If there is hell below,or anywhere upon earth, I told myself, taking cue from Amir Khusrow,

The call of a solitary pied cuckoorings above the brookthat gurgles over the rocks.Its black and whitewing patterns and spiky crest,stark against the monsoon greenof its momentary tree perch.

The sheer vastness of the land, her familiar strangeness,her passion, her hoary violencesheds all its poise, and turns gentle along this coastline,like the mighty Mandovi’s silencebefore merging into the sea Arabian.

The winding road smoothes down and runs parallel to the broad, calm river.