We had moved to the open part of the terrace; it was quite dark. I was with this small group, mainly writers. A tall man walked in wearing a crisp starched white shirt. He was dark and had a thick moustache. Rafi introduced us.
“Yeh Abid Ali hai aur yeh Farzana…aapse kahaa tha na hamari Bambai se dost aayi hai?” (I had told you about this friend from
Abid Ali addresses me, “Bambai kaisa hai?” (How is
“Bas, Bambai jaisa hai,” I reply. (Just like
He smiles politely and is rescued from me.
I ask the friend who is sitting there, “Who is he?”
“You don’t know Waris?”
“Whose waris is he?”
“The drama serial…he is very famous.”
Okay, I had not seen Waris, although he did look familiar. And, yes, he has a voice that is a combination of an iron fist and velvet gloves…
- - -
Venue: Does not matter
A woman is complaining about life to her parents.
“One day I will just get pissed drunk with vodka and stand in the middle of the road and let a car drive over me.”
“Gosh, what a waste of vodka,” I say.
- - -
Had taken a quick city tour the first time. The group dispersed in different directions. I walked along with an American couple. The guy asked me, “Can you do that?” as he pointed to a group of jugglers trying to catch hold of several balls.
Without thinking I said, “Sure, but not with those.”
- - -
IK comes to fetch me. His family has invited me for a perfect Tam-Brahm breakfast of idlis, dosa, upma. Unaccustomed as I was then to
“Here, wrap this,” he said as he revved up his bike.
Me: “I am very garam.”