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Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Listen, you slut ...
I am walking in Sector 17, Chandigarh’s shopping centre and town square rolled into one, with my colleague, Nagraj Gollapudi (also known as Hunter; and not for his gonzo journalism). We pass by a bench where three people are sitting, and looking at us warily. As we pass, one of them says to the other, “Haan, Pakistani hai.” (“Yes, they are Pakistani.”)
Dileep and Osman are supposed to join us there, but they don’t come on time. Nagraj and I go sit on a bench, and he decides to call Dileep. As Dileep picks up the phone, Nagraj shouts at him, in the kind of language that we use among ourselves:
“Listen, you slut, where are you?”
An elegantly dressed lady who is passing by freezes in her tracks and looks at young Hunter with horror. Then she moves on, and presumably she stays awake all night and starts an NGO in the morning. Slut joins us in a few minutes in Barista.
Dileep and Osman are supposed to join us there, but they don’t come on time. Nagraj and I go sit on a bench, and he decides to call Dileep. As Dileep picks up the phone, Nagraj shouts at him, in the kind of language that we use among ourselves:
“Listen, you slut, where are you?”
An elegantly dressed lady who is passing by freezes in her tracks and looks at young Hunter with horror. Then she moves on, and presumably she stays awake all night and starts an NGO in the morning. Slut joins us in a few minutes in Barista.
