I arrive by a bullock cart and not my bike. They run past me bare foot without a care in the world.

I remove my shoes and go out in the sun. I run. Not the run with measured steps and controlled breathing. I let my hands and legs loose and run like a child, an excited child. And then I pant. I ruffle my neatly styled hair and try to make it look disheveled. I try to aim a stone to the nearest mango hanging. I speak in a carefree manner and try to ape the accent. I play with the roped wooden top and meddle with marbles. I try not to be disgruntled with the slightest of the sweat dripping off my chin and with the slightest of dirt on my shorts. I forget cutlery and eat with my hands. I imagine that I have always done so. I try not to be silent and dignified. I shout with joy when playing. I put a towel around my neck and roam the village streets. I don't swim with carefully honed freestyle strokes in the river. Instead I let my body float in the water and dive off the rocks. I don't keep looking at my watch and keep track of time. I don't follow any deadlines. I don't keep any reminders. I sleep like a log and get up to the fresh rural air.

And when I am done, I come back and get back to what I am.