If you could see me now, I’m at my desk facing the fogged window, through which I can see the shape of a hill and some pine trees. Leonard’s setting the mood; on my desk are chocolates from Mrs Udyawar, next to the moleskine from Faye. One my right is a small white closet with extremely appropriate birthday cards. And I’m trying to write. Instead, as always, I’m exchanging cheap witticisms with my self in Dilli.
I’ve been meaning to write. I WANT to write. But when can I write when I’m living life as if I were terminally ill?
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Educated Tatya 
OOoooooooooooh. Chocolates she sent you. Well, that’s one mystery solved which makes you a little bit less mysterious. AND OLDER. Abhi kya?
then don’t write just yet. It’s fabulous enough to know that you are somewhere unexpected doing something unexpected, and that, eventually, we’ll find out 🙂
i love writing, but ‘doing’ kicks ‘writing”s ass every time.
Do. Write. Repeat. No time to write? Do. Repeat.
Simple!
Have a fantastical birthday! 30th no?