The tragedy was not that he did not believe in astrology. The tragedy was that, he had made it a point to announce to the entire world, and then some, of his disbelief in what the stars foretold.

Now they were all out and about, smirking, to watch him devour his words – for he was at the door of a renowned astrologer, holding a pair of birth charts, birth timings and other miscellaneous details, not admitting – even to himself – his hope that the interview would bring peace to his very troubled mind.

Mom said I was in the Intensive Care Unit for a day. Unfortunately, I have no memory of it. Just when I opened my eyes to discover a few nurses fussing over me, I was moved out to the ward. Too bad – I did not even get time to savour all the attention. The name itself makes one feel important, doesn’t it? Intensive Care Unit. I like the sound of it, though I don’t fancy its smell. The last time I was at the door of the ICU was when my Uncle was admitted. He died a few days later. No wonder I had a host of wide-eyed relatives around me when I woke up.

The Watchman was tired. Tired of faking a smile for everyone who passed in and out of the gate, with hardly a glance at him. But he had been doing this for years now, day and night, and it came automatically now – the stiff widening of the lips that he called a ‘smile’, that created no strain to the lines on his face or to his eyes. True, that not many acknowledged it, but he did it every time. He was about to close the gate when the Mother with her two-year-old on the stroller appeared.