enshrouded in monsoon cloud and never-ending drizzle. cocooned in mist.
take the high road.
now the cloud is below, and the mountain stretches upward, impossibly, forever. the road zig-zags up the mountainside in an impossible 20km traffic jam of churning mud, broken-down trucks, pouring waterfalls and choking smoke. from nowhere, pani puri men with trays on long spindly legs appear along the length of the snarling snake of traffic, like mushrooms from spores that lie dormant until just the right circumstances appear.
what if we are dead and this is the afterlife and we just don't know it yet?
