This is my impression of a man in silent mutiny:
Imagine, if you will, a lowly petitioner at the pale of patience’ playground,
a bushel short on forbearance,
a liter low on longevity,
and a half inch off the Halebid halfpipe,
unhitching his petard,
laying down his load,
and quietly cursing the paper-shuffling pundits and bouncing Bombay bureaucrats who have embroiled him in this whirling dervish of dilly-dally and dodge.
India, shmabindia.
... Thinks it’s the next great resort town, tourists beating at the doors for a chance to simmer in its spicy sauce.
I am Thomas’s doubting cousin, Sahib.
