randomized

Dear Mr. Khan           It is not very often that someone or something comes about and shakes a section of public alive, from the deep caverns of inherent slumber. Even rarer it is, if that someone or something succeeds in appealing to a relatively wide bracket of perception in its purpose and brings hence a general consensus. Your show does both, and with prowess and I am really happy for that.           But you see, being a cynic that I am, what vexes me the most is the act part of all that your show is. I don't care about other criticisms.

Note: This is very long  story . I would suggest you to read it when you have enough spare time. *** A scene forms in front of my eyes, slowly, as if I am rubbing them open after a long satisfying sleep. I am sitting at a bus stop somewhere in the southern, quieter part of Delhi. The road crossing through, a narrow two-lane track, looks washed up and extremely clean. The cool air carries a strange enchanting mysticism. The golden rays coming from the newborn sun, filter through the moving clouds in a dancing fashion and make the wet road and steel railing glow up. The bus stop is peculiarly, of a small and high frame. Unlike any I have ever seen. A flowering, old, low bent tree stands on the side of the bus shelter. Fresh yellow & red jasmine like flowers hang from it. Some lie on the shelter foot and road too, shining in the warm sunlight. It smells like a mixture of wet earth, flowers and a sweet fruit. I feel there is a rainbow somewhere behind the the row of t