You begin feeling the whole of the decadent Shentalik Square and are removed from the tiring native life, floundering about in a curious tourist’s dream. At the Shentalik Square, any tourist would tell you, there are those beauties that crop up against the lavished backdrop in hurried temporality: beetle-browed children, who are all too often running through flocks of pigeons; clans of ageless women covering their wrinkles with satin; gift shop owners swimming through crowds, locked tin boxes in hand; a blooming palate of greens and oranges melts into the backdrop and the city’s dilapidating Eastern wall stares back.