The morning he turns 29, he finds himself staring fondly at the many flavors and wonders of dog food in a North American hypermarket (it is a minor part of his most current job task), and wishes that he be born in his next incarnation (assuming the Hindus and the Buddhists have the aftermaths figured out right) as a dog, which is blessed with a few special abilities that would enable him to still read books, enjoy music etc, and also has perhaps a better availability of XXs in his neighborhood.

...

His mother goes to the temple, or so she tells him, and gets a special pooja performed for him. Since now he has his economics figured out, i.e., he brings home a salary that can be modestly boasted about, obviously his marriage is what a significant part of her prayers would be geared towards - the boy has only 365 days left before he crashes out of the Indian marriage market, and he is bloody lost, with his head in the clouds, wanting to be a writer, a world traveler, a cosmopolitan idiot.

...

March 7th, 2009. I have had this tradition of writing a poem on or around my birthday but this year I am so drained, both physically and emotionally, that ironic humor should suffice. Let's see what the year holds, and brings.

Happy birthday, Sashi. ^__^