A new pair of knuckles knocked a loose percussion on window glass each time the traffic stopped, asking for Rupees, and pairs of boys wound round us on motorcycles as we clunked into potholes on the way to the clean beach. The waves were high and warm and clutched the sand roughly backwards into the swell of each crest. A Balochi fisherman handed us strings of shells for our necks, and dressed camels ambled by offering rides, while carloads of young people opened up trunks filled with speakers, and got drunk and stoned into nightfall.
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