I guess I thought it would be quiet, even at 8. Maybe the thought was just a remnant of a perceptual adaptation acquired while living in Italy for a month. Through the gate the same pile of bottles, paper, plastic, food, and other waste lined the base of the fence; the long-standing feature of Bhadran Nagar Cross Road had become neutral in my awareness. I set off on my now standard route and thought about how untouched my running habits were on my quest for freedom from patterns.

Right, left, right, left into the park; woah, too many people, left out of the park, left towards the market at Kandivali station.

I avoided the smears of poo, trash and mud, then saw a woman walking barefoot on the street. She was dressed in a beautiful sari so it seemed that her lack of protection from the waste under her feet was voluntary. Maybe she was keeping with an old way of living, or maybe her morning walk was when she completed her daily grounding practice.

Rickshaws lined the right side of the road, with more crossing from the left at random points in the road to crowd in those that were already parked. People crossed in a similar fashion to the rickshaws: wherever and whenever they wanted. The morning traffic was some kind of intricate dance.

I was the fastest-moving human on the street. I don’t think anyone in Mumbai runs. Combined with being the only one with my legs and arms exposed, it was clear that I was a tourist. I could sense eyes tracking me, as I dodged the people and rickshaws, but I didn’t feel anything about it. It is easy to stay in your own world if you don’t look anyone in the eye.

Business people, merchants, men laid out asleep on flattened boxes and I all shared the strip of collapsing sidewalk tiles; there were too many so I subtracted myself from the equation. Back in the street, running alongside the rickshaws and scooters in the traffic I felt less nervous about getting hit by a car than at home. The chaos felt good, and safe.

The median of a ramp from a busy intersection was the perch of five children all under the age of 6. The traffic, rushing by on either side, was their babysitter. As I passed, I pictured what that would have been like if it was happening at home. Someone would be losing their kids to the system, but here, it felt like it was just life.

Straight, straight, straight, straight, left towards Ayushakti.

Puffs of smoke from a group of three young men lingered in the air over the street. Dogs sleeping on the sidewalk; the brown and black one never seems to move. A large orange truck parked blocking the entire road. Beep, beep, beep. Onto the sidewalk and around the truck went the scooters. Several men in loosely coordinated uniforms were in the street. As I took my last few bouncy steps through the gate, the trash pile along the fence re-entered my awareness; the fixture of four weeks was now being swept into the truck.