It's that time of the year again. It's lovely in Calcutta. The weather is beautiful: not too cold, just enough to sit in the sunny verandah and eat oranges in the afternoon, lovely to sleep in, lovely to go out. Christmas is tomorrow. It's perfect. Well, almost.
If only the mind could be put to rest. If only. It churns too much these days. It remembers a simpler time when it had accepted life as it was. But it's better to be this person than that one. That one was a big bore.