I am writing this blog post sitting cross legged on a dainty white bench, under the shade of tall trees, surrounded by the chirps of birds on their dinner route and the racket of cicadas, who seemed to have hatched a little late this year. Chipmunks are bounding around, standing on their hind legs and gnawing at the food they find from time to time. In front of me is about 50 yards of gently sloping lawn, a longitudinal patch of greenery tucked between wooden picket fence on one side and a line of trees which look like the seven trees that Ram sent his arrow through to kill Vaali treacherously on the other. It is a balmy evening, cool under the trees, with a soothing breeze. Wireless connectivity is excellent. I’ve found meself a little piece of summer idyll, right at the back of my hotel property. This is the sort of perfectness that has driven lesser mortals to write poetry. But I, gentle reader, shall desist. I shall give you an account of my week-long birthday celebrations i...