Miles and miles of nothingness. Some shrubs, strange grasses bearing stranger yellow-white flowers, disarrayed stacks of mould-spotted bricks, and a lonely palm. Perched on its topmost branch, I'm keeping an eye on the sun, which is taking an unusually long time today to battle away the morning mist.
The outer walls of my eyrie is wet with the dew, my feathers too. Just shook of some water off them. Don't feel like flying, not right now. Will perhaps stay here till midday. May visit the temple on the other side of the lake later. Didn't tell you about the lake, did I? It starts a hundred metres away from the base of the palm, to my right. It's gargantuan. Takes me the better part of an hour to fly across. Cross it, and there's the temple. Black stone, carvings all over. The deity is half-man half-lion. There is also a Shivalinga in an adjunct to the right.
On Saturdays, people throng the temple from all over. The temple is decked with flowers and banana leaves. Rest of the week, the only person around is the old priest, who lives in a small hut across the courtyard. The flowers rot on the doorpane, on the lake, reminiscent of Saturday night's revelries. The priest sits on the doorsill and mops his glasses, and sometimes, when he is rather pensive, tells me stories of the temple.
Feeling hungry. Will scour the lakeshore for some food before taking the flight to the temple. The sun is already overhead.