Varkala is one of the most beautiful beaches I’ve come across in my country. The cliff is one of the best things here. The numerous restaurants on the cliff overlooking the sea are occupied from people across the world. I’ve been here many times, but by myself, for the first time. Felt nice. The beach had been swallowed by the hungry sea but I was safe on the cliff. Most restaurants were being renovated for the next tourist season, I suppose. I decided I would walk to the other end of the cliff. An artist had displayed his beautiful paintings outside his workshop, his proud signature on each of them. Inside, he was dedicatedly stroking his brush on an incomplete canvas.
After a couple of shops, I stumbled upon a small bookstore selling second-hand books. Born to Oriya parents, adopted by an English couple, I don’t know how Lakhiram had landed up in Varkala. He had a very good collection though, which spoke of the man's good taste. He was impressed with my Bengali, though he admitted that he could only as much as understand the language. I picked up a couple of translated Greek classics and one of Coetzee, and procrastinated the walk to the other end of the cliff. I was thirsty and hungry. I scanned the restaurants as I walked back and settled into one. Drinking beer by the sea is always amazing, it’s even better when you do it on a ‘dry’ day. Finished Plautus’ Pot of Gold and the beer. As I got up to leave, the rain gods lashed their fury all over Varkala. A 40-km ride in the rains is not a very pleasant thought. As I waited for the rain to stop, I started chatting with one of the waiters who happened to be from my home town. We talked of home, the people, and politics. We hoped for better days. The rain had stopped, if only for a while. 
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