Dayaram sleepily watched as his sheep lazily munched on the not-so-green grass. His dhoti, once-white, was draped with the excellence of an expert. I wondered whether I would recognize him if he wore pants! With his once-green turban tilting down to one side and his face, having more wrinkles than the number of folds in his turban, he sat perched on a not-so-high rock tearing out of the Earth and projecting itself in sheer revolution! Dayaram didn't seem to revolt though. He seemed in a state of semi-nirvana. Above the world just him and his sheep. They're addictive. Sheep.
Talking about sheep, as I have seen them since my childhood, they're creatures that emit huge amounts of boredom. The kinds that will make you yawn. They don't even have a singular (or plural, either ways) noun for themselves! Nothing personal against them though, besides lambs have even succeeded in looking cute at times! That's quite an achievement.
There wasn't much difference between Dayaram and me. Just a mug of hot chocolate and a glass window, I was on one side of it and he on the other, that's it. And the sheep. He owned them and watched them and I simply watched them.
With squinted eyes, as I tried to count the sheep, I subconciously wished I was on Dayarams side of the difference. Perched on the not-so-high, revolting rock, thinking of the unthinkable, watching my sheep munching on the not-so-green grass.