The bell just rang and my grandfather knew who'd be waiting outside in a flash because of the time. He was sitting on the sofa and he said, "oh, it's Santosh" in the way one would announce the homecoming of a useless family member. Santosh the Iron Man is a streetsmart midget, a true-blue coolio with a moustache and a general air of defiance, and I know I'm labelling him and everything, but I can't think why he doesn't drive an auto in his spare time. Maybe I don't like him all that much anymore because I have realised my grandfather's been bonding with him all this while under our very noses - they talk to each other with the easy camaraderie you'd see in a man with his favourite shopkeeper. Or so I'd like to believe. It's not like I don't want my grandfather to make friends (what a horrible person I sound like) but I suddenly feel negligent, and there can only be one root cause and effect as far as the entire thing is concerned.

How pathetic, how needy, really, to be jealous of the pressman or ironman or whatever else the term is, because he suddenly knows more about your grandfather's joint ache. How strange to be so possessive about daadu, the world could go to hell for all I care.

Deep down inside I'm really scared it's guilt.

Haha, I just wrote a post about the man I love most in the world and made it sound all cranky.