"I was born in the city of Bombay...once upon a time. No, that won't do, there's no getting away from the date: I was born in Doctor Narlikar's Nursing Home on August 15th, 1947. And the time? The time matters, too. Well then: at night. No, it's important to be more...On the stroke of midnight, as a matter of fact. Clock hands joined palms in respectful greeting as I came. Oh, spell it out, spell it out: at the precise instant of India's arrival at independence, I tumbled forth into the world. There were gasps. And, outside the window, fireworks and crowds. A few seconds later, my father broke his big toe; but his accident was a mere trifle when set beside what had befallen me in that benighted moment, because thanks to the occult tyrannies of those blandly saluting clocks I had been mysteriously handcuffed to history, my destinies indissolubly chained to those of my country."
My imitation:
In my family, Thanksgiving is a...quiet affair. No, that's not enough, there's no getting away from the details: In my family, my parents and I spend Thanksgiving by ourselves. And what we do? That matters, too. So then: many things. No, I really must be more...going to New York City and Vermont, in fact. We've done so many things that I seem to have lost count. Oh, make it clear, make it clear: because the break is too short, we've never been to my grandmother's house for Thanksgiving. I hear the gasps of horrified familial conservatives. And, nearby them, people murmuring in confusion. I understand your confusion; but the lost time spent with my grandmother pales in comparison to the various Thanksgivings that we've had, because thanks to the fact that we're not obligated to visit family, we've had all kinds of extraordinary experiences.