I touch my head in the morning when I wake up; it’s a miracle that it is still on my neck. Out of a million ways to go, none had yet got me. Nobody has struck at me surgically nor have I been ambushed in the wee hours. Nobody has barged into my office and sprayed me with bullets for, say, bad writing, like Charlie Hebdo journalists. Nobody has shot me between my eyes for sleeping at work, like Kim Yong-jin of North Korea was. I haven’t been that innocent citizen they catch hold of for killing in fake encounters. Nobody has killed me for honour. No terrorist has attacked a market I have shopped in, my stay in hotels have largely been without any event, no planes have crashed into any tower I have been in. I haven’t been charred to death in a burning car. I have not been hung from a tree because I was born in the wrong caste.