Before the flyovers fill and the glass towers switch on, Bengaluru speaks in quieter sounds: the scrape of a metal shutter, milk bottles touching stone, a bicycle bell crossing an empty junction.
The hour of small arrivals
At the flower market, color reaches the city before sunlight does. Garlands are measured by the arm, jasmine gathered into clouds.
By seven, this version of the city has folded itself away. But it leaves traces everywhere for anyone willing to wake early enough to see them.