The one where I sound hopeful and cheery and mouth lines like “May the new year usher in many joys to heal and hold us in its blessed days” which I promptly trotted out in response to the Boy’s “What shall we text our friends this year?”
The one where I wish upon you the happiness you could just as well receive on September 15th. July 24th. February 2nd. May 9th.
The one where I look back on the days that were and sum up my life in neat little Tupperware containers. Health: C -, Work: B +, Love: A ++
Done. Put a lid on and pack it away. Next, please!
But I’m still here. As are the days and the hours. That layer of dust on the turntable remains unmoved. As does the home I came back to this afternoon. The precise look on Ma’s face when I’ve been gone a while. The way the cabbie spat out his tobacco. The lilt of ‘La Bamba’ each time my phone buzzed. And the firm, warm love that the Boy held out, from one day to the next.
There are still no dustbins in the Borivali National Park. And praline in vanilla fudge ice cream tastes just as good. I’m still struggling to find domestic help for the evening hours. The Bolshoi ballet continues to be sold out. The winter is as unshivering as always. My kiddos are as bouncy as ever. The fan creaks its ancient presence. People live with a rent in their hearts. I still haven’t found the perfect black kurta. The boys at traffic lights keep pimping pirated Adigas. Our arms are wound around ourselves, and sometimes each other, but we must unwrap them post haste, to be thrown up in predetermined celebration as the rapidly appearing milestones shimmer in the smoggy haze. Click a clock. Flick a page. And magically, we’re in Year Next.
But I’m still here. As are the days and the hours. And that layer of dust on the turntable remains unmoved.
Wisdom Wears Neon Pyjamas 
Vox populi