As I was taking an indolent stroll in that lonely road, in the wee hours of freezing December, I found this glittering placard pointing towards the west with the bold letters shining red – Contemporary Arts Museum. Since the winter was more piercing, even with the fur coat dominating my feminine enclothing, I decided to give in to the warmth of the museum.
I stepped into the museum whose facade was well lit and showed signs of being operational even at this freaking hour of 2.00 am. The benignity of the lady at the counter was well expressed – graciousness personified. She smiled and gestured me to sign the entry register.
Sarah Parker. I entered my name with my cold white fingers precariously trying to hold the ball point tip pen.