SUNAAD RAGHURAM writes: Mulling over the gains and losses in the stock market in 2006 while also wondering when next the helmet rule would be scrapped and at the same time thinking on which day Siddaramaiah would pull off the coup in which Messrs Gowda and Sons would get it below the belt, I drove in the direction of Gangotri Glades, where nangada Robin Uthappa, scored a blistering century, not too long ago.
I braked seeing an old friend from my Saraswathipuram days, a man whose forefathers hailed from good old KGK, short for Kanne Gowdana Koppal, our very own Bronx!
“So what’s up?” I began. “How have you been?”
“Well, life is as usual,” he drawled. “Have you seen the real estate prices in Mysore?” he exclaimed.
“Oh, let’s not even talk about it. It’s a bit like asking the directions to a place we will never go to,” I smiled.
“So are you on your way home?”
“Yes. I had been to the doctor,” he winced. “Why, what happened?”
“You know, it all started here, a few days ago,” he explained, pointing to the back of his neck. “The doctor said it is romantic pain. He’s given me some pills.”
I muffled a laugh which in other circumstances would have been a booming one.
Could it have been rheumatic by any remote possibility?