"Half of what I say is meaningless...I say it so that the other half reaches you."
- Khalil Gibran
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Its about 1730. SA, having tried his luck at mastering fiscal policy earlier in the day, has been sleeping in a grotesque posture for the last forty five minutes. VH is in Madras. MG is doing his weekend supervision of the house he is building. And SC...well, he is, lets say, just away. And I was sitting in the balcony upon a very accomodating bean bag with my cup of Darjeeling second flush looking at times at the falling leaves, listening to a stupid cow making uncivilized noises & generally attending to such matters of national importance when suddenly it occurred to me that I must be such a pucca screwball for wasting such a pretty evening.
Subsequently, it occurred to me that arms are, in a way, a measure of distance & that the itch in my eye is a memory.