Paint me a picture

Rain was coming down in sheets, and we were sitting looking out on to the downpour from the veranda of Mr Krishnamurthy’s house. Men in white lungis bicycled past, their right hand on the handlebars and their left holding up an umbrella. Rickshaws sluiced through the flooded streets, their wheels cutting wakes through the ankle-deep water, like motorboats on a canal.

Excerpt from travel writer extraordinaire William Dalrymple’s Nine Lives: In Search of the Sacred in Modern India, p. 176

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