You want a pic?
Here's one.
Enter with Master Bhushan (are you 21 yet, then sorry, it should be Mister) around 21.45hrs to walk into our usual heavily screened, soundproofed, guarded, staffed & cordoned off area.
Sudden uproar. And Master & I turn our heads to the left to find one table, yes that's ONE table, occupied by what seems like 400 junglees & a yet non-beating Ishan.
Everybody skooshes over to make place for me & Master Bhushan. Food drinks, etc. are organized.
Then Jiggysha starts throwing peanuts to gain attention. And a coupla those fried-star-shaped thingies. At various points during the evening, I try to make a speech. Pointless. The attempt, not the speech. Everybody's poised with bated breath & missiles of chaknas & vegetables. As soon as I rise & state the title, I get pelted. Now I know what Baghdad felt like, back in the 80's.
Am seated next to Mr. 4000-and-Some-Odd-Number Wilkinson Swords for the better part of the evening, who attempts to take great umbrage at anything said about Bengal & Bengalis. Even though everybody loves Bengal &/or Bengalis, & nobody knows he's from there, or said anything about them. He also tells me he's buying a giant squirrel for his ride from a snake. Strange. Boom must've spiced his macher-jhol. No, no, don't take umbrage, my shaving-implement friend. Even I eat macher-jhol.
In order to spruce things up on this quiet evening, sombody throws a wet, sodden kaakdi in my general direction. As fate often has it in these circumstances, I turn around to attempt to give a speech again. And get slapped on my considerable forehead by a freshly quartered flying cucumber.
Being the good sport I am, I take it well. Which means I pick up a pickled onion, & with all my strength, & launch it with it's ultimate target being the back of Ishan's head. It misses, & thwacks the just entered, just hugging Gogi square on HIS forehead. The poor man now has achaar-juice sliding down his nose. Apologies for that. And the Rolls.
Then Ishan starts his second drink & the evening passes in a blur. Of Mr. Kasapi's anecdotes, interspersed with flailing arms, thwacks, biffs, owws, & the like. Romans at Gaul sorta thing. Sometimes, MoralFibroids attempts to say something, but the polyps get in the way. Must also be the reason why Nuzzlu didn't pappify his awaiting audience that much. Transmutable, them mushrooms.
During these proceedings, Ishan goes of with Scooby & returns about an hour later. Scooby looks satisfied & the tyre dealer's quiet with his brows furrowed. That mystery reveals itself. Later in the evening, we all depart from Sea Lord to view Scooby's automobile collection, his Impala's windows are still strangely fogged up with a palm imprint on the side glass. Think Titanic. Only that the seats are conveniently upholstered in plastic. Hmmm. N_C & Mummeet "Dewwwwwwde" Soi were unusually quiet - must be saving their energy for when the Daali boy goes visiting their workplaces this week. Or must be preparing for their ever developing drive meet.
The evening ends, Ishan says goodbye in his own special way & shakes everybody's hands 5 times. Must be excited to meet people, that boy. No, not that way. We all swear to have the next Bombay meet in Delhi. Where he may not be able to make it. Kingfisher doesn't have a Delhi-Delhi direct flight.
On the way home, LBM, Master & I hitch a ride with Mr. Kasapi, who tries to show LBM what bass is. Silly boi. All that ends up happening is that my spleen gets ruptured, & Sam now has vodka scented back seats peppered with small, semi-digested chicken pieces. LBM is unimpressed.
And I didn't wear a white shirt or drink body-warmed wine.
It was a doop-chhaon with chilled Absolut this time.
Last edited by elf : 10th June 2007 at 14:41.
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