Diwali

"This is more than adequate for one person!" screams an elated-on-my behalf Varun as he "checks out" the ol' bachelor pad.
"Yes, darling, that's why I jumped on it."
I laugh as I watch Varun, who's eyes are easily the largest I've ever seen on someone older than 14 months, have gained at least 1/4 again their own size as he contemplates the size of the apartment he's roaming, a lion in the veldt.
"Oh you like to read?!"
Varun, who's delicate beauty makes him seem like a Victorian consumptive who finds himself awkwardly holding a rifle on the front lines of the Afghan campaign in every situation, is Ankit's friend, and very obviously the "side kick" for the lazily powerful Alpha Male Ankit.
Varun stations himself in front of the bookcase and rifles through my books, settling on Brideshead Revisted (!!! Actually a perfectly apt title, as he looks like nothing so much as a Sebastian Flyte with a deep tan) to skim while Ankit makes himself to home laying 3/4 unfolded on my divan, looking a tad worse for the wear after party hopping for Diwali since 1.30 AM (it's now 6.30 AM).
As Ankit and I lazily debate the merits of reading (Ankit: "reading only shows you that you know you don't know anything" Me: "I don't know about that"), Varun gives a moue- "Listen, I didn't come here to listen to two philosophers!" he barks, eliciting the very fair question: "What do you want to talk about then? President Obama?" from Ankit
(Obama was scheduled to come into Mumbai that day, probably for Diwali, and the guys had obvious country pride they were trying hard to shrug off as "no big deal").

Varun, stumped, decides to fall back on the typical Eastern conversational technique: Intense, uncomfortable prying into your personal affairs (at least that's how it feels to this Eastern Preppie). "How much do you pay for this? Does it include electric? And did it come furnished?"

The boys have stopped by on their way home from partying headed "back into" the CEZ, (which we call "the perimeter"- it's the zone where no trikes can go- the military zone), where they live together.
"Can I smoke in here?" Varun asks.
"In the kitchen, right near the window, please."
Varun leans over Ankit
"stick?"
"Anything for you, pet." He pulls out his cigs, and languidly holds out a stick.
"Lighter?"
"Anything else you need, darling?" He teases. At this moment it dawns on me like a thunderclap that Ankit is one of those rare creatures you sometimes encounter: An Indian who thinks he's an upper class Englishman. A duck who imprinted on a turtle, in other words. The way he treats his male friends, his clothes, his phrases....
Shortly they toddled off, talking in their "vernacular" to sleep, deep in the CEZ, in their expensive, impenetrable fortress of an apartment, the only completely safe place in the islands, according to them.