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Home: The Toast

Shrill violins do not bother you.

You are a beautiful, demure widow.

If you are a man, you own one of three outfits–a kurta set, wide-shouldered and garishly patterned double breasted suit, or a tight leather jacket under which you are bare chested. Any one is appropriate for all occasions.

If you are a woman, you own one of three outfits–an embellished sari paired with 18 pounds of jewelry, all of which are full of bells; a skin tight minidress, or hideous pajamas. All three are completely impractical for whatever you’re trying to accomplish.

You can swim in the middle of a gunfight and your guns will not get waterlogged.

It’s not just a game of cricket. It’s a metaphor.

Life is but a series of increasingly dramatic decisions made in the rain.

There is a 50% chance you are married because someone’s father died.

Occasionally you take a drive with your romantic interest to go dance in a field with some villagers. You admire their local costume, and never speak of them again.

There are 14 women in your life you call “auntie” and you’re not sure if any of them is actually your Aunt.

You fell down the stairs, dramatically. If you survive, you find out it’s because you are pregnant.

You live in a gigantic, sprawling manor and nobody explains why. Your father is a professor or runs a small factory, a solid job for sure but not enough to live in a complex like yours, that features either a cricket field, a full temple in the atrium, or like 17 bedrooms. Everyone you know calls it a “cottage.”

Three and a half hours seems like a totally reasonable time to tell a story.

Your grandson wants to live his own life and it is ALL YOUR FAULT.

You were abandoned by your parents as a child and yet, as an adult, you don’t recognize your own mother, even though you were like 9 when you were abandoned so definitely old enough to remember what your mother looked like.

The love of your life has never once told you the truth, either about his intentions or his identity.

IT IS ALL BECAUSE OF FATE.

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