It’s raining elephants and blue whales as I write this post, quite contrary to what the weatherman had said: today will be bright and sunny with no prospect of a rain. Experience has taught me to be dismissive of such predictions. They are often so wrong, I have a hunch it’s the anachronistic astrologer doing the back-office job for our meteorologists. The forecast from The Weather Channel for today until a few hours ago painted the sun in such resplendently incandescent yellow that I feared the pixels forming the circle on my screen would burn up. At least the sun is now shown sheepishly slipping behind a patch of clouds…if only to make reluctant amends for the egregious prediction.
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