A tale tells itself, as was evident by the singular leaf that crunched under the pregnant tires of BEST bus 111. It skirted along its usual route and came to a groaning halt by the vada-pav laden side street and along with twenty ticket wielding passengers, a cat hopped off with a stretch and a yawn. It was black and white, and orange as well as a matted grey that spoke of a raucous night spent rolling in the mud with her tomcat. “Twenty for two!” the gajra seller called out. Our bus cat settled on old newspapers heaped by discarded flowers, wiggling her whiskered-nose at the pungent scent of rotting mogra. The gajra seller was but a young boy of seventeen, who everyday wrapped his hopes and dreams in day old leaves and sold them with flowers. His fingers were nimble at the art of carefully tying threads around the leaf packets, his customers adept at recognizing his stained but carefully pressed cotton shirts. But even through these nimble fingers, the wind sometimes took one or two leaves that then went and crunched under buses and taxis, touching lives of unsuspecting, joyous, sorrowed, dark, pale passengers in the minutest manner possible. In this city of a thousand micro interactions, not all are love stories. The naughty wind brought a purple scarf and he beckoned to the suspected owner. Yes, it is mine said she.