I wander lazily down the street. The heat was making it hard to hold a cohesive conversation with myself. It was almost as if my very thoughts were vaporizing and rising up in smooth spirals into the dusty air. A million thoughts rising up from assorted minds, all floating into the afternoon sky, forming a microscopic cauldron of humanity. Shopping lists and marriage vows, hunger pangs and memories of home all swirled about on rising drafts of heated air in a strange dance. I almost walk into a telephone post and narrowly escape falling into an open sewer before I resolve to keep my eyes on the road instead of the sky. I feel a strange ennui settling over me - an overpowering need to lie down where I was and float into oblivion.

I decide that the heat was getting to me. I start walking back to the bus station to catch a bus home. I'm home within an hour; the sheer relief of stepping out of the sun pastes a moronic grin onto my face. My mother holds the door open looking at me curiously while I trudge in dusty, sweaty and competing with the Cheshire cat. She'd predicted that I couldn't take the heat of an afternoon in Madras in May and as usual she was right. I'm glad she's one of those people who take pleasure in saying "I told you so" because she gets to do it quite often. I sink into a chair and lay my head on the table. Rivulets of sweat trickle down my forehead and threaten to form a small pool near my face before she bullies me into taking a shower. The cool water feels divine flowing down my face; small rivulets flowing between locks of hair. My closet is almost like I remember it. Nothing seems to be in place but I knew exactly where to find everything. My old coin collection, comic books with torn covers, and old clothes that I could never bring myself to throw away. I smiled when I thought of how much simpler life was when I lived at home. Growing up is definitely not as fun as most people make it out to be.

My bed feels a lot more comfortable than before. My room is exactly like I remember it, the miniature print of a Parisian street scene above the headboard, the small crack in the wall right under the light switch, the rattan bookcase that had an imperceptible tilt to the left - it was almost as if I'd never left home. My desk stood against one wall, its surface scarred by my adolescence. Ink stains and dents, scratches and chips; everything held a memory - long forgotten and washed over by debris picked up along the rest of my life. It feels odd to sit at my desk and stare at the wall. The countless hours I've sat at that desk, the countless sheets of paper I filled with equations and numbers wishing that I was on the beach running along the waters edge. I push the thought away. That's how my mother found me when she walked into my room a while later - sitting at my desk staring fixedly at the wall, my palms pressing down on the surface and my fingers outstretched as if reaching for something.

Lunch was delicious and I lounged about on the floor for a long while afterwards. The floor was hard, unyielding and, after the afternoon sun, cold to the touch. My stupor soon changed to a dreamless sleep. An incessant knocking intruded on my senses bringing back to the land of the aware. I felt like I was moving through treacle, my arms refused to lift me off the floor. I had to make a conscious effort to issue independent commands to my feet - "Right leg, it's your turn… perfect; slowly move forward and now back to the ground. Now left leg, it's your turn. Do exactly what your partner did." It was the driver. A driver is someone who possesses a license, can point the car in the right direction and elicit agonizing squeals of protests from the engine while changing gears. He's also paid a whole lot less than a chauffeur. This guy was new; I hadn't seen him on my last visit home. He looked barely old enough to drive, but was married with two kids according to my mom. I still remember the assortment of drivers who were with us over the years. There was one guy who would wedge himself into a corner of the driver's seat with his shoulder sticking out of the window and a smug look on his face. He didn't believe in using the brake and used the horn so often that I came up with a chant for him - 'systole, diastole, horn; systole, diastole, horn.' Another shouted curses aloud whenever anyone overtook him. I found driving with him a very culturally enriching experience but my mom didn't share my cosmopolitan view of the world. My favorite was the guy who taught me how to drive. I remember trying to convince him to take up typewriting classes. Although I can't recollect them, I'm sure I had convincing arguments.

I head out towards the beach after a while. It's a short walk, one that I've taken countless times with my dog. He had certain favored spots along the way that never changed. A small post about a hundred meters from home competed with an electric switch box further on for the position of 'Best spot to lift hind-leg.' I miss the guy; he was always full of life, an eager vitality that made him younger as he grew older. I still remember when he ran away from home years ago when a careless driver left the gate open. I remember frantically riding my bicycle around the neighborhood asking people if they'd seen a big white dog running by. I was near tears when I finally headed out to the beach in the hope that he'd stuck to the usual path for his daily walk. My dad found him first. A family down the road had recognized him when he ran by their house by himself and took him in. I was furious and refused to pet him for a couple of days. The lost and reproachful look on his face broke down my resistance quickly enough.

The sand is hot under my feet. Small bits of broken shells press into the soles of my feet making me more aware of the fine sand. I dig my toes into the sand with a silly grin on my face. It's been long since I've been on a beach where the sand is hot. The sand is cool and damp near the water's edge. I stand just outside the waterline escaping the gently lapping waves. A wispy cloud distracts me a minute and the water covers my feet. I could almost hear the sea chortling that it'd gotten the better of me. At the water's edge there is such a sureness of purpose. No matter what, you're always assured of the wave receding and rushing back at you in a few seconds. I take comfort in the assured regularity of the waves.

A couple of boys run by me towards the water. Watching them cavort in the water I'm tempted to jump in with them but I decide it's too much of an effort to get up. It's still early evening and there are just a few solitary souls on the beach. A mangy dog with a tattered rope around its neck saunters up to me with a reproachful look. From the number of places his fur looked ragged he looked like he'd consistently lost a lot of fights. He's immune to me waving my arms threateningly at him. We stare at each other in an uncomfortable truce; me on the sand on my haunches and him a couple of feet away on his side. He soon loses interest in me and goes to wherever dogs go when they dream. A young girl selling flowers offers me a fragrant string of jasmine buds. Her marketing technique is simple - be relentless. I tire after a while and ignore her. She walks away muttering to herself. Perhaps I should have bought some after all. I could have heaped it on my head in a makeshift turban; the ultimate summer accessory.

Some more clouds float into my vision. One of the clouds looks like a lion. A lazy lion lounging about in the grasslands alongside a three legged unicorn. A malnourished lion with two tails and missing a mane but a lion nonetheless. After a while the clouds morph into unrecognizable shapes and drift into nothingness. My canine friend is still around but now he's contemplating his tail. He nips at it and then begins to chase it in earnest. Round and round, kicking up sand and looking patently ridiculous. I laugh aloud and he stops his antics for a second to give me a baleful look and then resumes reaching for his posterior. Some more boys run up and join the kids in the water. They have a ball with them that they toss around. A wild throw brings the ball close to the tail-chaser. He's off in a flash with the ball in his mouth. The boys run after him shouting but he's too fast for them. I'd felt a strange kind of empathy with the dog and I was happy that this was one fight he'd won.