For some strange reason, the yuletide smells so much like the O Henry stories. I mean, not that there is anything exiting happening (i wish!) or maybe i am too dull to be interested in anything, but there is this short-story-ish urge to be happy right now, and without any reason (unlike the Tolstoy novels!). Or maybe, it is just the bright lights they have lit up the streets with. Maybe.

Or maybe, its just the old quote that pops up at the back of my mind, smirking over my shoulders;

One dollar and eighty-seven cents. And the next day would be Christmas.

Or maybe much less. Who cares!

But suddenly, i feel an affection for my city, my home, like i never felt before. The radio repair shops, the telebhaja counters, the cycle lamely inclined on an open ‘telephone box’, bob dylan cds on footpaths, and shabby little glowing lights over flyovers and deserted (well almost, save for the invisible charlatans of pennies), and the air which smells so much like home.

But not home; for there can be no home.

And still waiting for the happy twist ending.