Ex nihlio nihil fit. Nothing, comes from nothing.

The blur of the distant headlights on the velachery main road and the screaming ferocity of the approaching E18 with hardly any passengers. The vibrations shake the ditch water in the nearby canal, that lays open to the vicissitudes of nature, lashed and rendered cruelly unmotorable by the torrential rains. The stray dog that wallows in the safe confines of the shelter under murugan motor repair works, blinking its eyes at the passers by whirring past in their cars and bikes and cycles.

The stretch on the newly created destroyer of the city, the 'IT' expressway. The million stereotypes walking in and out of the fluorescent caves filled with coffee pots, files and cubicles; missing a live-it-yourself survival kit automatons floating around. The air is laden with greed, emotion, money and a dense fog of expectation. The place is empty, but for the people who work in the nights. Survival. Or more than that. The equally barren but green trees lining the sides of the road and the barrier. The occasional transvestite prostitute on the bus stops near madhya kailash. Flesh, and blood, this cheap human life.  

The gandhi mandapam road, a visible temperature gradient thanks to the lush greenery inside the iit and the raj bhavan. The sidewalk gleams with pride at its checker board tiles, with the street lights shut off and the signals out, the image of a fresh coat of white paint on the lane dividers on the dark ashpalt tarpaulin. The bridge and the canal under it, once a pride of the city, now an unbearable eyesore, a coat of acid on the beautiful image of the history of a beautiful city.

The royally aligned mount road, stretching across the entire city, breathing madras into every one of its alleys, smelling of the night and nothin else. The dangerous traffic signals that all of the intimidating trucks and buses and cars and bikes and cycles want to ignore. The t nagar bus stop, smelling of nothing but stale urine and a hard day's sweat of the million footsteps crushing the road under the heaviness with their empty dreams and hopes.

The tiny person on a scooter, shrinking under his own insecurities, waiting for everything to empty, waiting to cross the road, waiting to see what's on the other side, waiting to get into more complications, and waiting to see what happens. All, for nothing.

Ex nihilo nihil fit. Nothing.