Indian Summer

The air is hot and sticky. Stepping out of the house is like entering a sauna, with no escape – even the wind against your skin burns as it licks you. Images of crisp ocean waves and ice cold popsicles enter your mind, uninvited, and take up residence in your thoughts like a house guest who just won’t leave.


But Delhi has no ocean. And the ice cream requires a trek down the hot, sticky asphalt street.


Instead, here is a beach in Karnataka.


To be honest, beaches in India have always disappointed me. Perhaps it’s because I’m from the Outer Banks – a place of expanse sand dunes and the rolling surf of the Atlantic. Or because my husband is from Sardinia, where cliffs crash into the Mediterranean, tumbling into the clear green water, creating tiny isolated coves of heaven.


Or maybe it’s because beaches in India are often filled with drunk Indian men rolling around the surf in their underwear and to wear a bikini means receiving stares and comments.


But right now, I’ll take what I can get.

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