Don’t Mind Me, I’m Dead
Once you have kids and fall into the trap of working from home life becomes a whirlpool. Wait a minute, I just looked it up and the better word for life at home with the kids, food and work is maelstrom. Furniture, blender, kitchen, wailing children, cranky spouse, laptop all swirl like planets in a constellation doing their best to undo an orderly life.
I miss my association with a big organisation. The automatic recognition of you being somebody once you are an important cog in the corporate machine. No Matter, forward soldiers regardless.
I asked my mind what to do about it. It said, ‘ignore.’ Pretend you are dead. It works. I have killed myself existentially. I am but a body lying there the rest of me is floating above deaf to mayhem and disobedience from my kids. My third eye will only intervene…

Most people prefer the pasteurised milk that arrives in half litre polythene packets from established government milk plants. Some with roots in rural Punjab prefer their milk fresh from the udders delivered by milkmen riding on motorcycles with huge aluminium and colorful plastic containers. They are an essential part of morning life in Chandigarh.