‘How long have we been here? Is it Wednesday or Tuesday? Excuse me sir, what day is it? – and March?. Dhanyavad Ji!….. So we have one day left here before the Udupi train?’
Days are the same with minimal variation. Trying to find an ATM that works, a little painting, a little walking. The same road past the same temple, the same meal at the same time. The same place, the same raggy maroon vest. The same waiter, the same beer wrapped in newsprint. The same shop to buy the same things – water, cigarettes, mixers. The same man who cut his thumb badly last week serving, his healing wound being a better indication of the lapse of time than the sun; from dressing to plaster to air.
The same sunrise, the same crows like clockwork. The same creativity and the same space in which to create. The same swaying palms, the green and the same strong waves of the sea. The same steady flow of pilgrims heading to perform puja for their dead relatives. The same twenty-four hour clock, but a much slower paced same.
PinkyBinks 
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