"We are a not-for-profit: our fees are ridiculously low! Okay, we haven’t fixed the fees yet, but they will be very low.
'... take as many classes... schedule, okay? We ..., Modern Dance, Basketball, ... Guitar and Karate.
'I teach Guitar and Karate."
I must have looked enough impressed because he went on about himself in his partially inaudible English and a fake American accent, for quiet some time and gave me opportunity to appreciate the room, the floor, the design outlining the entrance, and survey the rituals and practices of the domestic population.
"So I said, I can ... and I am... I"
The room was small, 6 feet by 12 feet, at the entrance of an old building. The entrance was decorated with ornate carvings of flowers and leaves on the stone frame, and a stone statuette of some deity with many arms was placed on the top of the lentil. I'll say the building was at least 100 years old. Walls were thick, solid, old-fashioned, real stone. The floor was also stone, cemented, and very cool to the bare feet: I was asked to take my shoes off before I entered the building. The door to this building was large, thick, and heavy, old, and creaky looking. It was painted dark green.
"Ha ha ha ha, he said I was ..."
I had followed this self-loving near thirty man to this old building and into its small ante-chamber, because there was something written on the number plate of his motor-bike that looked near-Chinese. I had hoped, rather accurately in retrospection, that he either knows some Eastern martial art himself, or at least can lead me to someone who does. Thus I had reached the inaugural function of a Resource Centre of a non-profit organization which was run out of this amazing old building of nice cool stone floors.
This scene was animated with foreign looking boys and girls talking to Indian looking boys and girls. The former apparently wanted to teach courses in Yoga, Modern Dance, Ballet and Basketball, and were either discussing or giving demonstration to the latter who presumably were interested in learning these very things.
The motor-bike person, who was still going on about himself, was an Indian male, something of a multi-talented personality according to his claims - he could play the guitar and had a black belt in Karate. But, presently his shortcomings were the focus of two girls who had entered from the bright green door and were staring in our direction for some time until one of them spoke.
"We are very late Vishal. We were supposed to begin at 5." said the girl who was wearing a green silk bandana. And was turning slightly red in her face, ears and neck.
"Yes"
Short silence. I looked at him. And then her.
"It is now 5:50. Can we please start right now?" She was not trying very hard to hide her annoyance.
"Yes! I was only telling him about our place." replied the with the guy with a lot more confidence.
He was obviously called Vishal by angry young ladies who made him nervous. If you had asked me what his name was, I would have placed my bet at Kaboosh. He looked a Kaboosh in general but was acting like a big one right now. I had been there not even 10 minutes and I was the accounting entry for 50. And I did not quiet enjoy being the recipient of the unsolicited trophy of The Prime Reason for the Delay of the Inaugural Function of the Year. Neither did the girls.
In a flash, the kurta-clad girl gave me a very deep dark look, and the bandana girl a quick-dry smile, before they almost synchronously reset the focus of their gaze on Kaboosh.
I am sure they were upset because of him, but the reason for the dark look and dry smile may have been that I was staring at them. Because, you see, despite my best efforts I was quite unable to take my eyes off of them. For a very long time. Years in fact.
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