Some conversations are, you know from the starting moment, completely pointless. Such as discussing poetry with someone from the Bengali speaking part of the world.
All poems are better in Bengali. No exceptions.
Literature is possible only in Bengali.
Art, science, philosophy?
It's Bengali.
Only.
I could've mentioned typhus, cholera, syphilis, malaria, malnutrition, food poisoning and epic diarrhoea, or notorious black holes. But I mentioned Shakespeare.
Who should've been born and buried near the Hooghli.
England is such a miserable place!
Avon, shmavon. Hah!
Something perhaps equally pointless is encouraging a Bonglo to consume strong liquor. Even if it is only to allow him to say even more absurd things. There is something in the head of the average Banglawallah that goes disastrously haywire whenever alcohol hits a metabolism so used to chandrapuli, chumchums, doodhpuli, kachagulla, laddoo, malpua, pakanpitha, pontua, shondesh, rosgollah, and sundry other items rich with ghee, khoya, sugar.......
Cardamom, saffron, attar, and even more ghee and sugar......
It's just very bad chemistry.
Too much sugar.
He began to twitch.
It was a very amusing conversation, despite the immense irritation. What made it especially good was at the end, when I sent him off into the cold foggy night after the bar closed. The booze hit his cerebellum even harder, because of the freezing temperature, and he started a conversation about Rabindranath Tagore with a streetperson looking for beer money.
I'm sure they got along very well.
Introducing the two of them created good in the world.
They have a lot in common.
All nights should end this way.
Benny Tagore would've approved.
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