their lives. And they pity me.

That can't be my life.I can't live like that. I can't barter away my life and time . The trick is to minimise your wants. I've perfected the art. My needs boil down to just two things. Joints and books. Thankfully, both come cheap.

I stay at the place my parents left me. I subsist on their savings as workers. I have the company of people who care for my company, for the quality of conversations I bring to the table; People who would sponsor my dinner, buy me a pint of beer or share a joint. I have people who think what I scribble is worth something. And so I subsist on inherited pittance, the generosity of my company and what garbage I spew from my pen. I get to go to second hand book markets where I get to walk along narrow corridors with small stalls on either sides filled with brown battered dusty books with sellers ever willing to strike a bargain. My eyes roam through piles of books tracing the titles on their broken spines, my eyes glinting when I find a Tagore amidst the Barbara Bradfords. I take my time searching for gems among the dust, of reading titles on spines, sometimes picking a book to read the blurb, sometimes opening a random page and savouring the flow of words but always savouring the joy of looking at so many books and wondering what I would find.

I get to buy ten books at five hundred; fodder that will last me a couple of days. I get to wake up late grab the book next to me and read as long as I want. I get to roll a joint from my stash on a Monday morning and sit on the mound in front of my house and watch the people rush by . On really good days I get to do both.