Twenty-Seventh anniversary, this. That time of the year, and I have been hearing about that-time-of-the-month throughout the year. Somebody has a sense of irony.
What do you do when you are heaped with all kinds of the same greeting throughout a single day which suggests you must not have done anything to deserve this! Personally, I stayed and stuck obstinately with my behind, and didn't budge. My tashrif was too precious to be seen loitering around - in fact, come to think of it, I have not seen my own since my 15th birthday or thereabouts.
What I did, though, and am doing this very moment, was decide giving my wrist and the appendages at the end a thorough going-over - maybe a typing stint which would last all of five minutes. And from those ends will spew Shakespeare and Nostradamus combined, a literature entirely in the future.
And as that same would be in the future, why waste so much of precious time - I am off to the beer-guy for some filtered stuff, and anybody who is remotely interested in bathing in the beautiful sun of (not-so-new-anyways)-Delhi, can be my guest.
Here is to not moving for another half of my living.
