Driving to Murari ...

The drive from Varkala to Murari took longer than we had expected - I'd glanced at a bright page in the atlas, tracing with my finger the line of the national highway - the route seemed relatively straight forward - there were towns with strange beautiful names, sinuous back waters, lakes, islands -

Debra had recommended the driver - we were sorry to leave Kaiya House, with its calm, mellow, atmosphere, its surreal murals, themed bedrooms - 

Before we left, I drank a papaya juice, prepared by the slender boy who helped out in the kitchen - 

Debra said - he has a little business on the side, making juices - 

A statuette of Ganesh, and one other deity, graced the dashboard - I felt that we soon required their protection - once on the national highway, we were in a mad parade - 

Sleepy drivers slouched over the steering wheels of immense trucks - furious buses overtook us with angry symphonies of hooting - suicidal motor bike drivers joshed their pillion passengers - auto rickshaw drivers pulled out into the highway like doomed mayflies - 

Inevitably, there'd been a smash - I learned later, from a gory report in the New Indian Express, that an oil tanker had overturned -

Within moments, we were entangled in a scary melee of vehicles - we could hear ambulances wailing, unable to pass through the crush of dusty metal -

But by the grace of the Indian deities, we emerged unscathed, insouciant Passepartouts behind our sunglasses -