B for Baldip

Stranger: Who are you?

B: Who? Who is but the form following the function of what and what I am, is a man in a turban.

Stranger: Well I can see that from your profile picture.

B: Of course you can. I'm not questioning your powers of observation I'm merely remarking upon the naivety of asking a turbaned Indian man - who he is.

Stranger: Oh. Right.

B: But on this most auspicious of times, permit me then, in lieu of the more commonplace sobriquet, to suggest the character of this dramatis persona.

B: Behold the bruised, baffled badgered but not beaten brat bent upon a bitter fight with the bellicose being of his brain’s material desires. The backbone of his strength against this breaking ordeal is borrowed from the desire of bearing bare the benign, but the most powerful, insight from the bosom of his heart – the meaning of it all, the reason of his Being!

The path is not the brow beaten track but a bleak strip of back bending climb with boulders, bogs bordered with blooming bacciferous shrubs, petals of deceptive benign beauty: for the nectar they bear is but brown brackish boiling broth. But still braving on, hell bent to beat the odds, to reach within the beaming lights of Babylon.

(small chuckle)

Blatantly, this barrage of words is but like bloviating blabber, so just let me get back to brevity and simply add that it's my very good honour to meet you and you may call me B.

Stranger: Are you like a crazy person?

B: I am quite sure they will say so.

(B for Baldip)