And sand blew through the open window

I spent last night huddled on the lower berth of a train bound from Ajmer to Chittaurgarh, with my luggage strapped to my waist and sand from the Rajastahni plains blowing in through the barred, open windows.

The day before I sat with an Irish man and watched a tourist with dreadlocks get fleeced by a false Hindu puja ceremony at the bathing ghats in Pushkar; that he lost so much was his own fault, that he provided me with so much fodder for antitheism is no one's fault in particular.

Before the train left I was besieged by a crowd of well-educated youngsters who excitedely shook my hand and introduced me to their mothers. I was then told that I was very handsome. To this, I flustered with speech and waved my arms and book about in the air as they giggled and smiled.

Yesterday was also my brother's birthday, to whom all I could offer was an email. 'Sup, Chris?