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Jul. 8th, 2008

The meandering story

Reema abruptly stopped rubbing Sylvie, her medium-sized golden retriever. She had just remembered something. She turned quickly to her mother, tugged at the corners of her dupatta, something that never ceased to irritate her mother, even if the person pulling it was only eight years old.

“Can I go now to play with Kiran...", she said. "Can we watch Sylvie and her dog Raina mate?” NO, YOU CAN’T. “Why not? Kiran says it is quite natural for dogs to mate. They first lick each other, then chase each other’s tails, then bite...” I’VE HAD ENOUGH REEMA, YOU WILL PLAY WITH SYLVIE HERE, AND REMIND ME TO HAVE A TALK WITH KIRAN’S MOTHER THE NEXT TIME I SEE HER, DO YOU HEAR ME, she said turning to her husband.

Her husband said somewhat intriguedly,“how does kiran know that raina and sylvie like each other?" “I would rather you didn’t discuss dog psychology with our daughter”, said Reema’s mother sardonically. Precocious children, unsensible husbands, dogs that didn’t behave in front of children...well, the behaviour of dogs and husbands was irreversible in various degrees, but Reema’s mother had hope left still for Reema. However, she was quite undecided on strategy.

The other day, she had tried the indulgent, montessori method while they were at Humayun’s tomb, (it was part of a long tour of historical monuments, Ashoka Pillar, Purana Qila, Red Fort, Safdar Jang’s tomb...) Reema’s mother was determined to give her daughter a cultural education to compete with the technical education she was getting from her father. But Reema had shown more interest in the squirrels in the gardens there, having set Sylvie on the task of pouncing on them from a discreet corner.

“Rulers from different dynasties were quite particular that their tombs were constructed in places that were dear to them. But while most of them commissioned reputed builders to do it, his wife Haji Begum built this one”, she said gravely to Reema. “Did Humayun have a dog”, asked Reema quite irrelevantly (irreverently?) Reema’s mother sighed deeply. And then said crossly, “Probably not, they were too busy with their wars and their wives to worry about walking and feeding dogs”
She immediately regretted saying it, “why does Papa have only one wife?" "It was alright to have many wives then, it isn’t now”. “Why not?” “Back then, kings had to marry many women to forge political alliances. Now we don’t have kingdoms, so men don’t have to marry many women to annex kingdoms”, cursing her limited imagination and unfeminist bent of mind, as she spun that. “But if there were kingdoms, would Papa have more than one wife?” No, said Reema’s mother hurriedly. “There were exceptions even among kings, i am sure there were monogamous kings, kings with just one wife, you know.” “If they had just one wife, why didn’t they have the time for a dog?” This is what talking to children does to you, thought Reema’s mother desperately. Dogs and wives appear to be mutually exclusive historical choices that kings made.

Jun. 13th, 2008

Confessions of an egg-eater

The things that I am tempted to do often lie in the no-man’s land between those that are absolutely forbidden and those which are just about alright to do. Sure, my instincts go to the forbidden territory, but they let me relax and breathe easier with the ones in between. Eggs are the first ladies in this no-man’s land...I can’t check my multiplying love for this delight of animal creation.

You see, they have an early morning appeal that no other breakfast item has(to a non-breakfast eating, brunch-eating, repressed diet Tamil). There is the shapely white that keeps you gazing fondly. Then there is the strong suggestion that there are layers beneath that placid exterior. Peel off that white even if it breaks your heart to do so. And what you have is something well worth breaking your heart for. A grainy yellow crust that you want to crush between your fingers. And a slow, painless and guiltless realization that the egg wants to be eaten in every form, at every cost. You don’t even sense the moment when you have lost yourself to a taste-challenged and an artistically challenged Prude God.

Now for the possibilities, the sheer possibilities that these fascinating things allow. The desi egg burji known exotically, appealingly as scrambled eggs...i can only be corny, sorry, eggy and say I want to scramble to eat them. The hint of spice in them, for this juicy combination of chilli and egg, you hold your breath, you let the tastes spread evenly in your mouth, until they are evenly distributed in the recesses of that undemanding palate and you are ready for the next.

I would gladly and warmly recommend all the egg preparations that involve breaking the egg. A more unconventional preparation, the egg sandwich lets you watch the egg in its various moods. There is nothing as riveting as watching an egg boil. It bobs gently up and down in a pan of boiling water, and I have never seen bubbles with so much character as when an egg is causing them. They are huge, not concentrated and celebratory of the egg.

Next, you take a catch or something hard, hold the egg gingerly in your hard (not hard to accomplish, if you feel so tenderly for it) and then gently knock it in the middle. And you will see a couple of reproachful cracks in the egg. Since you are such a tender lover, the egg does not mind you breaking it as it would have otherwise. Permit yourself to touch the egg after you have boiled the egg and removed the first layer of white. If you are a lusty man, you will forget about soft-skinned and shapey women. If you are a paedophile, maybe you should touch eggs, it may distract you awhile. But I digress. Boiling it and cracking the egg is only half the fun, if you know what comes next. That’s right, baby, you take a knife and approach. Have you ever in your life cut anything this willing to be demolished? The egg finally reveals all its secrets to you when you use the knife. Now you scoop the soft, little pieces of the egg and place them firmly between two slices of bread and draw close...

Egg noodles is delightful for the same reason, you know it has involved boiling, knocking, cutting. The only egg preparation that is slightly disappointing and that belies the loveliness of the egg is the omelette. And I will save myself the trouble of google-searching on how you make an omelette, because I really don’t care that much for it. All I can say is, it somehow changes the smell and colour of eggs to something it might never have been. I can be a stuffy academic and say the omelette violates the telos of the egg. But I won’t. Instead I will end the post here satisfied that I have egged you on to do you know what.

This one is for you, Calculus Meticulous Jr. coz I owe you my first egg.

Apr. 28th, 2008

(no subject)

Slurred speech, rapid gestures
Manner of speaking offensive
Frazzled nerves, prickly manners
Quaint diction, unwieldy hair

Speak to her, she will not listen
Reason with her, she will not heed
Sheepishly agreeing to bide
by the hour's untimely request

Racking the man by her weakness
creating a heavenly mess
There is no stopping the tide
of her foolish retreat into impulse

Creeping out of the shadows
Reluctantly facing the monsters
Hiding tearstained face
mistaking devil for saviour.

Meaning lost in counting
the hours left for reckoning
Smiling bravely at victor
lying low at the sight of danger

Smitten by an affected kindness
rooting for a lost affection
gathering menagerie of memory
Looking back in anticipation

Mar. 30th, 2008

The difference between Jews and Iyengars

I barely finished reading Philip Roth’s novel, “The Counterlife”, it must have been called The Great Jewish Novel really. A book about the strange predicament of American Jews suspended between sceptical self-perception and fanatical repudiation of all that is ‘goy’ (all that is non-Jewish) in one’s personal and public life. The more I think about it, the intensity and resentment of the fanatical Jews is not without context...a history of loss, a history of persecution. All the hate-filled rhetoric of these Jews spoken in a single voice buzzes in the head of the narrator in Counterlife, try as he might to get it out. He holds his own, preserves his sanity delicately against these frenzied people of his own community-he can do this in America, that is kind to Jews, he can even do this in Israel, which tries to lure him into a death trap of service to the Jew cause. He can’t do it, in of all places, in England, which harbours anti-Semitic sentiments under a placid surface of tolerance of diversity.

I can understand, if not sympathize with a community (not the nation Israel) that has a Holocaust to forget, that sees the Holocaust everywhere, a conspiracy to wipe out Jews everywhere. I can view with some concern the defensive Jew who is tired of being hated first because he was weak and non-Aryan, and hated later for being strong and aggressive (as one of the characters in this novel puts it). The zealous need for Jews to marry among themselves, the fear of losing potential soldiers for the war otherwise...there is as I said, a history to all that...narrow , violent and single-minded as Jewish ideals of the Lipmann kind may be, they have a mission. (It is possible to sympathize if one shuts one’s eyes to what is happening to the professed ‘Other’ of Jews, the Arabs)

What I have more trouble comprehending is the community self-perceptions here in India. My community, the Iyengars of Tamland, to take only one instance of a community in India...have no conscious memory of persecution, unless you unearth historical evidence of the Shaivites, the Lingayats, the Jains thirsting for Vaishnava blood...but not in our century, or the last, or the one before the last. Where then is the context for zealous reproduction, for refusing to admit none other than the Iyengar anywhere near their hearth (sad pun, admittedly) Where then the justification for ulle varade? Quite candidly, I am unable to comprehend the exclusiveness, the fearful raising of one’s own children...vaikuntham cannot surely be a Judea for Iyengars taking sanctuary in a fatherland that fiercely and lovingly guards its children from defection into the ranks of the goy.

There may be one explanation for the exclusiveness. The effect of illusion created by that intangible thing called ‘ambience’. And I am not simply talking about the vermilion, the incense, the saaligramams, the prayer-bells, or for that matter, women wearing 'ombodu gajams' (nine-yard sarees) and men wearing 'uttariyams' (a religious dupatta, if you will) No, I am talking about the temple culture, the cuisine, the act of eating itself, observing a respectable distance between the plate and the vessels, the 'madi', the diligent observation of festivals replete with every ritual (not many communities are as elaborate as us with rituals).

There may be other things contributing to the ambience, but these are the ones that no Iyengar will be unfamiliar with, growing up. Some of this may be responsible for the good clean vehemence, to quote Roth, with which we distinguish those who are Iyengar and who are not, before we consider them worthy for marriage.

I can sympathize with the Iyengar tribe as much as I might with the Jewish tribe if there were an effort to project our clannishness into something that transcends marriage. I may have my reservations about the Jewish mission, but at least there is a mission there; while we have ambience...I could go along with a project of Iyengar eugenics if all Iyengars, for instance, resolved to take over the UN. That way, we could find a lasting solution to the Israel-Palestine conflict peaceably. I could go along, if we decided to put our combined effort into opening a health spa, that way we could do what Phoebe in Friends aspired to do, “bodies at peace make peace”. I could go along, if we made our life’s mission advocacy against video piracy, violent video-gaming, child labour, child pornography, against sending all our children to IITs and IIMs...but give us a mission please!

Dec. 17th, 2007

Something more than sunlight

I desire something more than sunlight
Things look brighter than they must
Throwing everything into sharp relief
Affecting leaves and lovers

Sunlight causes persons to suffer forgetfulness
Live in a blizzard of fiery light
Reacting to external rays
Not minding the imminent gloom

Playfully tracing the shadows
Lingering around the trees in hopeful lust
Mopping up the mellow sun
Feigning pleasure in upturned face

Evenings have a mien of sobriety
in the wake of fearsome dazzle
Like a chameleon that learns caution
against its own ruse and charm

Aug. 31st, 2007


Desire is a thing of the past
Flesh of yearning left behind
Meat of hope replaced by
Something less urgent

And hovering beneath its
Demise is a longing less
Intense, less unbidden
More suited to temperament

Nothing to be celebrated
Is the demise of desire
Nothing to be commemorated
Either; for the forfeit of desire

Is no monument to anybody
No sacrament to love
It is no new meaning bared
It is no energy unleashed

Yet a dozen nightmares lurk
Behind desire, and a dozen
Nightmares are truly not
Worth Desire.

Aug. 27th, 2007

Contriving to forgive

The things people contrive to forgive
Are not trite
There is a lost hour, a moment of worry
A slip of tongue, a promise undone

An inclination to forget, a temptation
That is hard to overcome, a citation
Of failure, a wrong move and a classic
Memory of friends gone astray

A lapse of loyalty, a breach of honesty
A face we hate, a mask we loathe
The things people contrive to forgive
Are not trite

The people we contrive to forgive
Are not easily forgiven
A cruel mother, a honest friend
A ceaseless bore, a person you love

The feat of forgiving is contrived
To honour
Those we lost our senses to.

Aug. 22nd, 2007

C'est comme ca et pas comme ci

Many diapers back, when I was learning French, my cousin gave me a book called L'Etranger. Ah, I see the look of smug comprehension on your face, reader, but consider for a minute, the agony of a fifteen year-old who now possesses ostensibly a French classic and a beginner's Larousse French-English dictionary.

This is what the blurb said, quite simply, "Quand la sonnerie a encore retenti, que la porte du box s'est ouverte, c'est la silence de la salle qui est monte vers moi, le silence, et cette singuliere sensation que j'ai eue lorsque j'ai constate que le jeune journaliste avait detourne les yeux. Je n'ai pas regarde du cote de Marie. Je n'en ai pas eu le temps parce que le president m'a dit dans une forme bizarre que j'aurais la tete tranchee sur une place publique au nom du peuple francais."

Yes, in hindsight, I think my cousin had it for me and had it for me big. Well anyway, many diapers later, in fact, a few days back, I got hold of The Outsider by Albert Camus (pronounced kaamoo).

There are many things that are fascinating about The Outsider, like the fact that it was set in Algiers rather than Paris, that it was written in the Inter-War years, that it is an extensive critique of 'bourgeois sources of sensation', that its author was the Algiers goalkeeper (ok, I am kidding, no, Camus WAS a goalkeeper, only it's not so interesting) and that the author died quite young.

But Meursault...here is a man we are given to believe is indifferent: indifferent to his mother's death, indifferent to his neighbour beating up his dog, indifferent to Marie who he is involved with, indifferent to the man he has killed. Meursault is alive on each of these occasions to something else. He is alive to the sun overhead at his mother's funeral, to the heat waves, to the sensation of overwhelming drowsiness and exhaustion as he is waiting for her to be buried. His murder of the Arab in the book is a phsyical reaction to a fiery gust of wind and the blinding light of the Algiers sun.

At the trial, he is conscious of a robot-like woman onlooker, the curve of Marie's breasts as she testifies, the panama hat of another friend who is a witness. On all these occasions, Meurault seems almost to be jumping out of his skin, becoming a spectator to his own trial and spectator to the people at his trial. Meursault is astounded by the familiarity of all the details in even a place like the courtroom, astounded that his predicament does not make the ambience look different, astounded by the realization that he can find a way of rationalizing everything that has happened or may happen to him. The pure chance of it all prevents him from being outraged at what is happening to him, the sensation that "familiar paths traced in the dusk of summer evening may lead as well to prison as to innocent, carefree sleep."

He does mind staying in prison but not because things are different out there, but because he misses his occasional bathe, the summer nights and the cool air. Yet he does not mind forgoing all these things if he could only be allowed to live. For 'to be alive is to be privileged, and there was only one class of men, the privileged class.' The fact of his death alone is appalling to him, not the circumstance, the occasion or the excuse. Not that his girlfriend was married, not that his mother was gone, not that his friends were unworthy...the instance of his life, not the course of his life mattered the most.

That we can and will find something to preoccupy ourselves is a foregone reality for Camus. Brooding over some irreversibles in life, I find something reassuring about the 'benign indifference of the universe' that Meursault submits himself to.

Merci, mon cousin.

May. 22nd, 2007

A gentleman named Harry

Harry’s real name was Harish, but Harish was so untypical of Harry that everyone called him Harry. Harry drank a lot. Harry was nice to women. He fixed drinks for women. Harry was polite to women. He never misbehaved with the women he drank with. Harry liked to hunt, it was a hobby. Sometimes Harry hunted out of the kindness of his heart, because the crops needed him to kill animals that preyed on the plants. Harry was brash and aggressive but only because other men were brash and aggressive. Harry liked P.G.Wodehouse. Harry’s favourite character in P.G.Wodehouse was Galahad. Which was why he was also called Gally. Harry liked dogs, he gave dogs silly names. He named a dog Dora, and Dora adored Harry.

In academic matters, Harry hated Theory. Harry was averse to talking Theory, hearing Theory and indulging people who spoke Theory. Where topics of discussion went, Harry’s favourite topic was British colonization. Harry believed, like his teacher, that Brits were good sods. He worshipped a teacher who said, “The Brits were not the only colonizers, we colonize, America colonizes, Sri Lanka colonizes”.

Where feminism went, Harry had very outspoken views. Harry incensed a feminist teacher once by remarking that he was tired of feminists who menstruated their nonsense all over their books. But Harry had a soft corner for women. Especially the dark-eyed and the wheatish complexioned ones. Harry loved to sing for women. He invariably sang, Mehbooba, ooh, Mehbooba for them. He sang in a sonorous, manly voice. That was it essentially, Harry was manly, full of manly pride.

Harry’s taste in music was very Harry. He liked Harry Belafonte and not simply because he shared a name with him. He liked him for his touching, simple songs that always beckoned the woman to stay at home. He liked Mark Knopfler too, but that was for a different reason altogether. Harry admired any guy who was unapologetic about his whisky.

Harry was homophobic. His worst nightmare was to travel in a local Mumbai train compartment full of men. However, he had many close male friends he bonded with. He liked a quiet gin with them once in a while, but he preferred the brooding privacy of a whisky with a woman soul-mate.

Harry was not just gay-phobic, he was also lesb-phobic. He could not watch two women hug without shuddering deeply. He looked discreetly away when women complimented each other about their looks. When he himself complimented women, he was very asexual about it. He hid his warm feelings for a woman by constantly calling her a bonny lassie with a toothy smile. He went as far as to say she had a very wringable neck, and when the woman asked him, if that was an insinuation, he blushed hotly and retorted, Of course not, of course not.

Harry liked to think of women as Aunties. He liked his Aunties to call him Uncle. He fancied that the Uncle and the Aunties were all part of a harem. Harry of course was just the kind of guy who had a harem. He fancied that when he had his own house, it would have a zenana, many servants, a pretty wife and loads of children. But most importantly, many servants. Because, you see, Harry liked the feudal arrangement. He never minded it if his servant brought him dinner to his bedside. And he insisted that his servants keep him updated about tribe uprisings, crop failure, estate value. And he was always generous to his servants. He never raised his voice with a servant, he gave them their wage on time, he offered to find brides for them, he sometimes even drank with them. All this he did because he cared for his tribe. He cared for the honour of his tribe.

Harry is now entertaining the thought of a wife. He is however very considerate and is making room for possible reservations she may have. He is however determined not to let his prospective wife trample over his free spirit. He must be able to hunt every once in a while, drink frequently enough and visit the estate to see if all is fine.

And now for the real part. I love Harry. We all love Harry. We love Harry because he is such a nice guy. Because he is unlike everyone else, so easygoing, so good-natured, so easy to forgive. We hate to see him pulled down. Yet it was so easy to be angry with Harry. Because he was so relentlessly himself. And it was easy to forget about what he did, not because he redeemed himself eventually, but because he ended up doing the same things he did. As a friend once put it, “You are a cynic if you have stopped believing in Harry. It’s like you have stopped believing in angels. He will aggravate you no end, but he’ll smile that smile of his, ‘It’s me Aunty, why are you getting worked up?’”

Note: This one is naturally for you Harry, for indulging me, for putting up with my tempers, my impatience, my general waywardness.>

Feb. 20th, 2007

A series of not so unfortunate events

In that city that knows only extremes in everything, sweltering heat or chilly jackety weather, loud and lechy Jats or bonhomous Punjabis, overmade and poutish women or irritable gaali-mouthing aunties. Where barbers shave away at random street corners and where pretentious youths carry their laptops to Market Cafe or Big Chill to check gmail (fancy that) or write novels where "the atmosphere was moist with sexual tension".

This entry is about a series of events, nay encounters of my friends and randomly my own encounters with each other and with that unique variety of Indians, namely, Delhiites.

P~'s encounter with the concerned co-passenger
I'll start with the train journey, where P~ and I were quite oblivious of the world at large, of our scandalous conversation, and most of all, of one gentleman, if you will admit that gentlemen can burp very loudly, sound orgasmic when they drift gently to sleep.

We were then quite unmindful of this gentleman, and given that this was our first long session in quite a while, we had no thought to break up soon. Late in the evening, when we had had our fill, and were actually relaxing in a certain post-coital sense,

Uncle trips into saying: Accha, only one of you is having reservation, is it not?
Me (politely, almost civilly): Yeah, she's my friend and she's here.
Uncle in rising tempo (read temper): I am observing you, you are going on talking, and I was listening to your caanversation, you ARE INDISCIPLINed and disGUSTing, what naansense are you talking, you are giving madam here (and he points at a lady who wakes up reluctantly) a headache. You are...(tapers off, as he is not allowed to finish)
P~: You limit your right to objecting to our conversation. How dare you edit the contents of our conversation? You actually eavesdrop; lap up all that we say keenly and then you ask us to stop disturbing you.
P~ to me: I've had enough of this disgusting creature aunty, I'll see you later.
Me (shrilly and in vain): Aunty wait

P~ walks all the way to her compartment, some eight bogies away, fumes and can't stop fuming, comes huffing and puffing all the way back and throws herself (metaphorically and angrily) at concerned Uncle and says,
Yeah, I didn't want you to think, I got intimidated and ran away, I think you're disgusting, coarse, without an education to speak of.
Uncle (by this time, both his English and his courage have failed him, so he is almost defenseless): Haan haan maa, English bolnese kuch nahi hota, main educated nahin hoon, vohi bolre ho naan?
P~: Yes, uneducated, illiterate and a b, no a peasant (P~ tells me later her first choice was a boor, but she settled on a peasant obviously out of loyalty to and fond memory for V~)

G~’s encounter with the formidable Jat
B~, G~ and me had finished a very fulfilling round of Palika Bazar, that free porn-selling, shady and delicious subway and were gorging ourselves and this time, quite mindful of the formidable Jat (he could be nothing else, he had the belly and manners of one) sitting across, and being something of unrestrained people ourselves, couldn’t help pointing a little unsubtly at him
Me: Your city is full of supercilious bitches and creepy men like the Jat across us.
G~ (looking directly behind him and giggling): Yeah, quite.
Formidable Jat (very formidably and loudly): Yes boss, what is it, talk to me now.
G~ (almost girlishly if not churlishly): Oh nothing

Formidable Jat: Where are you working?
G~ (drawing himself to his full height): Errr…what?
Formidable Jat: I saw you staring and giggling, where are you working
G~ (failing to see the compelling logic): You are a very insecure man Sir, you are not appealing to us in a way we would want to stare.
Formidable Jat (now in full form): Now what are you suggesting Boss, that I am ugly?
G~: Ugly enough for us not to notice.
Formidable Jat: I’ll tell you what (comes right across to G~) and instead of telling G~ slaps him quite hard across the face.
I shall for the genteel readers of this blog, edit the rest of the conversation, but I can’t help adding that an adrenaline-driven G~ managed to stand his own, or slap his own, and the waiters had to interfere and extricate one from the other, after which the Jat made a hurried exit. Later reports of course say that the Jat called the next day, admitted to have been quite alcohol-pumped and offers an apology, but these reports remain to this day unconfirmed.

P's encounter with A~ and B~
P~ was meeting A~ and B~ for the first time and as she reported later, was left feeling quite overwhelmed by the experience, as A~ at least had lived up to the descriptions of him so beautifully that she didn’t believe fact to be different from fiction any more.

Before P~ arrives
A~ to me: Yeah, so this friend of yours, man, describe her (when A~ asks you to describe a woman, he wants only the “bare” details)
Me (angelically): What do you want to know?
A~: Yeah, what makes her interesting, is it her persona, her ravishing looks, is she well-read, does she listen to good music?
G~ to A~ : She is a Mall (as if that were self-explanatory)
A~ (quite needlessly): Oh, I love Malls…
G~: And she is from Hech.C.U (G~ and all the others say I can’t say Ech.C.U. to save my life)
Me: (a little earnestly): By the way, why should she have ravishing looks, listen to good music or any of that, isn’t it enough she is MY friend (stretching my luck really)
A~ (ponderously):Ah, but I don’t bring any of my friends and expect you to warm up to them because they are my friends, like, COME on, man

P~ drops in, swishing her bag and phone a little self-consciously on the table.
A looks a little bashful, and fails to make small talk and so returns to being his boisterous self, ignoring her completely, but later confesses to G~ that he found P~ to be quite the thing, and as “the mysterious woman of strange allure”. P~ of course peevishly says that she cut ice with A~ only when she quoted the Jabberwocky.

G~'s encounter with the eunuch or the eunuch's encounter with G~?
We were all sprawled out quite blissfully at India Gate, P~ and I had finally bored even ourselves gloating about India Gate, when a very pretty eunuch, yes a really pretty and solitary eunuch stepped right in front of us. (She was quite something, very mild-mannered, not aggressive at all, inviting smile and all, and as G~ put it, had it not been for the fact that she WAS a eunuch, she could have passed off as a randomly pretty woman albeit with a deep-throated baritone.)

G~ (a little cautiously): Nahin kuch paise vaise nahin he
The eunuch: Are kuch to hoga, dedona, and makes a pass at him with her toe.
G~ (hotly): Bola na kuch nahin hai, jaaon abhi
The eunuch: Ladki jaisi gussa, kya chupke rakha hai udhar, and points at
G~'s unmentionables.
G~ (spluttering): Jaati hai ki nahi?
The eunuch (reluctantly passes, but determined to deliver the coup de grace)
says: Kabhi tera phutdis ooncha nahin hoga (May you never have an erection)

And here I shall end my narrative…B~ who was present in most of these encounters, you might think, was a silent spectator, but that’s just a euphemism for wily instigator, so don’t you be trusting witnesses who tell you B~ is a harmless guy or that he is a “poet in the garden”.

This one is for G~ and B~, both of whom were beautiful hosts, where beautiful is an adjective that qualifies them as hosts only...

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