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D Mervin Ffingir writes, and having writ, moves on:
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It's a blistering hot day in Delhi, and in the airport, the airconditioning, as well as Air Deccan's computer systems, have gone West. There is a long, grumbling line. A large family earns vituperation for barging to the front of the long queue. One of the woman is carrying an infant, and she brandishes it like a cardboard sign as explanation for the line-jumping.
A stunning young woman in a backless blouse is the focus of most gazes. I amuse myself in my normal way, watching people watch people. Before I kick myself for being an idiot and join on on the communal lech.
Behind me, a young couple is speaking Marathi. And I realise that it's been three weeks since I've heard the language. Now, I had to learn the language at school when my family moved to Bombay from the South, and I was pathetically bad at it, almost failing a year because of the low marks I got in the subject, so I developed a deep bias against the language. But now, rootless, cyncical, footloose me, I'm feeling all soft and fuzzy and at home.
Go figure.
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