On a normal Sunday evening, you will find me, assuming you are interested in such unrewarding quests, ambling through some shopping mall or bargain basement sale, holding on to dear wife's hand, trying to keep up with her, looking around to find the kids in case they wander away and cursing silently under my breath about the crosses that a suburban husband and father has to bear, thanks to the invasion of all this Americana. In the good old days, we used to go to places like the Tata Textile Showroom and buy two meters of the baby pink for a salwar suit. And the choices were not all that many because we already had the electric green and the Rani color. But now? Even men's undies are available in 27 colors and 14 styles. Too much choice. But that is not my point. What is my point? Good question, even I'm not sure, what was it now? Ah yes, my point is that now that the brood is away in Mysore, I find myself strangely at a loss for thoughts. What does one do in Bombay on a Sunday evening alone and lonesome, that will not attract pity, ridicule or the attention of the lunacy commissioner?
I spent an idle hour polluting people's blogs with stupid comments, secure in the knowledge that they could not assault me physically, since no one knows I live in Malad west in Mumbai. I'm now trying to read a book called "Civilisation" by Kenneth Clarke which is erudite and absorbing but lacks what they call the sex interest.
Thus this post. The most pointless in a long series of pointless ones. I have been thinking about continuing my series on Matrimonitis with a little account of our first pregnancy, the subsequent delivery and the trials and tribulations therein, but somehow, I'm not in the mood
I think I'll infest some more blogs till i fall asleep.......