a page from my diary…

Friday night: A lone bird screeched once into the middle of the night and fell silent. All was still again, but I’d been pulled out of sleep for good, so I lay awake and tried to watch zinging thoughts that raged in my mind. At three a bunch of birds quarreled and went back to sleep. I drifted into shallow sleep myself, until tweets and twitter stroked me awake to glowing dawn.

Saturday morning: The needle was long and the barrel huge, so my jaw died for a while. The dentist tore into my teeth, all the while speaking with his assistant about Kumble’s fantastic century yesterday, and of matches to come in Gwalior and in Bangalore—“Kumble is a bad fielder,” he insisted. His assistant praised Dhoni’s game: “Impatience,” the doctor said; “strategy,” she argued softly, not wanting to win the argument. An old match played overhead on television; in the front room young women-doctors teased and sparred in sing-song.

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