Someday I shall write another kind of blog. Not about terrorism and guns and carnage and worse.

I will write about other things.

I will write about winter in Delhi (where I am visiting soon) and how the women bring out their choicest shawls and the men dress like they were in a Jane Austen novel.

I will write about how much I miss Mumbai’s three departed chroniclers-Busybee, Frank Simoes and Dom Moraes. (I wonder what words they would have chosen to describe what we’ve been through.)

I will write about the boys who sell books and magazines at traffic lights who I’ve come to befriend when they hitch rides off me from point A to B. All of them bright, enterprising, needy. All of them with the same story. (I’m working to pay off my school fees.) I once tried to find one at the address he’d given me to arrange for his fees-and was told no one by that name existed-but that’s another story….

I will write about Cat Stevens and his latest album after so many years of silence, which at first I didn’t enjoy but slowly began to appreciate.

I will write about small things. Ordinary everyday things.

How I feel bad that my eighty-two year old mum who’s not internet savvy is not able to read my blog- and I

don’t know what to do about it.

I will write about how confusing fashion forecasts are, and how I never understand whether blue is in or out.

I will write about Manto and how his stories never fail to move me.

These days I can’t write about such things you see. These days we write about grave and serious things. Lethal things. Sad things. Unimaginably hideous things.

But someday I will write about other things.

Soon.

Someday.