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So much is happening in so little time. Now that I'm not jobless anymore, there are other things that dominate my mind. I need a moment to put everything into perspective. Last  couple of weeks were a blur with all those mid-week trips to home, family dinners and taking friends out for treat. Reading Furree's blog today I felt nostalgic about Delhi's Daryaganj where me and my sister used to go and get second hand books from sunday book market. On a very rare day, one could even find the ancient first editions (which the shopkeepers usually reserved for serious collectors who paid quiet a bit, unless you pay more) and books by unknown writers dating back almost a century, signed by unknown Englishmen bearing archaic names of places in British India. Which makes me think that it's actually very nice to sign your books when you buy them. This time I bought an old copy of Schindler's Ark with me from home. It belongs to my father. He bought it in 1985 in Mussoorie, four years before I was born, a year before he was married. His signature is more or less the same today, except he does not stylize the first character now like he used to back then. I always sign my books. My father made me sign even my storybooks. The nostalgia that I feel while going through those old books and looking at my squiggly signature, a childish attempt to sign my name like grown ups, makes me want to go back to 1995 again, when writing your name without messing up was such a big deal.