Why the Mona Lisa Smiles!

Disclaimer and Dedication: This Post is dedicated to all my wonderful lady friends, none of whom even remotely resemble the below (I hope). Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely Coincidental. Specially dedicated to that wonderful friend who offered me a stipend and free meals to be her ‘keep’ after marriage. I am still in shock.

Many, many years ago, a woman went shopping and came back with an apple from the Forbidden tree. Her dude, Adam was having a pretty chill time in Eden, enjoying an exhibitionist lifestyle, eating food of choice and drinking that amazing stock of one year old grape juice that they now call wine. Eve gave Adam a bite of this taboo fruit and got him into deep shit for no fault of his. I suspect she knew what she was doing all along cos the moment they ate the fruit, she had this urge to go shopping for clothes. Since Eden had limited design houses, specializing only in fig leaves, she decided to quit the place and scout around for a few thousand years till Gucci, Armani and Valentino gave them more options.
A few millennia later, nothing much has changed. While they were waiting, she just about forced him to have a few billion children. They can now choose their apple, be it ‘California Red’ or ‘Golden Delicious’. And she still shops for clothes and gets him to work hard to pay for them. Eves and Adams still date each other and hate each other with the same frequency. Eve still gets Adam into all sorts of mischief, never apologies and never gives a damn about Adam’s choice in the matter. The saga continues……………………..

In my half a lifetime of dealing with women, I have learnt exactly nothing! As sister, lover, friend, relative, etc they still remain an enigma.
To understand a woman is just about as hard as it to drive a stretch Limo on Indian roads. I am told I am very perceptive by nature, so here is a listing on how to handle certain situations which arise in your dealings with this ‘can’t live with, can’t live without’ aspect of a young man’s life.
>> GIRLFRIEND:She asks you, “How do I look?’:
Logically this would warrant a pretty frank answer based on your comparisons with certain magazines that you used to view a lot when in Hostel. But then you would not want to hurt her either.
So you tell her she looks good.
She turns around and asks you “Just good?”
Woopsie! Danger!!! This is the part where you are supposed to call 108 and get yourself admitted to a remote hospital in Bihar with absolutely no visitation hours. But you are a child of Adam and the Y chromosome just does not support this initiative, so you say
“Dropdead Gorgeous”
She stares at you and says, “You’re just saying this to make me happy”
“Honest, you say. You will make Marisa and Gabrielle so jealous!!!”
Something tells you that somewhere nearby, something akin to a pressure cooker explosion is about to happen. She gives you a 30 second stare and screams,
“Why do you have to think of Marisa now? I know you always had this thing for her. Don’t think I’m a fool (You chuckle inside). And Gabrielle? Why, she is such a wannabe. She dresses like a *&^% and she must have been dating the whole college and the staff !
Blah, blah, blah, blah, CRASH, blah, blah, blah, blah, SOB, blah blah blah!
You wonder why the Catholic Church does extend the Last Sacrament to situations like this. Eventually you head out for a drink and a fun night at the club with your chums!!!
>>GIRLFRIEND:You tell her, “I need to watch that game this afternoon”
“Sure”, she says
30 minutes into the second half of the game. Arsenal is already getting thrashed by MU. You can’t bear it!
Your heart is in your mouth as MU is about to open it’s score. Suddenly you hear
“Did you know, Tanya has dry skin?”
Huh? “No”, you grunt but the voice of doom persists
“She has been trying to know where I get my skin treated. She has been dying to get my secrets…………………..Are you listening?”
“Gimme 15 minutes, then we’ll talk!”
Woopsie! It would have been better the stadium had collapsed under the weight of those overfed English fans before you said that
“I just asked you as question, you never have time for me……………..” Shut your ears
“5 minutes is all I asked for, and you just watch that stupid game”. You turn off the TV.
“Why did you turn it off. You wanna make me feel guilty?”. You turn it on.
“See, football is all you care about, you don’t understand me at all. All my life………………………………….”
You suddenly feel like taking a 2 hour dump in the sanctuary of ‘loo’ and it saves your life!
>>SISTER: You ask her, “Can I borrow your hair dryer, Snoopy (the dog) got wet playing in the rain with us”
Monologue
“Snoopy got wet? Oh the poor darling. Look at him. He might catch pneumonia (or diphtheria, whooping cough, Parkinson’s etc etc)”
“Get him dry, quick. Why did you take him in the rain? YOU ALWAYS DO THIS”
2 minutes silence
“Why do you need my dryer? He is YOUR dog. Why should you use MY dryer? Why don’t you buy one. All that money that you waste on nights out with your rogue friends who look like holocaust survivors. Except for Edgar who is not bad looking and has a cute dimpled smile. Is he seeing someone? Why are you smirking? I’m just asking. Don’t you dare suggest something. Can’t I have my own life? It’s my life and my choice and you have no right to poke your nose. YOU ALWAYS DO THIS”
Snoopy gives a majestic sneeze
“Why don’t you dry him quickly? He already looks sick. Poor fellow, poor Snoopy, Snoopy, Baby, koochie koochie koo”
“Hey, why is he going into my room? Don’ you dare let him in! I won’t stand it. ALWAYS DO THIS. Just because Mama favours you does not mean you can do what you want. Don’t take me for granted just because I’m a girl. Girls can do anything these days”
30 second silence
“Can you carry out those boxes? They are too heavy for me and I may chip my fingernails”
>>MIDDLE AGED SINGLE WOMAN: You ask (You had cranial malfunction that day), “What plans for the weekend?”
Monologue again
“Nothing much”
3 minutes of thought!
“Maybe I’ll go shopping for a new dress. But I feel so guilty cos I have so many nice clothes, you know everybody looks at me only. They say, I look hot”
“They keep asking me to get married but you just can’t marry anyone you know. You have to be careful. I’d prefer to be single than marry just about anyone without knowing them first”
I recollect her daily visitations to Shaadi.com but decide not to mention it
“In fact, last year (I know for sure it was 5 years back), I got so many(Actually, only one) Valentine day cards from people (From Jason Pereira who looks like Winston Churchill and has passed 7th standard after seven attempts).But I think this is all rubbish, you know”
“Valentines, day is for children only. I don’t believe in all this. I will only see someone who looks like……………..maybe Chandler and should at least be a post graduate!”
Phone rings.
“Hello”
“Jason, I’m fine”
“Valentine’s day dinner? Sure, I’ll come”
My mind goes back to the sexy Renee Zelwegger and the Bridget Jones diary.

There is much more that can be said about these wonderful companions to Man. Truly God was ‘taking a dig’, at my ribs when he made them. And going by Genesis, that is literally true, I believe. No matter what you do, you always get it wrong. A few deviants do exist but those are all my dedicated friends and I reserve them for personal attentions and affections only. So buddies, you are doomed. Now you know why the Mona Lisa smiles. A woman always has the last laugh……………………………………………

The Bakaar’s Funeral

Dom Remedios Silva is dead. May God grant him rest!

He lay in a coffin, a look of merry amusement on his face.

Dressed in his wedding suit, now 54 years too old and two sizes too small, he lay looking rather stuffed and stiff in his satin lined coffin. Those who had dressed him for his final journey had done a good job. He lay well groomed and clean - a contrast to the merry drunkard that he had been in life! A rosary in his gloved hands, and wearing the mantle of the Confraria, he looked prepared and ready to give the Father, Son and the Holy Ghost a true count of the 'little pegs' that had kept him company in life. He lay in state in his ‘salle grande’ with all his venerable ancestors keeping an uncomfortable vigil from their frames on the walls.

The house had been washed and cleaned for the occasion. The finest crochet on display, fresh flowers, and the perpetual cobwebs over the family portraits temporarily removed. His mundkar women had descended on the house on hearing of his death and lovingly cleaned that dismal rotting grand mansion and its environs. In life Dom Silva had been the principal ‘Bakaar’ and had to be sent to Happy Hunting Grounds as such.


Those venerable nonagenarians, incapacitated by age and cataract, had suitably perched themselves in front of the family altar storming heaven for his soul’s salvation with their Hail Mary’s and Our Father’s. The men, of course, played a role of far vital role; they perched themselves on the Balcao and around the compound repeating the tale of Dom Silva and his life, suddenly so illustrious and fictitious, so that even the odd stranger who strayed into the yard would be forced to pay homage to that ‘Pillar of Society’ who, till yesterday, was the village Bebdo.

The family was in shock and deep mourning. Dom Silva died childless, preceded by his wife Anna Maria, and was the last of his siblings. His two nieces and their husbands had rushed home on hearing the news, after making suitable stops to buy the latest in funeral dresses. Donna Aura and her husband, the henpecked Dom Peregrino, and the sultry widowed Donna Fausta were both deeply shaken. They wailed for suitable periods of time and then rested; the strain of having to resume lamentations for their Tio Remmie, whom they had not visited for years, every time a relative came to pay respects was beginning to show on them. The devastated Dom Peregrino steeled his nerves by suitable and periodic draughts from his rum bottle. This devoted family of three seated themselves on the heavily carved furniture alongside the open coffin with a look of perpetual grief captured on their faces, specially designed for the occasion, as people poured in.

The funeral was the following morning. Meanwhile, the village cook had been summoned and was suitably cooking sumptuous food to reward the visitors for their acts of homage. The rooster and two his concubines had lost their lives to share in the enthusiasm of Dom Remmie’s death. Sufficient food and drink lay stocked in the larder to accommodate the string of visitors, none of whom could be sent away hungry. Goan hospitality in the face of death itself!

At nightfall the family retired, after taking suitable possession of family jewels and valuables. Some stoic villagers and two long candles kept vigil by his coffin, and the chant of holy rosaries died away as the pious lips dozed. The bells of the nearby church, which had been pealing regularly for the Bakaar at Rs 10 a set, were now quiet. All through the evening Jack Rosario, the village simpleton, had ridden hard on his bicycle, ringing the hand held bell he carried, to announce the sad tidings and inform those who asked him of the funeral details so that they could plan their shopping and other activities accordingly. Stillness crept into the house as the night advanced. Far away in the news press the 5 names and 3 surnames of the deceased were published, along with a 30 year old photograph of him and his connections to all his 59 relatives through blood and marriage, deceased and alive, interested and disinterested.

Morning dawned and, as the newspapers were delivered, people in mourning - men in black suits and women in mourning dresses with shades chosen commensurate with the level of closeness to the dearly departed ranging from deep black to light blue - started arriving for the funeral. Quick checks were done on whether the Don had, in his life, sent wreaths to their own family funerals and other eligibility criteria for granting him one. Every family made sure they were suitably represented. The death of the Bakaar was, after all, no light matter.

Half an hour before the scheduled time for the cortege to make it’s way to the church, the brass band assembled outside to play their doleful marches. The unattended little children danced with glee. The house was jam packed; women watched their husband’s roving eyes; unmarried spinsters looked hopefully at the smartly dressed men who cast fleeting glances and winks in their direction. A few scandals of the family were whispered back and forth. Finally the priest arrived and blessed the deceased in his coffin. The coffin was carried out. The funeral procession, led by the children, the women, the men, the confreres, the priest, the hearse, the family, the brass band, and the late arrivals in the same order, wound their way to the church, and then to his final resting place.

In death perhaps, the lonely man enjoyed affection, glory, honor, company, and society that was denied to him in life! Here at least must the living envy the dead!

Credits: The images used above are copies of the awesome work by Mario Miranda. They capture the essence of Goa beautifully! Every Goan should at least get prints of his work!

Ode to Curd Rice

An anniversary brings nostalgia, be it one to commemorate birth, death, marriage, or any other ‘need to forget’, or ‘want to remember’ event. Today marks the completion of one year in Bangalore for me, and that little bug that scratches at a writer’s brain, till he has expressed himself with as much creativity as ‘Times New Roman’ or ‘Arial’ will allow, is at work again.

The first thing that strikes you about the City is its scenery. You will find astonishingly ‘chaste’ pockets of old world Bangalore such as Cubbon Park and Lalbagh, and a sprinkling of modern landscaping wonders, such as the Jayprakash Park. A lot of private properties also hide little patches of green, well protected by those high granite walls with ‘Do not Urine Here’ posters pasted at two metre intervals. I am not sure how effective this is, but a walk along any footpath will tell you that some taps, of a certain masculine variety, never run dry, and effectively keep the pavements moist even if ‘Kaveri’ water taps and bore wells fail to do so. These granite pavements are further designed such that every other slab is placed at an odd angle to the next so that you may enjoy something akin to a ‘lunar’ jog in your zealous exploration of the
city.

One year and my Kannada vocabulary is still shamefully inadequate, but I enjoy fair success in my daily dealings. I have discovered that 70% of daily Kannada can be derived by the clever usage of the word ‘maadi’, which translates to ‘to do’. Take an example. You need to take an Auto rickshaw to Brigade road. Get into auto and shout loudly ‘Brigade Road’. As you travel, generously exclaim ‘left maadi’, ‘right maadi’, ‘turn maadi’, and ‘stop maadi’, as required to reach your destination. Similarly, to instruct your maid, keep interjecting, at suitable intervals, with ‘clean maadi’, ‘wait maadi’, and ‘wash maadi’, to get your chores done with superlative degrees of success. One word of caution, though - never use ‘maadi’ without a suitable prefix, especially with the ladies. They tend to interpret your clarion call of ‘maadi’, or ‘to do’, in a
very different and more sexual flavor, as I have learnt from sour personal experience!

People here are very cautious about newcomers and renting premises to them, and the levels of caution differ. Some landlords are extremely cautious that they should not admit that terrible species called the ‘Non Veg’ tenant. It is futile to explain that the few extra pounds you carry are not from eating your own grandmother and cousins! Cannibals and ‘Non Veggies’ garner the same amount of affection, even if your carnivorous exploits are limited to that occasional binge at the KFC. A far more dangerous variety however, is the ‘Bachelor’. I always assumed that my being a bachelor and being unmarried are pretty much the same thing till I was ousted from a prospective apartment by a hysterical ‘nightie’ clad landlady informing me that she prefers only ‘married’ bachelors as the building is full of families. I have written to the Webster, the Oxford and the Britannica scribes for an explanation, but in vain. You must also remember that: a studio apartment, with or without a kitchen, is a ‘room’, a fully furnished’ apartment means it has a wardrobe/cupboard and nothing else, unless specified, ‘Vaastu’ compliance is charged extra, and if you have a ‘Kaaveri as well as borewell’ option, your residence could be an annex to the Carlton! Beware of another strange experience: You will find every driver, cleaner, retired government servant, loafer, student, etc, more than dying to show you a suitable place to rent. The moment you have done so however, he will promptly declare that he is now your broker and that you should pay him a month’s rent as commission!

Now that you have shelter, you must attend to food. Contrary to a lot of cultures, rice is staple - maybe super staple. You eat rice for all meals, and snacks too! It comes in various ‘avatars’ such as Bisi bele baath, Vaangi baath and Chitrana. To start your day, ask for ‘tiffin’(which is never packed or packaged in a tiffin). More educated restaurant owners will be happy to serve you ‘break-past’. If you have any Brahmin lineage, you can forget about any credits on that count unless you frequently consume curd rice. People here seldom believe in sitting restaurants. Most restaurants will provide you with a one square foot allocation on tall tables where people nourish themselves standing up. I am not sure if this helps to digest the astonishing amounts of rice and its derivatives, but I will bring it to the attention of eminent gastroenterologists. Lunch can be pretty much the same thing that you had for ‘break-past’, or a plain rice serving with ‘rasam’ and ‘sambar’. Now ‘rasam’ and ‘sambar’ are essential for the correct phonetics of all South Indian languages, I suspect. No matter what you eat, you have to drown all the food in an inch of ‘sambar’ (no extra veggies required) during the first half of the meal, and with ‘rasam’ when your sambar has run out. Even if you tried, a spoon and fork are quite useless; a spoon and drinking straw would be far more useful! There are a lot more culinary delights, such as ‘raagi’ balls that you must swallow and not chew (no, they are not homeopathic medication), dosa ( masala/Playan(plain)/paper/onion), wada (n factorial varieties), and some others of similar rice/dal based origins. Non veg is found in ‘Mallu’ districts in exactly and precisely 6 dishes, namely fish ‘pry’, fish curry, chicken ‘pry’, chicken curry, beef ‘pry’, and beef curry; no other preparations are known. These are eaten either with rice or with two Kerala specialties: the Kerala paratha and the ‘Appam’ - both of which are favorites of mine! There is also the third option of Andhra food. Feel free to try the ‘Guntur’ chicken (‘Naati’ or Playan(plain)) or their delectable seafood preparations. The only catch is that that exactly 34 seconds after you have let the food slide into food pipe, it is in your own interests to hose it down with at least 2.5 buckets of sugar and water. When I recommend Andhra food, I am legally required to give this Statutory Warning: Andhra food side effects seen on visit to bathroom next morning. Please note that while I relish Andhra food too, a year is yet to steel my guts to stop complaining about the spice! Not sure what ‘Naati’ chicken is, but I suspect it is used to describe the country chicken, who has opportunity to be far more ‘naati’ (naughty) in it’s conjugal visitations to sexual partners than its caged farm broiler counterpart.

Clothing yourself in Bangalore is easy if you are a male. You can pick up the latest and the best at the perpetual sales that run across the factory outlets that dot every neighborhood. Colour co-ordination is unimportant. If the local film fashion sense is any indication, then you are a stud/hunk if you have:

a) A paunch, pronounced flabby love handles and a hairy body with ‘never been shaved’ armpits

b) An irregularly emerging beard; just a sprinkling of hair will do as long as you are playing the ‘son’

c) A luxurious moustache that curls into your mouth, and which is quite handy to strain your tea d) You wear gaudy clothes that are a ‘sausage’ fit, and nicely accentuate your fatty areas as you ‘dence’ Women generally opt for single and double strap sandals that are sold by the hundreds in the city markets, unlike their male counterparts in Reebok and Nike. Most women will grace state occasions wearing multiple gold bangles and necklaces (in multiples of the dozen), with lavish silk saris, and wonderfully unkempt, cracked, and dry feet. The only explanation is that either cracked feet are of erotic interest, or that the state levies a special service tax on pedicure services that make them prohibitively expensive. There are of course those Bangalore nymphs and gods who make my above testimony appear a raving lie, but these are more the exception than the rule.

Social life in Bangalore is intense. You would generally sleep till 11.30 a.m. on weekends before heading off to the commercial districts, or malls, where one can get so vigorously ‘social’ by rubbing hands, legs, butt, etc, with thousands of other strangers who descend on these hotspots to do the precisely the same thing. If you wish to hit the pubs feel free to enjoy yourself, provided you sit and drink, do not dance, and go home by 10 p.m. Any attempts to ‘shake a leg’ or stay out later than this are seen as highly promiscuous activitied by the local authorities. One is also not expected to uncover those highly ‘additional private’ parts called the calves and the ankles for both men and women. This is only permitted if you are wearing a periodically ‘fold up’ lungi or local aboriginal dress. The local ‘IT’ and ‘student’ crowd who are sinful enough to consider breaking these guidelines can be suitably beaten up by anyone who cares to. This rule is relaxed only in the case of newly married couples on honeymoon to Goa. The standard regulatory costume for honeymoon on the beaches and party zones of Goa only is as follows:

> Male: Banyan with ‘It’s better in Goa’ printed on it, Bermuda shorts with tightening cord hanging in front of crotch for a minimum length of 2 feet , white socks, black leather shoes, sunglasses, tattoo (optional)

> Female: Spaghetti strap blouse with mangalasutra conspicuously displayed, long flowing skirt to cover ankles and cheap sandals. Gold and glass bangles to be worn for at least half the forearm, with red vermillion in the hair and jasmine flowers. Large handbag (Louli Vouitan), sunglasses, tattoo (banned)

Once you eventually fit into the Bangalore described above and get accustomed to the traffic, take time off to enjoy the climate and the wonderful lakes that are found all over. These serve as excellent ground water replenishment and are fed by the rains. They also serve the noble function of receiving and storing the outflow of the many sewers, thus solving two problems at the same time.

But the City has a charm of its own too. I will spare you the torture of listing these as they are lauded in any guide to Bangalore. Once you get to know this place with all its attributes however, there is on thing which will surprise you yourself. You will get so attached that all the satirical jokes from a naughty old fool like me will not budge you from your resolve to make this city your home. Mysteriously, and in spite of all that I complain of, I have too!

Three cheers to Bangalore/Bengalaroo!

The King of Good Times!

Power corrupts, they say..............................................................

But what if you are given power to corrupt people by getting them to adopt a lifestyle of indulgence, gluttony and debauchery?

They acknowledged me as King last Saturday, and gave me three days of sovereignty to sanction just such abandon. These merry people of the Karnataka Goans Association, Bangalore made me King Momo and granted me stewardship over their Carnival Celebrations!

A couple of days prior, I racked my brains on how to dress for the occasion. My 6 foot 3 inch frame is made for the role as far as altitude, but sadly lacks latitude! So I prevailed on my ever obliging parents to rush me my gold and white ‘art deco’ bedroom curtains, and those Christmas chains, from Goa. The night before was then spent conversing with a wonderful tailor, who replied in rustic Kannada (of which I didn’t understand a word) to my regal English (of which he didn't understand a word). Between the two of us, and a few amused passersby, I got the divine regal costume ready.

D-day dawned!

The royal robes packed, I rushed to the venue with the rest of the troop. The architect of the event, the lovely Lady L, who tried hard to convince us that she was as threatening as she was charming, was waiting, arms akimbo, to have us rehearsed and ready. All was fine till it dawned on my thick head that I seemed to be walking alone. My Queen was late! I spent the wait watching everyone deck themselves in preparation for the parade. We had Spanish dancers, kunbis and an assortment of lovely people. My Queen arrived, gorgeous as expected, to light up the night with her dazzling gold attire. I tried to reflect her glory with my massive robes of gold net and white lace! A few kindly ladies tried to upgrade this poor bachelor’s rugged face with a generous application of that abomination called ‘foundation’, and that wretched thing called ‘rouge’. I thanked them profoundly and walked to the next room and washed it off! Ladies, you girls are the sweetest, but I’d rather use distemper or oil paint than that terribly complex coloring that you all use with such comfort. My apologies to Lady L, and another Lady L, who had to tolerate my insufferable squeals and outbursts as they tried to get me ready.

The astonished guests gaped and revealed their sometimes not so white pearls as the parade poured out of the changing rooms and into the venue; the band playing the Carnival tune, the first batch of little children dancing walking along the pathway carpeted around the venue. Then again, followed by another, and yet another, troop of brilliantly dressed and dancing children, and youngsters, and not so young youngsters, in different role-plays. My entourage, consisting of 3 adorable children, 4 princesses in pink, and the Queen and myself waving to the jubilant crowds, brought up the rear. For obvious reasons, my chest swelled 12 inches, and I found myself gleefully trying to win the hearts of my so called subjects, all attired in a themed red and black. When I eventually made my way to the stage with my royal companions, it was my task to pronounce ‘the edict’, of which I seem to have done a fairly good, perhaps loud, job of, judging by the response from the excited people. In short, they acknowledged me as King, and my decree granted them 3 days of eating, drinking, and making merry under the resounding cries of ‘Viva Carnaval!’

My job done, an attempt was then made at some sort of dance routine which we soon abandoned, due to the multiple times my billowing robes almost tripped me up and endangered the lives of my fair Queen and the divine princesses! We then strolled into the welcoming crowds where these good natured people, plebeians and patricians alike, got themselves photographed with their King of three days.

These last formalities complete, I relieved myself of the weight of my regalia and slipped into something far more comfortable, albeit with a mask on. I spent much of the evening saying hello to everyone, looking for friends, making friends, and generally being a nice fellow. Did a bit of footloose dancing with whoever would have me as a partner or kept spending time introducing myself to the sweet gentry of Bangalore. The evening wound on with much dancing! I had to play a game where I had to pick people blindfolded from the crowd. Amidst all the jocund push and shove and naughty butt pinching, I finally finished the ritual and got myself a drink.

As with most parties, here too, you may have many people but few types of people. I take a clinical interest in this, and paid equal amounts of attention to all:

There are those divine families who come and park themselves at their table. Their skill lies in being able to entrap the attentions and conversations of anyone passing by, but God forbid that their often prosperous ‘behind’ leave the comfort of the chair.

Then there are those healthy groups of friends who will pull and join as many tables together so that they may not be separated. Once done, they indulge in the mirth and silly humor that is the privilege of youth, till everyone around has formed a broad ‘No Man’s’ zone around them.

You also have those fresh lovers, generously bathed in deodorant and perfume, to whom the rest of the gathering is non existent and to whom there was not enough time at home to recite those lovers’ rosaries that must be incessantly whispered into each others ears.

Next you have the stags whom you will spot sitting or standing on the periphery watching the happily paired and the available but inattentive (to them) damsels on the dance floor. This is a very harmless species that can spend hours with a beer can in hand and an empty vacant look on the face.

You also have the critically hungry whom their well wishers probably direct to such gatherings to save themselves. They will spend the evening sitting uncomfortably but will be miraculously resurrected by the patron saint of the dining table (whoever that is) as soon as dinner is served. They will promptly gobble their food and rush home, the purpose of their existence having been fulfilled with the satiation of their taste buds.

Speaking of food, however, I must confess that the food had such a lovely flavor, of Goa, that gastronomical delight was very apparent on all faces. My command to indulge not only fell on their ears, but also on their stomachs, as they dug into the pork, beef and other dishes that are the ‘Festachem Jevonn’ of the motherland.

And then a fancy dress session was on; children, teenagers and adults. While plenty of teenagers and adults participated, for some strange reason there was just one participant in his teens. I am yet to comprehend this biological and statistical wonder, and so are many of us. Great disguises were seen on stage, but the King’s favorites were the little terrorist boy who spoke of ‘Pork’istan, and the young man who was dressed as a cook and who wore authentic Goan ‘Rosary Sausages’ around his neck, in all their fragrant glory.

Both the MCs did a good job, paying every attention to the details; the smartly dressed lady even asking around for the correct sound of ‘Carrr-naa-vaaal’. Lady L and my friend, Lady S, faithfully haunted the place to give away prizes. Mr. Club President kept watch from the sidelines of his event, that was a runaway success. There were many others but my partly drunk memory allows only so much recollection. I faintly recall getting back to the club, and back home, to continue dreaming and enjoying that wonderful evening on the comfort of my pillow.

Truly is this the stuff dreams are made of!