Our driver had to ask a number of times for the whereabouts of Mayas Beach House - we would pull over to the side of the narrow melting road - a tinted window would hiss down - an ancient wearing a dhoti would peer into the opulent Toyota, murmuring directions, resting a Hercules bicycle against his sinewy loins -
We would drive off, wondering if we were searching for the Brigadoon Beach House - we passed women burning withered leaves, security guards posted at the gates of a luxury beach resort, bold election posters for the CMP -
Soon we would be lost again - the car would stop - directions would once more be given, this time by an auto rickshaw driver, sitting outside a tiny garage, where sleepy mechanics were stripping down a Royal Enfield -
We arrived at the Beach House three hours late - the white serviced villa was elegant, our mint welcome drink served in a frosted glass -
I cooled my body in the pool - I felt like a character in a short story by J G Ballard - I could be a former NASA physician, haunted by geometry, seeking a world without time -
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