Obviously enough (because otherwise I should have to introduce at this point some fantastic explanation of my continued presence in this mortal coil), you may number me amongst those whom the war of 65 failed to obliterate. Spittoon brained, Saleem suffered a merely partial erasure, and was only wiped clean whilst others, less fortunate, were wiped out; unconscious in the night shadow of a mosque, I was saved by the exhaustion of ammunition dumps.

Tears which, in the absence of the Kashmir! cold, have absolutely no chance of hardening into diamonds slide down the bosomy contours of Padmas cheeks. O, mister, this war tamasha, kills the best and leaves the rest! Looking as though hordes of snails have recently crawled down from her reddened eyes, leaving their glutinous shiny trails upon her face, Padma mourns my bomb flattened clan. I remain dry eyed as usual, graciously refusing to rise to the unintentional insult implied by Padmas lachrymose exclamation.

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