My feet were raw, chafed from the acidic lye I had been tap-dancing on for the better part of an hour, sweat staining my bandana like a Rorschach handprint, half-mindedly stomping on a bed of soaked sheets and articles of clothing, strewn through the soapy water like remnants of a shipwreck, breaching the water’s surface. The soiled linens under my feet were promptly taken from the washing station, stepped on in order to loosen the water from its tenacious clinging to the fibers, and then taken to the roof to dry under the watch of the omniscient, Indian sun.

Someone was singing a song in Spanish on the rooftop, their face pointed East, their voice travelling omni-directional. From their pursed lips came some ancient tune that not even the Spanish speakers could identify as their language—just the melody being strung out in lazy fricatives and disallowed assonance, blending with the…