How it just happens that we all have someone to make a blue tarpaulin memory with.
Even if you find them many years later and many miles away, There is a spot on this Bombay Chowpatty Where the sea is so close to you.
I pictured a man with such a long mustache that it curled around his body hundreds of times, making him look like a spool of thread. A week earlier, my father had taken me to the barbershop, where I had seen several long mustaches.
They were his wife’s hens, not his, he would tell anyone who listened. She was far too soft, mollycoddling any that became ill, lame, out-of-sorts. It made him jolly angry, if he ever thought about it too deeply or for too long, this attention that she gave them but not him.