"My life has recently intersected, in a most personal way, two of Mark Twain's famous quips. One I shall defer to the end of this essay. The other (sometimes attributed to Disraeli), identifies three species of mendacity, each worse than the one before - lies, damned lies, and statistics."
"Just think, I almost got to repeat Mark Twain's most famous line of all: the reports of my death are greatly exaggerated."
-- Stephen J. Gould, The Median Isn't the Message
It is now five months since I stepped out of Bombay. Almost to the day. I can't remember the last time I was in one place for so long. One can count and recount almost every visit outside of the home that was not to a hospital. If the monotony has been insufferable, the breaks have been more so. I'm not sure which I prefer, to hide in the daily routines or to run from the unforeseen experiences. I have come to trust the stability of things. Like the constant, unchanging view of the rain tree outside my window. And, the unpredictable but daily, metronomic call of the coppersmith barbet, that became my diurnal lullaby.