C.P.C. is the coolest cat ever. He comes to our desks and sits with us. On days, he even stares at our monitors and supervises our work. His favourite activity is to rub himself against our jeans and get pampered by all. So much so that a few days back, he ran all the way from the garden area to the gate to greet me and get his daily dose of love and affection.

This feline takes lunch time very seriously. As soon as anyone is out in the garden area with his or lunch box open, C.P.C. makes the cutest face that it gets impossible to not feed him. These days he’s been practicing high jumps. He doesn’t hesitate to jump up to anything wielded at him.

Here’s him: http://twitter.com/#!/Doveye/status/133857445234745344/photo/1 Hehe. Some idiot tied a leash on him. Cats are free souls!

Update: Feb 04 C.P.C. is no more. He got ran over a car on the 1st of this month. Very tragic. Will miss you dearly, my friend. Rest in peace. Thank you

Behold her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chaunt
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travelers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands;
A voice so thrilling ne’er heard
In springtime from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings?–
Perhaps the planitive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago;
Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of today?
Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,
That has been, and may be again?

Whate’er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o’er the sickle bending;
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

hehe!

I had been to a nearby dairy to buy some curds. I placed my order and the vendor and got busy preparing my parcel of fresh, malai-filled curds. Just then, a small boy of about 5/6 yrs came to the counter. His hair was tousled and he had a small, round face. He wore and old, tattered vest that looked unwashed from a few weeks. He wore dark brown shorts and was barefoot. He looked up to the milk-vendor with a his innocent eyes and gave him a handful of coins. The vendor made a face and silently counted all the coins. On being satisfied with the exact change tendered, the vendor passed a huge, steel glass of milk to the boy. The tyke clutched the glass with both his hands and with a look of pride, drank it all up at one. With every gulp, his eyes shone and a slight smile escaped his mouth. I took my curds packet and walked away but the picture of that poor chap remained in my memory.

Some of us are lucky to have so many luxuries, we take them for granted. Some, like the little boy, for whom even a glass of milk was a huge treat, cherish every bit of it.

Blessed are those whose maids don’t trouble them.

Touchwood!