I was driving back, near mechanical and dead tired, after a vigorous aerobic workout session. It was way too early in the morning, and I was sweaty, groggy and hungry. The beats from the loud, pumping music that we jump around too, was still playing in my ears. I crossed into the exhibition grounds right behind my house. Home and a hot shower were only minutes away. My foot crept up to the accelerator – almost as if it were a magic pedal that could instantaneously transport me back to my house. The complex was flooded with young people, replete in their track suits and leotards – getting their daily dose of cardio.

I live on the outskirts of Hyderabad town, in the heart of what is known as Cyberabad – A locality dotted with glass encased buildings, IT parks, shopping complexes and coffee houses – a testament to the huge software industry settlement that exists here and draws young programmers and executives by the bus loads. I turn on my ipod and plug it into the speakers of my car – globalization has truly caught up with India.

And then I spotted her.

I had only just turned onto my street – complete with its newly sprung apartments and shiny, mid-sized cars – all designed to cater to the needs of the yuppie denizen. She was middle aged, short and plump – her gray hair scraped back into what could only be termed as a pigtail. She was picking jacaranda blossoms off a little tree that was perched on the boundary wall of one of the apartments that I have just described. In one hand she carried a little red plastic bag – evidently used and re-used a plethora of times and folded away neatly after being relieved of its daily burden of flowers. The flowers were picked with eminent care and transferred to the red bag – its crinkles having been neatly smoothed out earlier. She wore basic rubber flip flops and a cotton sari and it seemed like even time stood still to watch her.

Then she was gone – well, actually – technically, I was gone. A direct result of my foot still resting on the pedal, I think. But somehow the quaint picture she painted remained with me all day, with the traditional simplicity of her piety – metaphorical in my microwave-able, modular, centrally air-conditioned and vacuum sealed life. And the fragrance of jacaranda lingered on.

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