India began with a flood. The rain that we were introduced to at three in the morning dragged on into the afternoon and unsettled the dirty unmentionables of the earth into a brownish slur of a mixture that overwhelmed the streets. We had tiptoed cautiously around sleeping workers that lined the stale and musty hallways of this generic, overpriced hotel. In the morning we came downstairs to be greeted by the same manager that met our drenched and tired selves a few hours ago, with his fluorescent dyed hair screaming of artificiality and his duotone tie. Beside him this time is what one can only presume to be his rotund wife, hair still wet and slicked back from her shower. It all was pointless, really – the shower. Cleanliness left us the moment we submitted our legs to the fate of the brown sludge, which soon became familiar medium to which we adapted. Shame, then, that the waster evaporated and drained away the following day.