There’s something different about Indian jet lag. It steps beyond a movement of time and creeps into a movement of being. It’s not Starbucks in Rome to Starbucks in New York, it’s a 65 year old woman squatting in front of my apartment gutting fish to Starbucks in New York. It’s not sleepiness, it’s the feeling of power leaving my body. It’s soaking in the juices of one culture and being thrown back into my own. Alone. To dry. It’s sex. It’s watching a small dog’s strained eyebrows as he relieves himself in the middle of the Bombay tarmac, to breathing in sterile air out a quadrifiltered bicarbonate composite alloy air duct howling in the belly of a glass airport. An air duct large and strong enough to suck up the dog, his eyebrows, and recent creation in one fell swoop.