There must be a deep-boned tiredness that comes from working the field all day. Maybe that is what Gandhi wanted us to believe in. The soil under ones nail, the muscles stretched raw; a mind wiped clean. I haven’t the faintest. As a child, I went many a times with my Dadaji or my Chachji to our patch of land. I loved the bael gari [cow-cart] and the lunch by the TubeWell. I especially loved my uncles tales of fighting off bears and churails [or puchal paerey as they say in Punjab]. But, I was just a visitor. Clad in me Jordache jeans, no doubt [holy shit, they still exist]. I think wistfully of all that and the feeling that a farmer must get because I toiled in the digital farm all day. It just doesn’t hold the same satisfaction [or so I infer]. And the week stretches ahead of me. There is a ‘review’ due tomorrow. If the editor is reading this post, she is duly informed that it ain’t happening before friday. So there. My cold is not giving up without a fight.
In related news, Seymour Hersh tells us about Bush’s manifest destiny in this week’s NYer. If I get to it, I will post more on it tomorrow.