The rains have dried up in Pune. Much like in elsewhere in the world, the earth is tired of coping with plastic and smoke and population and global warming and all the other crap that is melting the Arctic ice. I am hot already and ask around if the summers will be hotter. O no no, I am assured. Summer will be like this. A group of old women traveling in the back of a pick up truck, their heads covered with the ends of their saris look hot. A couple of dogs, black and white lie on the sidewalk, absolutely still. One twitches sporadically in his sleep. They look hot. The sidewalk is dry and dusty. The traffic moves in a reluctant slow motion. Pink Bouganvillias in a pot are faded into sepia tones. I step inside a coffee shop with my laptop under my arm. The air conditioner is running and I am grateful. I sit next to a group of young somethings. “You never fucking order me a drink.” a young woman says loudly to a man in her group. I stifle a gasp and turn to look at them. She looks very Indian, Indian in a way that is trying to be American. Her hair is cut short but not stylish, she wears a pair of black jeans and a tight white t-shirt, round petite, plump. The words are somehow incongruous coming out of her. The man laughs and promises to order her one next time. Around me everyone is eating; fries, sandwiches, pasta. I sigh and turn to look outside ¬†through the cafe windows. I look at the world to find meaning. Nothing changes. Fucking meaning. I close my laptop and walk back out in the sun.

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