The smell of outdoor showers and morning soap. The grayness of the ocean and sky. The redness of the sun a burning ball rising through the casuarina.
The crows and swallows. The rushing of the fishermen in motorboats out on the ocean headed south. The assembling of fishermen in their dugouts on the lagoon.
The clatter and click of phone wires. The cow dung on the road. The dogs playing and biting each other's legs. The word "nallum" (good) that I can make out in the karnatic kovil songs. The freshness of a breeze on my face and in my sleeves, a freshness that evaporates in seconds after the movement stops. The motorbikes pressing by. The old guys on old bikes. The impassive stares. The stores still closed, shuttered. One string hopper shop open. The men carrying small plastic bags with breakfast. The crushed crabs along the road. The potholes and kerbs, the jumps up or down as dirt changes to concrete or concrete lets on to dirt. The faint smell of dogshit. The sweeping of the verges. The fences of rust or of fiber. The signs fading away away in salt village air.