Excerpt

At six in the morning, the bus to Neelankarai is brimming with sweaty elbows and old Tamil movie songs. The sun begins to rise over a broken bridge and I curl my fingers away from the window. You can catch anything from a bus window: lice, viral fever, depression, pregnancy. Veena is sitting beside me, leafing through her collection of Unphrases.

"Drissling Days, Do Not Worry, Walk and Dance, Jump into Jackets," she says. "I got that from a bar in Bangalore. It's perfect, don't you think?"

"Perfect for what?"

"For today. Today is such a drissling day."

Neelankarai begins to appear in sporadic patches of bleached buildings and shabby beaches. Everything smells like fish and moist diseases.

"I think Neelankarai means blue sand," I say. "Or blue shores."

Veena rolls her eyes and snaps her notebook shut.

"That is so fuck-all," she says. "Sand is not blue."

"Maybe the water is."

"Water is not blue, it's see-through. Oh my god, that rhymes."

"You should write that down."

When the bus finally stops, beggar children mill around the door, hands outstretched to show the fragile creases of sand that line their palms. It is a common misconception that beggar children want your money. What they really want are your kidneys.

"Akka," says a wiry girl with green eyes. "If you could spare some change..."

"For what?" asks Veena.

"For something to eat."

"And what am I supposed to eat?"

The girl spits and moves on to another bus.

"That was definitely a kidney thief," I say.

"Good thing I don't have any kidneys," says Veena.