Its November.
The winter is beginning to set in. The days and nights are painted more beautiful everyday regardless of who notices them. The people in the city are busy. They are always very busy. Being akin to Bombay in its ruthless work culture there is rarely time to stop and smell the roses. Often I miss being in Calcutta,where the pace of my life was faster than the city that lived around me and I could at leisure watch the changing colours.
The boys and girls who are not from here often feel clamped by the city's over bearing enthusiasm for the good life and its comforts,others who embrace that nature end up as delhit-ites who over play their part.
Sometimes an event such a mass religious festival brings the city together but for most of the year around we are all floating feathers that never settle. Just blown away by the gusts of power and lucre. Sometimes we never land our feet because we are held high in the zephyr of the city.
I never know why I dont write more.I never know why I dont stop writing at all.
Whims and fancies lead my life more than will and determination does. Am I the alien in the city.Or am the only one who has embraced it.
