C.R.A.P: Cold . . . Rolled . . . Annealed . . . Pickled

Now that you hold this book in your hand, let me talk to you for a while, not that you are a dimwit, but I am sure you would have figured this out by now. This book does not have any purpose or meaning. There's already a lot of crap flying around in the publishing world, so I just thought of adding some more, really. This book does not come from somebody highly accomplished or acclaimed; in fact, this book does not intend to cause that earth-shattering shift too toward any acclamation. ----- There is no foreword, middles, or epilogue to this book. There are no endorsements from highly acclaimed litterateurs. This book does not claim to be a bestseller and will never get to be one. This book does not address a social cause; it does not solve the carbon catastrophe that you see around you. This is not a self-help book, so no philosophy, no quantum physics, no next-generation robotics in here. And this book is definitely not from the wannabe stables of a Booker or a Pulitzer. ----- This book, at its worst, can go down the bookshelves as the "World According to Me," with anecdotal references to growing up in middle-class urban India in the '70s and the '80s and carving out a life, meaningful in most ways, in the '90s and beyond as meaningful as the fast-changing environment that I saw in India and the world around me.