I’ve been damned by some as an unbeliever, an anti-christ; to others I’m the cool atheist across the street. My youngest daughter calls me “daddy” and my mother insists:

“We brought him up a good catholic kid and he was on the right track. So he drank lots of whisky like his grandfather — who doesn’t? It’s a family thing. At the age of fifteen he was a good father to three kids. And he always went to confession.”

Now, suddenly, I’m an apostate Jew; I woke up one morning and that was it…

Corner shop proprietor Anita Devi (I knew her father; he was like a Rabbi to me, although he was an apostate Sikh) told local reporters: “I’m sorting the papers for the delivery wallahs, you know, like it’s 5am, and in walks Dustin Hoffman. ‘It’s not safe,’ he says, ‘but I’m a very good driver, Mrs Robinson.’ Kafka told me this might happen”.

Hey, Anita, he gave me a couple of clues too. Till this beard grew overnight I was Al Pacino a la Godfather 2, like an old dead uncle  said I should be. Bukowski told me once that when I realised I’d failed as a writer I could maybe scratch a living as an Ernesto Guevara look-alike…

Now I’m a 55 year-old, suburban Ratso Rizzo. Life’s a bitch.

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