Toothpastes taste better at home. This is an observation I made, quite serendipitously.

To think of it, it came quite late in my life. I have been swallowing Colgate right from when I can remember. Then, after a few tooth-decays, they forced me to Pepsodent (they were first to bring in those white-sleeved dentists on their commercials) and, at times, some awfully bad ayurveda paste, which was, quite rightly, green in colour.

Coming back to the original hypothesis. I have seldom cared about toothpastes when I am not home. I brush with whatever I have at hand, and when I am out, I borrow. The taste of toothpaste is never worth a bother. But back home, it is almost like a ritual, the waking up, the morning news, the bed-tea, and so on…

I somehow could never convince myself with the idea of wastage of time. Time, howsoever spent, carries its worth, or, for me, its emptiness.

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The newspaper is another integral part of the ritual. The biscuit as well, with the morning tea, but lets not get into trivialities.

The newspaper, for me is an art form. Again how good or bad it is depends on the execution. They have their own personality. While you would think of The Hindu in a dark brown Safari suit with horn-rimmed glasses, The Statesman comes across as summer suited middle aged man with unpolished shoes, and The Times of India, definitely in netted stockings and red bustier.

A newspaper for me is as good as a collage. A collage of the important, the ludicrous, the facile, the angry, the surreptitious and the sublime. What sets one from another is the sleight, the art of the maker.

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They don’t worship Brahma much; they have temples of Shiva everywhere. I never believed that it’s fear that moves faith. True faith.

A creator who has the audacity to destroy his own creation is indeed a genius. The bravery of being able to outdo himself, his own self is challenging time itself.

To think of it, it’s only the second creation that is destroyed. The first is stolen by the transience of time itself. And the palimpsest hardly matches up the original.

The rituals, on the other hand, make a mockery of this transience.