The stage was set. Microphones were functional. It was a gathering that stubble-land had never heard of before and so they had called it STUBBLEBURN of the unbathed stubble group. They were all there with all their attention. Some were in black achkans and others in sedate grey or even white sherwanis. After all, their owner was not getting any less in age and the human race called these grey and white sherwani stubble folk a symbol of ageing. So Stubbleburn was happening… and there was excitement all around. The little stubble mites were busy serving fresh flakes with cream, baked epidermal rolls, and sandwiches of trapped dust. There were exclamations of ‘tasty preparations’ and ‘superb food’ everywhere. The head of stubbleland got up and clearing his throat, announced, ‘This song and dance fest will go on throughout the night. But first we have our celebrated stubble-philosopher with his autobiographical note. Listen to him.’ The philosopher began after the applause had died. He said, ‘I was the first to be born here. When I opened my eyes there were vast expanses of nothingness all around. So I can say we are born from nothing.’ The crowd applauded. He went on, … Continue reading Autobiography of that unclean stubble