Delhi. 9am.
Could you get it?
Almost ready, Amrish. I’ll be right down.
Oi. I’m off.
Do you have to go?
Shut up. Amrish’s nice.
He’s going to publish my novel, Rohan. I can’t skip his party.
Mia Nair, India’s newest and hottest chick-lit author, reveals the secret of book deals-- wet T-shirts.
No chance. I’m not getting colour thrown on me by a bunch of gropey publishing types. Yes, I’m sure they’re all just dying to get their claws on you. Point taken.
I’ll be back soon enough. Once the drooling perverts of the city are done with you. Cheer up, will you? it’s Holi. it’s supposed to be a fun day.
I hate Holi.
I know.
I’m going back to sleep.
He’s an ass. You should come too, then.
I hate that a billion repressed people wait for this one day every year to cut loose.
I hate the leering and the groping and the squeezing and the touching. The sheer horniness of it all.
Stop me if you’ve heard this before... but I HATE Holi.
No, no one molested me when I was young. I never lost a girlfriend to a Holi Party.
Well, not yet, anyway.
And it’s not just the horniness. I hate the fake friendships, the forced drinking, the random people on the street who think its okay to invade your space.
it’s just... unclean.
Anyway, What better way to celebrate colour, life and spring than by sleeping through it all?
I realize I’m turning into a grumpy old man.
And I can’t just ask the whole country to keep it down. At least it’s not a 6 a.m. jaagran.
Right.
As long as they leave me alone, I’m fine.
Who is it?
Right. All right, come in, get it over with.
To be continued.
HERE’ S YOUR STARTi NG POi NT. . .
THE
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