When I got to Goa, I felt anonymous again. In Mysore, I felt like everyone had heard. I was the ashtangi who got hate crime’d in the face after his house burned down. I wanted to be the tall pretty one. Or the smart one. But for now, I was very much the tragic one. Luckily, Rolf wasn’t watching the news. I was just one more 6’3 drop back for him to do. And he was happy to oblige– quietly sharing lite bits here and there in my ear about his work. But not so happy with it that I didn’t get assigned sone extra. Great. After 27 years of shrinking myself for others, I got to just be the big one. You gotta gang…