And what about these moments when I feel beautifully stunningly unbearably vulnerable a thin transparent film of fine dust made of blowing light. I ask what of these moments when i am nothing but a vague outline traced over with a pencil, visible on a precariously tilting lilting paper page. I am the house of cards. I am the distant applause. I am the muted conversation. I am this jaipur night where the kids talk about Farmvile and read out smsed jokes. The older ones drink green glass bottled beer in the far corner. White skins and brown skins and all skins in between clap for Clapton in malkauns sung by Amit brown skin Choudhari.

Now I want these kids who are laughing silly about mispronouced words and fart sounds to stop annoying me and shut up.