The Newspaper

You wake up grudging existence because there is no electricity. Breakfast isn't made yet. Brushing requires too much effort. It's Sunday, which means they're running yoga programmes on the television. One needs something to do when one isn't eating. So one reads the newspaper.

London's blown up. Ayodhya's blown up. Half of India's flooded. Greg Chappel making Ashish Nehra run around with a drum. Some twelve year old kid's been winning some chess games. Sania Mirza's confessing to have given two hundred percent in the Wimbeldon. Mulayam Singh feels that it was intelligence failure that Ayodhya was attacked. Advani's confused.

So am I. So one tries the Sudoku. Difficulty rating: extremely difficult. Five stars on five. 81 squares to be filled. Six squares and one hour later you drop it for breakfast.

Postprandial lethargy sets in. Bath is postponed. One comes back to the newspaper. Rohit Bal is hot because he feels he is "ordinary" and possesses the "X-Factor". The woman who interviewed him mentions the "warm feel of his skin from under his shirt" then adds that he was feverish. Someone wore the national flag to a party that simultaneously invited vituperation and drooling. Sachin Tendulkar is getting operated. Chidambram wants more taxes. Sheila Dixit wants to tax cars. One feels disgusted.

So one reads the cartoons. Then one checks the daily shows. Then one goes back to the Sudoku. This time, lunch rescues from impending frustration.

One reads the matrimonial section. Brahmin boy born in India living in USA, 5 feet 11 inches, earning 7 figures, seeks holy union with sweet, homely, tall, fair, educated Brahmin girl. A Kshtriya seeks alliance with another.

One finally throws the newspaper away and pick up some esoteric stories by Maupassant.