On those rare occasions that I can manage a walk on the street, every pothole reminds me of some thing. That life isn’t always about a swanky International Terminal T2; it's also about the 6.43 pm Kalyan fast. That the water stored in Bombay’s potholes, is sufficient to fill up the entire Gobi desert. That, in life, sometimes roads are meant to be token, and hence a “Swacch Khadda” cess might be on its way. A glimpse into a pothole reveals how the Universe is One, where the inner core of humans remains divided, while that of birds, animals and all other planets is seemingly united. That commoners like me still make our own road and manage to reach office every day, since we’ve got to afford a few gram vegetables and dal-chawal, every fortnight. That Fast-track courts hit potholes too, owing to which a driver and owner displace each other while in-motion. That judgements have potholes whereby brutal convicts and murderers are awarded State-sponsored tailoring shops. After all, UP there, what’s Maya without Daya? As for me, it’s an annual stint with the hole.