Some of us, try as we might, desperately scurrying hither and thither, yet unable to escape the burden of our own given name, which was written, so what to do? I keep telling myself its all a dream, Alice, and you will wake up soon.
My own circumlocutious rambling in peripatetic alliteration and odd cadences of rhythm if said aloud just right can be a hypnotic influence on me. I have a terrible confession to make, I often sit here and read my own writing, how much more can you navel gaze, I should be ashamed of myself.
I am so glad to have found my homeland. Where I belong. Where I do I come from? I now have an answer. Why, I’m from Calcutta too, aren’t you?