In tragedy is contained truth.
The magnificent Ms. O, an emblem of the finest, free-spirited flower of Jesustani womanhood, approached me with a tale of woe that froze my blood. Aided ably (or otherwise) by her boyfriend, Ms. O had been attempting for some time to become pregnant. Recently, she succeeded – at which point, the boyfriend fled.
Ho, hum, I hear you say. A garden-variety drama. Wait, read on.
As the overwrought are wont to do, Ms. O responded to this unanticipated crisis by writing to her boyfriend’s mother, asking for solidarity. The mother, let us call her Mummy, responded by claiming Ms. O had laid a horrible trap for her poor innocent son. Mummy claimed that Ms. O was a trashy harlot, solely responsible for her fate. Ms. O was inconsolable.
Ho, hum, I hear you say. A garden-variety drama. Wait, read on.
Some years ago, the magnificent Ms. O had been a similar situation with a desi boyfriend. On that occasion, as on this one, she wrote for help to the mother of the munda, let us call her Mummy-Ji. Mummy-Ji had reacted by claiming that Ms. O had laid a horrible trap for her poor innocent son. Mummy-Ji claimed that Ms. O was a trashy harlot solely responsible for her fate. Like any desi kudi, Ms. O was inconsolable.
Intellectuals could, I am certain, draw many illuminating lessons from this affair. Leftists might say that her tale illustrates that Marx was right; that history does repeat itself. Rightists might say that her tale illustrates that Marx was wrong; that while history might repeat itself, it most certainly does not do so as farce. It is not for me, described very accurately by Mrs. Gupta in Class III as a lafanga and duffer, to draw learned judgment.
What I can see, though, is that no matter how many million kos I wander, people – and the pain they suffer – are much the same. Gora boyfriend is much like desi boyfriend. Gori mem is much like desi kudi. And, of course, Mummy and Mummy-Ji, appalled as they might be by the thought, are true sisters under the skin.
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