WE'RE SITTING IN A FLAT, brown fishing skiff, rocking in the mild Bay of Bengal swell with no other boats to be seen. And, for that matter, no land either.

Pondicherry, that whitewashed bastion of French colonialism in India, lies some 12 kilometres away, beyond the horizon. Today there are no clouds or birds. Not even a breeze. Were it not for the heat, this could even be peaceful.

Even in February, the south Indian sun dries lips and parches throats. Our drinking water is painfully, revoltingly hot.