Soft flute is enough to distract you from the comfort if steel under white light. Enough, for now.
When the tabla’s thumping settles into constant rhythm, that soft flute is the blanket of clouds over the Ghats. It is the endless panel of red earth that is left from when the winding roads were stretched and plastered forcefully on the face of the hills, gagging mouths and flattening nose tips.
Soon, the violet grows as the sun vanishes behind you, the car moving inland. You try to reach Pune before it gets too dark. You have yet to see the last of the ridges clump into piles of boulders and then lay its wide arms to the endless rough plateau of the Deccan.
But for now, you are the child of the hills and of the sea, trapped in constant agitation. You are forged from its turbulence and find home in any land its anarchy lies.