Summer heat at Calcutta. I wonder what kind of an animal it would make. A mangy dog, yelling at the top its lungs throughout the day. If it was a color, it would be muddy green. A ragged old hag, cribbing about how unfair life is, from dawn till dusk. A shabby inn with foul pig stench and beer spilt on the floor. As masochistic as unrequited love. As irksome as chicken pox. As bickering as the tail enders on a placid pitch. Like a blanket of needles. Eclipsing the bubble of hypocrisy, even, it beams on around you.

But the shower after! Sheer poetry!

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