For your birthday, your aunt gave you a maple syrup dispenser shaped like a rooster. Please write her a thank-you note.
Ahona Panda's witty response;
Dear Aunt, Wodehouse was wrong. Your cock was lovely. Doodle Do. (Goonight, sweet lady.)
MORAL: I have a Philosopher Prince (Brother). For some strange reason I call him Plato. He is the most handsome thing you will never see. I keep him in a sunny dungeon, away from the nasty nasty world. The world bores him anyway. He's been around for a day, and he thinks I'm his aunt. And he knows I'm not a gentleman.
I will never give him strange innuendoes for gifts. Despite the fact that I have a gift for strange innuendoes.
Blogger is screwed up. Very.
He is a Gemini. The day he was born he was scarlet, angry and all excited. The next day he was serene and bored, overcome by lethargy, with the glint of ennui in his eyes. He has beautiful eyes. He has a hawk nose. His chin recedes slightly into a superb cleft. The lower lip region on the whole looks like an accomplishment. He looks like his great-grandfather who lived with diabetes for forty years and wrote limericks to relieve himself of the tedium and uncertainty of high blood sugar. Dada-Dadu also apprehended two dacoits, became a jurist at Alipore Court, and played the Pakhawaj at Jorasanko. He displayed two rifles and a sitar in the baithak-khana.
And had the loveliest collection of encyclopaediae.
Now my great-grandfather was awfully handsome, even when he was senile and suffered from dementia at the age of 90. He redefined 'demented'. I am nothing in comparison, but then nobody can dare to clinically diagnose me. (I shall sink my teeth into them.)
Apararko, the Other Sun, no pun intended, is like him when it comes to high ideals of serenity, of duty and (un)truth. His daaknaam is Bhombol (but why?) and yet I shall call him Plato. I would have loved to have called him Erasmus, but he, poor soul, is only a day old and Plato is well, Plato. If he ever grows up to be a sorry sod (no he won't!!!) well then, he might fleetingly hear of Plato even if he never hears of Erasmus. He might not like me for calling him Plato, but my 20 years' seniority will ensure that in true Dickensian fashion I shall "box his ears".
That reminds me; I could also call him something tritely literary. Or maybe seriously literary. I would have called him Baudelaire, Bawdy for short, if the latter had a less colourful life. Or maybe "Felu" provided that he passes his Mathematics and Literature papers with great gusto and elan. However I have a feeling that I am getting all conservative these days. You know what happens when Radicals start Converting?
My dear dear Baby, and no this baby is not my boyfriend, I hope you never NEVER read this blogpost. I hope you never read my Blog. I hope I grow up (grow up some more? how amusing to be sure) to be eminently respectable with a great and boring body of significant literature behind me. I even hope that I become a smug and conceited literary critic with more jargon at the tips of my fingers than bells on my toes.
So that you are proud of me. So that you can say, "Yes, this grey-haired woman who is so so so sane is my sister, she treats me like an aunt would, she is old and she's a regular sport and never never indulges me beyond a point. Oh she is a strict disciplinarian and she has a CLEAN sense of humour. You know these elderly types, ya know?"
And I will nod, and smile indulgently, and pop your dirty tee shirt into a washing machine and bake you a cake pronto, and we will smile and nod and be unbelievably bhadro.
I would ask you to brush your teeth and I would never ever tell you how nice mahua is and of course, what it is. I shall ask you to avoid the Carry On series. Imagine a sister doing all this. Oh, I will. And when you're twenty and I'm forty and I would be like a friggin' mum, and now the mind boggles...
But I will and we'll have tea in the evening and did I tell you about the cake I shall bake that you shall enjoy in the quiet domesticity of your sister's suburban and sprawling bungalow filled with organized chic bric-a-brac and other assorted nephews and nieces just ten years younger than you.
And old grey haired me; sturdy, respectable and well-intentioned, slightly dulled with the passage of years, a very responsible domesticated animal, almost a human, very human, no longer the lazy lion or crazy dog of yesteryears...
And pigs have wings, and I can fly, Apararko.
But I shall love you, nevertheless.
Ahona has loved as she has never loved before.
(P.S. You could say Maa er cheye maashir dorod beshi. And I would say Huh! Luke, I am your father. OK, maybe not. But Luke...Well, chuck it Luke. All I can say is; I Luked before I leaped.)
I repeat: Ahona has loved as she has never loved before.