There is a tree I walk by once in a while in Bangalore. It’s a huge tree with an overbearing amount of chikoos. Sweetest little things hanging, inviting you to pluck them. As you move your hand up slowly to pick one just within your reach, the trance-like anticipation is broken by a yell. A security guard, with all the power vested in him, shoos you away.

Another day as I’m walking past the same tree, I step into some splattered gunk on the street. I look down and see it’s a rotten chikoo. In fact there are a few more lying around, wasted away. The guard looks at me haughtily, knowing I wouldn’t dare try again.

Is this a world we choose for ourselves, to prefer wasting to sharing, for fear of running out?