Vagera, vagera, vagera sounds like Viagra, Viagra, Viagra.

Yesterday was shabbebaraat, which is an Islamic version of All Souls Day (ya, the pretty-much-only thing which separates this religion from that is the sword, and obviously, you can't say anything more than that because if you've seen cows slaughtered, you know better) and every festival, regardless of what it's supposed to mean, gets the entire Park Circus onto the roads. Which also means that you can't possibly figure out the road from the pavement from the naali which separates them except for when you feel your feet getting wet or feeling moist (depending on whether you've stepped on piss or shit). The funny part is, that they(we?) burst crackers on this day, and don't ask me why. They(we?) make and eat halua on shabbebaraat because the prophet had apparently broken a tooth and couldn't eat anything else on the day so he ate halua (oh man, how i would love to be the prophet just to see this from the clouds), so one can never know.

But anyway, poor old Neil wanted to have cha, so we met in the middle of this cacophony, which he obviously did not expect, and in all his innocence remarked, "Era jekhaane paaye, bomb phataaye kyano?"

All i can say is, well, who knows these things?

And if you're waiting for how the title of the post will eventually fit in here, of course it won't. After all, i'm your friendly neighbourhood attention-whore.