Mr.Asrani shook his head at this awe-inspiring compounding of in auspiciousness.
He hated venturing out on amavas. He wished someone would invent an umbrella that would ward off the rays of misfortune he could feel raining down upon him such days. His baldness made him feel extra vulnerable.
He realizes he has to escape the noise.The noise that has tormented him for so long. Born at the moment of his own birth, it has swelled insidiously over the years.
"Thought control," he would call it, "something to keep busy the teeming masses."
An image from the Koran kept coming to her - that of Abu Lahab being consumed by flames, his wife bringing the firewood, a rope tied around her neck.
"How does the boy look?" Mr. Asrani asked.
"Look? Is that the only thing that occurs to you? What is she going to do - lick his good looks when they have nothing to eat?"
She would cook to kill tonight, she would scent the gulab jamuns with the perfume of her own youth, sweeten them with the syrup of her own beauty.
That's what Kavita decided. She would run away. Elope, they called it - the English word had such a voluptuous feel. All those movies, all those stories. She would be Laila, she would be Heer, she would be Juliet.
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