The temple bells toll in the distance. &ldquoWhat a trendy bikini,&rdquo I think, as two girls walk past, suddenly rendering my swimsuit woefully out-of-fashion. Nearing sunset, the sea now resembles molten lava. I hear the yoga mat being dusted. I look up to see its owner &mdash a middle-aged Caucasian with long, shocking-white hair and beard, sporting rudraksha beads, tanned like a carrot from the sun &mdash done with his yoga for the day. My mobile rings &mdash my auto&rsquos arrived to pick me up if I want to see the evening aarti, I&rsquod need to leave right away. I polish off the last slice of my Hawaiian pizza and slurp down my fruit punch. Half an hour later, I join a snaking queue at the crowded Mahabaleshwara temple. The heady fragrance of jasmine fills the air, occasionally mixed with the stench of cow dung, as cows sporadically relieve themselves. Suddenly, the bells toll louder, and the queue begins to frantically compress and shove the door to the sanctum has just been opened.