Once again I'm back in the place that has long fed my imagination and nourished my soul.
Daddykins, I wanted to say, do you know I've traveled 29 hours door to door, sipped cold tea—no sugar, no milk—three times, lined up ten times in all outside the "vacant" sign at the tail of the aircraft where no human may go unless he desperately, fierily, wants to go, picked at boiled mushrooms, carrots and potatoes, survived two dozen episodes of Sex and The City, scarfed down muesli and yoghurt at Hong Kong airport when my stomach moaned for a Rajasthani thali, lifted my arms high over my head so three unknown men could xray my naked form.
But Daddykins knew none of that. He received me as if I'd rumbled into Chennai on a five-hour train from Bangalore.
"Baby, you're here," he said.