A day like a perfectly buttered toast
Here I am in Noida in a friend's place. He'd bought two bean bags the other day and we stuffed them with, well, thermocol beans. It is quite an arduous task if you must know. Your back and shoulders hurt (or rather mine did). Anyway, there's a slim balcony outside the bedroom. It overlooks the apartment complex - all grid-like and neat and tidy with rows of cars lined up oh-so-proper. From the top and enough distance, you forget the real bit of chaos that awaits you when you get down on the ground. I woke up early. It was six o'clock in the morning. My friend was asleep. His dog, Schenal, was quiet. The house had peace and silence wafting through it like incense. I took up Rushdie's newest novel, 'The Golden House.' Schenal and I made coffee. Rather I made, explaining the process to her. She seemed interested enough until I started stirring in sugar. She lost interest then but stayed outside the kitchen giving me a very kind form of companionable si...