The only thing classic about this hotel is its name. The streets are narrow and remind me about the of the dingy bylanes of Allahabad. The room is so small, it runs the risk of exploding if I sneeze. The cistern doesn't work, the fan has no regulator, it's noisy and there is no TV. The tap only occasionally spits water. The drainage doesn't work. It still costs me Rs275 per day. I survive on a steady supply of Dosa.
I'm wearing a rather striking shirt, one that makes me feel like a clown fooling around in a graveyard. Roving eyes latch on to me and make me too conscious of myself. Checkered in red, grey, black and maroon, I've excused myself into donning it and looking silly for two reasons. It's Friday and…more importantly, the last working day of the year. Tailored half-a-year back, I never had the courage to wear it, not until today. It's that time of the year when it's time to reflect on the events that transpired. Last year ended on the worst possible note. Dad had expired and I was numb with shock. The repercussions rippled halfway thought this year. Things were so abysmal initially that I had lost the will to live. Acrid in everything I did, I was immensely angered by time phlegmatically flowing through its cadence. It was as if Dad meant nothing to anybody. What right did people have to live the way they always had when Dad was no more? Why was much of the world still