The highlight of our one day stopover at Kozhikode is the long awaited reunion of Ruchi and her longtime friend from her days in the US, Megha Menon

After a day's travel and a night of restful sleep, we start our day with a heavy breakfast. While I eat omlettes, Riyaz, Kyela and Ruchi eat puttus, a cylindrical form of . . .

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Words are failing me.

It only past 7, and I am at the edge of a pond, finding it difficult to describe the sense of stillness that permeates this place. A leaf falls in the distance, fluttering its way to the forest bed. Out of sight, the trills of an insect are matched by rooster calls. Sunlight streams through dense tree . . .

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We came here last night in near pitch darkness, and this morning I see for the first time the world I've entered. I'm sitting at the porch of our rented bungalow, barefoot and cold but oblivious to any discomfort. I am staring at a wall of trees broken by a small pond so still it is a perfect mirror to the trees that circle . . .

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Our day begins innocuously enough with breakfast. We are at a street side food stall eating dosas or omlettes when Riyaz gets it in his head to ask the cook for an omlette-dosa. The befuddled old man does his best to oblige; he whips two eggs in his mug, adds two dollops of dosa batter, and after a second vigorous whipping, pours . . .

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All the world's a stage, and all men and women merely players.

Today is a tale of cloaks and daggers in which Riyaz plays the provocateur, Kyela the lighting rod, and this humble writer a supporting ghost of the shadows. Ruchi will not play a role, for she is our unsuspecting mark.

The gambit begins at . . .

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We have a mediocre breakfast and ask our way to a private bus stand, board a bus and are on our way to Marari beach when it hits me; I feel more confident here than when I'm in Pune. Having English for your primary language is not a problem here. Everyone - from your local grocer to the bus conductor speaks English. More . . .

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