The world seems meaningless to a bunch of twelve year olds, playing with their set of marbles, watching them go east, west north, south on the earthen floor. Their clear and hazy bottle greens are in sharp contrasts to the pale earth, making it easy to spot their slightest move. As one sits and powers a finger-slingshot, aiming at another kid's marble, the other children watch in anxiety, one of them in fear. If it hits, the aiming kid gets up and rejoices, the owner of the hit marble clenches his fists at his luck, but the effect is cancelled out. In a second or two, all glee, all gloom turns to concentration for another round of marbles, and emotions.

Seven or eight white scalped men take their chairs in the southern corner of the park, chatting incessantly, unfazed by hundreds of people walking and jogging about them. They sit down in a ring, call the waiter for a round of tea and then shut the world out of their minds. For them, the world consists of 60-year-old retired men, and women. One of them begins narrating an experience, another one joins in, another cuts in, another diverts it to another more engrossing experience, subjects change, it's like shuffling through a deck of cards, no one knows the next topic. For a moment or two, one or two of the old men get into a heated argument, the rest do not wish to stop them, for two reasons: first, maybe this heated argument reminds them all of younger times; and, second, they all know that thanks to bad short term memories, this argument would remain an argument, and the very next moment, life would be normal. The waiter dispenses the tea and leaves, the ambience not the least altered. It's like the whole scenario is taking place in a bottle, the cover of which can only be removed from the inside.