The greatest charm of living in the aura of an itinerant domesticity is evolving a site-specific morning routine. Because, for the last 22 days I have been inhabiting a house by the Anjuna River, it is inconceivable that I should spend my morning hours doing anything other than sit by the table in the out house so I can watch the raindrops collide with the surface of the river and absorb the monsoonal glow of swaying leaves, their multiple shades of green glistening and contrasting with each other. I have been waking up early every day, on my own, without any alarm clock intervention.

I sleep wedged between Barfi and Cleo, who arise with me. You would think that for someone unaccustomed to sharing a bed with cats, the fear of hurting them while asleep, unconsciously, of course, would be enough to keep you half-awake. But we seem to have fallen into an intuition, which makes each of us ever conscious of our parameters. I am being constantly reminded of the beginning of the late Eunice de Souza profound poem, "Advice to Women" — Keep cats if you want to learn to cope with the otherness of lovers.