It's too hot to be outside. It's too stuffy at home.

In the kitchen, the little patch in front of the refrigerator is cold. Someone left the fridge open. All this carelessness and I do a little dance on the cold tiles. My feet are smiling.

I hold an ice cube do an awkward juggle between one hand and another until it melts and my fingertips feel numb. Ice scraped off the roof of the freezer was better equipped for playing on hot afternoons, but they don't make fridges like that anymore.

I sit on my bed. It is lying on warm rocks but without the sense of adventure. I watch the fan churn hot air around my room. They say it's November, but I have my doubts. 

Noon.

The city is napping. The roads are empty and the shops have shutters pulled half way and the sleeping feet of the owners are seen. Their blue-and-white chappals stick out of their feet, exposing muddy soles.

The auto makes a clacking sound, as it runs on the wet street. The auto driver is humming some song. I get out to buy some food, and he makes exasperated sounds on having been made to wait. When I come back, with a bag full of plastic food packets, he is gone. I sit and wait for him, while he smokes not far from where I am.

The food bag eventually gets wet, because the rains like most other unpleasant things, creep up on you at the worst possible time. Exactly when I leave the auto, it rains in a frenzy. My hair sticks to the back of my head and the bag of food cannot be protected beyond a point.

I walk into the building, dodging flyaway cricket balls, and reach where I have to, not as displeased as I thought I'd be.