My father was a good, honest man with brilliant plans and ideas, but a poor businessman. Maybe there are some people who shouldn’t get into business, and he was one of them, but he always felt it was the city he was doing business in that had to blame for his unsuccessful forays into making a fortune, so during my childhood we trudged from city to city with him, where he opened up his business and finally in frustration emigrated to the US, while I stayed behind.

 “Window Opener-Wallah?” you shout across to me, “What exactly do you mean?”

 “Ah well,” I say, “What happens when you open your windows in the morning after getting up?”

 “I let the sunshine in!” you say, looking at me hesitantly.

He was staring at his phone, as I sat next to him on the bench in the park, “Terrible!” he exclaimed.

 “What is?” I asked, staring at his distraught face.

 “I put up a new picture of myself on Facebook, and no one’s commented, not even one like! My day is ruined!”

 “Why?” I asked.

 “That’s my cousin!” whispered my friend, as we looked at a bedraggled, shabby, girl, hair matted and unkempt, looking at us with haggard eyes, in one of the bye-lanes in the city. He went up to her, but when he offered her a meal instead of money, which was certainly for her next dose of drugs, she ran away.

 “Hers is a sad story!” my friend whispered and told me a tale of unrequited love which made her seek recourse in drugs.

"Shake hands!" people tell my dog while bending over to pet it, "Shake hands!" they shout as my huge fellow looks blankly at them. "Doesn't your dog know to shake hands?" they ask looking disgustedly at me.

"No!" I tell them.