The yellow-painted board on the highway to your left, reads 'Somanahalli', in bold, black letters. Three-to-Four wheel revolutions later, on your right squats an old lady, plastic sheet spread before her, on which are neatly arranged tiny mounds of vegetables and pyramid-shaped piles of half-ripened tomatoes. That's the landmark for you to turn into the narrow mud-road leading to the school. No guarantees that the old lady will always be there. If she isn't, then you have some asking to do for there's no board or arrow pointer indicating the direction.

Scores of eyes are on you as you drive into the uneven, narrow path. As your car wheels kick up dust, the wheels of industry at the cycle shop momentarily stop revolving. People on routine chores halt in their tracks. The fragile-looking cow grazing on patches of dried grass stops her chewing, distracted by this sudden intrusion. Stray dogs chase the cars at what they believe are marauding demons on the prowl. Even 'Check Point Charlie' - the hulky, banyan tree gazes down from its enormous height almost shouting, "Halt! Who goes there?"

Cars signify activity. For, the last time these villagers witnessed a similar sight was probably at the recent elections when hordes of loudspeaker-mounted cars broke the peace of these quiet surroundings bawling out hollow and empty promises. The dust never seems to settle on Somanahalli village.