You’re most probably on cloud nine when you write about your newborn child, and that’s precisely where I chose to write this—at 35,000 ft on a jet to New York, bouncing off the heavens and smiling at the angels. While looking out of the plane was ethereal, the inside of it seemed like an interval of a Gujarati natak, with the unstoppable sound of people munching on home-made khakras and theplas.
So here’s my letter; this is all I have to say (for now).
