A fly buzzes, a faint reminder of air eddying outside, eddies of fans, breaths, raptors, the faint miasma of fungal vapours from swamps or garbage deposits, the mist of water evaporating, the sizzle of dew on morning pavements, the heat turning into a small roll which gathers tsunami-like as it pierces through the day to its meridian. Creases on foreheads tighten to a tighter intensity typical only of summer's intolerance. The Congress leader has sweat circles under her armpits as she waves to the crowds. The tinny box on wheels that holds chilled water, festive with eager bacteria, glints in the sun. The dark window of a long car rolls down and a pink face wearing Ray Bans spits out a flute of red betel juice.
Someone pulls out a knife and stabs someone.
A pipe has burst and naked urchins wash in the sudden fountain of it. Lovers, truants from work or college, quarrel a bit while shifting sticky limbs under the young trees in parks. The wind is a miser and hot. The light, which comes in through windows, is whiter than usual, there is a brightness in the air, which has its own mercury. In the chromosomes of memory are the sensations of past summers and dead winters.