Then I come out, wipe my tears, smoke a cigarette and stare at the sea and then stare some more at the well-fed bodies that do a petulant dance before my hungry eyes. Impossibly beautiful girls. The best girls I have ever seen. They wear sexy clothes – denims, tank tops which bare the midriff and navel. They sport straightened hair, low-slung jeans that show their panties, mini-skirts of a sheer fabric which leaves nothing much to the imagination, and a huge a-generation-ago-I-would-have-been-under-a-veil-but-now-I-am-liberated attitude. A pair of jeans accentuates a woman's shape; it takes a woman's behind and transforms it into a variety of tempting and luscious fruity forms: apple, pear, peach, mango, guava, papaya, etc. Ah, the forbidden fruits! Forbidden, at least to me. I sometimes put myself – because of my low social acceptability, due to my colour – into the fair skin of my friend Darius Screwala and – mysteriously and magically – great possibilities seem to assume aspects of certitude. Darius Screwala! My friend! The smooth-talking Priapic seducer of women, how I envy you.
Newness: that's what this country has in plenty – liberation of a sex, gender equality, and attitude. They could give the Britney Spears and Paris Hiltons of the world tough competition – just liberated from repressive men –, looking as if they have just been torn away from their mothers' bosoms, tasting the first freedom of the wide world of adulthood, such innocent beauties. Oh God! Oh great Zara! Looking at them makes me want to cry again. Though I am drunk, the sadness and moroseness hasn't left me. It wasn't like this before I left for the U.S. Those days only the Roman Catholics and Parisis (the Aarcees and the Parisees) dated girls and went out in the evenings. Now the Moomoori, Zoozoori, Malloori, and Bongoori girls dominate. The universality of the well-fed young bodies displayed before me do something to me. I find myself wildly aroused. I am so hopelessly aroused that I have to face a wall to hide my shame. They must be having their first sexual trysts in parked cars and the Family Rooms of shady restaurants. I am jealous. With Parul I haven't had sex for months; I wank off once in a while. For me sex has lost meaning. Parul if only you had spread your legs for me once in a month I would have been a happy man. I could have understood a stream drying up, not a total drought.