Dancing across the road to the Internet cafe like Nijinsky ...

The well mannered traffic of gentle Wareham had ill prepared me for the task of crossing the road in Thakkad Junction - even the young fellows, as Beth called them, screeching past The Red Lion in their pimped Peugeot 106s, were models of placid motoring compared to what confronted me here, as I dithered like a shaky gaffer at the cross roads near the Internet cafe - 

I marvelled at the courage, the zen like calm, the balletic grace, displayed by the inhabitants of this Keralan town as they crossed from one side of the road to the other - 

Even the town natural, swaying and skittering past an auto rickshaw, parked outside a cupboard sized grocery, would shame Nijinsky, or perhaps Isadora Duncan, as he danced across the melting asphalt, dodging Royal Enfields, Ambassadors and Tata Divos - 

But somehow I made it - there I was, on the other side - my heart was beating furiously, my nerves zinging - 

I followed Sophie and Anne into the Internet cafe, opposite the A to Z Supermarket - 

We made our way over a narrow plank, spanning a deep trench, a chasm of red earth, into the wardrobe sized cafe - 

The road works had been another peril to face this afternoon - the insouciant workmen excavated their canyons within, literally, inches of spinning tyres - 

There were two booths with primeval PCs - boys updated their Facebook pages - 

Our passports were placed upon the immense smouldering photo-copier - the copies were like delicate palimpsests, patterned with black dots -