I am writing this on a Japanese Lenovo. The flatscreen is Taiwanese AOC. The phone on my desk is a German Siemens. I am staring at a hundred Post-its on the softboard with things-to-do on them, jotted with a French Bic pen. The office space itself, of cubicles and cabins, blinds and false ceiling with hidden AC ducts, a water cooler and a coffee dispenser, is all foreign. I’m wearing Levi’s jeans and Nike shoes. My shirt says it’s ‘Made In India’ but it has gone all the way to Marks and Spencer and come back here. If I really take this further, my undergarments are by Jockey. I have tried our own Dixcy and Macho Man and Rupa, but they wear thin too soon. Excuse me, it’s my mobile buzzing, a Canadian Blackberry, very Jurassic, but I’ve stuck to it, running on British Vodafone. It was my sister-in-law. They are shifting home. She wanted to know if Ikea was coming to India: she wants to put off buying furniture till then.