Wandering back to my hotel in the early evening, I was immersed in a scene very typical of India: crowds of pedestrians walking in both directions; bicycles making their weaving tortuous way forward with bells ringing continuously; tongas loaded high with passengers or jute sacks and pulled by emaciated ponies spurred on by the drivers' cries and whips; ox-carts always struggling against the main flow of the masses; auto-rickshaws (motor powered three-wheeled taxis) weaving in and out with horns blaring.
And the occasional bus ploughing through regardless.

And stalls and shops and restaurants along the road side, selling all manner of merchandise and food specialties. Women squatting by baskets of bananas or assortments of vegetables, shooing away the cows that are everywhere. Vendors sitting on the ground with plastic bracelets and trinkets laid out in front of them on a cloth, brightly lit by the Indian equivalent of Coleman lanterns.

And noise. Lots of it. People talking and shouting. Taped Hindi movie scores. Radios at full volume. Bicycle bells. The roar of lanterns. Rickshaw horns. Bus horns. Car horns.

Bijapur is much different from the country towns and villages; there is much more activity, things don't shutdown at nightfall, there are more humans than goats or chickens. It's alive!