Writers, recluses and creative types are known to find inspiration in odd places, among not so commonplace things. As a kid its even more interesting as the mind wanders, looking for refuge from the incessant mundanity of everything around. During my childhood I sought part of this refuge, especially during the summer season, in the presence of a whirring, overwhelmingly noisy air cooler.

The gentle cadence of its presence, the magnanimity of its rhythms were a salve to my bruised jangled being. I was a painfully quiet child, often hounded for being so still. Among relatives, cousins, classmates, I would find myself extremely rigid, unable to move, emotionally disconnected and physically uncomfortable. The summer months were even worse. With April a fresh batch of school classes would start and bring along a torrent of worries about having to deal with new teachers, new classroom spaces, new faces. As the beautifully ventilated classrooms would protect us all from the heat, it was the afternoon return home that scorched our beings.