“I am a very secular person!” announced Mrs Kapoori one day to the girls at home, who were her paying guests, “I don’t care if you are Punjabi or Bihari or South Indian!” And then she heard the noise. It was the sound of the door opening in the empty flat just above hers. Mrs Kapoor ran up the stairs and found a worker sweeping the floor inside. “What’s happening?” she asked.

There were trumpets and fanfare as his coffin was carried!

A few months ago, I heard about a funeral in America of a famous religious apologist, attended by the former Vice-President of the United States, Mike Pence. I have listened often to this preacher and was always amazed by the power of his mind, as he argued and debated principles and theology and startled the world with brilliant thought.

Many spoke about him, and when my mother told me many years before that he was related to her, I did not spare a moment in telling this to all and sundry, whenever his name was mentioned. How we love to drop names of the rich and famous, don’t we?

Two years ago, a new dog, with long pointed ears, entered the colony I live in. Nobody wanted the new stray, to stay in the premises, and so all the watchmen were kept very busy, every day chasing it out of the gates, but somehow it managed to enter again and I marveled at its perseverance.

Not only did it have to contend with the watchmen, the pump man and all the sweepers who ran after it with their brooms and sometimes empty dustbins but it also had to deal with the three existing strays in the colony.

Like the man on the moon, there is an old man in Mars. He stroked his white beard as he looked through his telescope at the spaceship that was encircling his planet, "There's a ship from earth!" he announced and watched as his equally old wife came scurrying from an underground cave and peered through the glass which he held out for her. "They'll take photographs and send it back to earth and they'll announce to one another that there's life on Mars!"

Haven’t been to a station in a while, and I’m not sure they have weighing machines on railway platforms like there used to have before. This particular weighing machine, I remember, always had a long line of people waiting to weigh themselves, unlike the one next to it, “Why?” I asked the mother of my friend who worked in the railways booking counter.

 “Because it’s defective!” she smiled as she gave her son, my friend, money so we both could have a coke later.

 “Defective?” I asked, “But then wouldn’t people avoid it?”