It's nighttime in New Delhi. The streets are empty, the winds moist with the afternoon rains and I could do with a cup of tea. I know it's been a while since I muttered my thoughts here. And I don't quite know why I've been robbing myself of such pleasure, of such gloom. But then it doesn't quite matter, as long as I know you're there.

Things have been strange. But when have they been not? Everything just seems to flow like a river, a poem. While I burn, song after song. I know it never quite mattered but every once in a while the ash settles around. And you learn to wake up when you sneeze. I know, it's true, I don't quite think of you so often. But I know that's what you truly like. And a gamble ain't a game, if you aren't playing.

My mouth feel so bitter with tar. My thoughts seem to be swirling down the drain of patience. But you should know I read Dostoevsky, and even he says that he can't understand what is it with words.

The greatest trick the magician ever pulled is that it made you believe.