The Hare That Slipped Out Of The Race

The lights, inside, are dim and subdued. Unlike the searing heat and brightness of the Indian summer outside in sultry, hot, humid Dadar. 

Pritam da Dhaba. 

The very name conjures the magic of an older, slower, more gentle culture. 

The air-conditioning is just perfect. The waiters, though young, seem to belong to another time. And the beer - and the kebabs - reminiscent of the 80s, when I was younger, more filled with dreams in my eyes and a burning fire in my belly.

That was then. 

Today, smack in the middle of my 50s, the world may be an uglier place, more brash, more crowded with people who have more drive than I. 

But, hey! I'm cool with that. I now know. 

I know I have more time than all of them. 

I'm not in a rush. I'm not in a race. I'm not the tortoise on steroids trying to outrun that hare. 

I am the hare that took the time out, to sleep. 

I'm the guy who, on a Friday AFTERNOON, chose to slow down the mad rush, to break open a cold beer. 

Because. 

Because I choose. 

In a few minutes, this beer will be over. Then lunch. Which, too, in a few more minutes, will get over. 

Time, flies.

Memories, they will remain. Fresh as the first feel of an ice cold beer swishing down a parched throat....