Sitara, much obliged for the curtsy, surely you jest but i am up for the masquerade Not to hijack the original thread, perchance the search could yield stories, Of chappal singh, of Sattal singh, Badarni Maiya and all stories from times long long ago of the dark ages, before television, there were dusky evenings remnants of the light, submerging the eyes into a dream like state...urging you to huddle even closer than the towering mountains of Kathmandu, that seemed to tuck you within the deep folds of its underbelly In that haze, puntured with limpid yellow rectangular doors and windows, you craned for a signal, checked your fears, yearned for adventures, and there it came a whistle...from yonder, to the north behing the morose shadow of the school building, is a field, you can see in between the houses, bright halo the red glow that pulsates, is a fire... the smell of wood smoke, mixed with the musk of bubbling starch of the conoction that becomes fluffy rice on your plate, is still time away, as you plot the egress... by the gulley where out side the bhatti sinewy men talk in loud slurry voices, their stories? turn right by the cavern of a pati where bearded old timers come into existence in a blazing ember of their hookah stands..what is their deal, down the gravel path, encased by old houses, glazing at you through the fretwork window of crisscross frieze, inside some women absent mindedly digging through her matted hair for gold as a pot bubbles away in the corner the smell that stirs the craving in your stomach, warms you up even in this post autumn gust and then as if you stepped right into a reflection of a tattered cloth shone upon a wall with raging torches from behind, you are in the field, stars in inky black above and sheets of dark shadows cast by houses that eclose this field, pocked yellow by the doors and windows that cast the light, in one corner is that orange glow that you sought, debris of corn stalks, dried up hedges and all and sometimes even tires, douse kerosene light a fire, and these tykes, the sons of migrant laborers, no care in the world, only a decade + 3 old, sing and curse like they were some sailor, sing on "sisnoo ko jhaang muni ago dan dan, kaloo...." I leave the rest up to you all man i must have some time in my hand to churn out this drivel