As I am getting ready to go to sleep, I am puffing at a cigar, sipping beer from a tall glass, and staring absentmindedly at the postcards strewn across my dining table. My texts pasted on their back, they will be posted tomorrow morning. All of the postcards in front of me feature my bruised face in the wake of the climbing accident in the Alps a bit more than six years ago. Every once in a while I pick up one of the postcards and stare into my pugnacious eyes. Yes, I conclude in the end, if I were born in India of old, I would belong to the Kshatriya caste. One below the Brahmin caste, which comes topmost. At first I balk at my unsolicited conclusion, but then I graciously accept my fate. Priests will forever be ahead of warriors. No matter what I may wish, I am a whole caste away from that ineffable something that I yearn for. At least I am aware of my yearning, or so I console myself before going to bed at long last.