They say I am stuck...

Three years back, those who claimed to know me well said that there was some chemical imbalance in my grey cells while I was shifting to Nagpur.

I still find my colleagues, superiors (take-home and designation wise) reasoning why should some one who is a software engineer by profession and still claims to be sane enough, work out of Nagpur.

With all my insanity and sincerety, I would like to answer this for me in small, bold and italics.

"I would rather fight than sit here on my fanny and see that trucks are kept clean after driving through mud. I count my blessings daily, however, and have, without doubt, the moon and stars and sky that holds them all, and in the day perhaps the sunshine. If it rains, I have the rain and the clouds, and the storm about me, and the leaves with their secrets in the forest. I have the camels and the donkeys, and the egrets and the partridge, and the storks and a friend who owns a kerosene lamp. And I have daily a little precious inalienable time to myself, and my holiness and my dreamblankets, and a book of Hemingway and three Shakespeare plays, which I have never opened, but think about all the time. And I have those that like me for my humor and kindness, and those that dislike me for my sharp tongue and my stupidity, and I would not have it any other way, for who is not seeking and searching in his own minute way for his place among the blind of the world? And I have one new thought a week that is worthwhile, so that by the time I come home, I shall be rich and quite and more impractical and dreaming than ever, and I shall wander interminably in the same small circle that I have always wandered, in testing the bitter perfumes of experience, in giving, lending, loving, losing and failing. Failure is such miraculous strength, and winning such easy glory, and thinking and dreaming and being pushed about are the living things for soul..."

***Above lines are excerpts from a letter written by Lieutenant Robert Lewin to his folks and contrymen during world war - II.