All of yesterday was spent in meetings in the bored room, and since we reached early we avoided the traffic and the deluge. Read a few stories from Urban Voice enroute, till I reached a tale that made my brain standstill, then I could only look out and watch the vintage art deco buildings blur past.
B&W photo-portraits of Rajahs, Maharajahs, Nawabs and sundry chieftains line the teak paneled wall; dressed in finery and baubles, with shining eyes and fierce moustaches. Twenty one gun salute, fifteen gun salute, rank, privilege and protocol bound; some wouldn’t even acknowledge the other out of cussed pride, and here we are, all these decades later, decoration on a wall. Ah time.
Met a friend in the city on the way back, for no fault he’s between a rock and a hard place, the firm he works for is on the hitlist, a trillion dollars can’t be prettied up by parking it; you can’t give home loans at 3.5 % and allow debt of 30 times, someday its payback time, the whole world suffers. Who is John Galt?
The glowing Hussain in the lobby. The rain swept sea and skies all the same color, the cascade in the portico. Still as lovely.