Early one morning, an hour before breakfast, I sat on the roof top terrace of Kaiya House, scribbling aperçus into my moleskine - bold murals decorated the sunlit space - a dog barked in the yard behind the kitchen - birds sang strange songs in the jungly gardens below me -
Some nights, I would dream that bright greenery filled our bedroom - delicate tendrils entwined our naked bodies, vermillion flowers scented our hair -
Debra emerged from the stairs onto the terrace - she was an American, married to an Indian filmmaker - she was wearing a dark red silk dressing gown - clasped in her left hand was a notebook and a blue fountain pen -
We spoke about writing - I stole a glance at a page of her notebook - she wrote in a bold, beautiful, hand -
I remembered how she shown us around Varkala, soon after we'd arrived -
My orientation tour she'd said, looking at her new guests -
She'd held an umbrella over her head, chaffing impertinent vendors, smiling her careful smile -
Now she walked across the terrace, barefoot and relaxed, sending down for mango juice -
I imagined Debra, when we were a brief memory, lingering here, drawn to listen to the monsoon rain -
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