Now that we’re thanks God finally off the UK’s red list, I called up my rich Indian friend Nisha Sharma who has a huge flat on backside of Harrods – four beds, four baths, sitting, dining, TV lounge and one small room where she keeps her washing machine and dryer and Keralan maid also. Nisha spends all of summers from May to October in her London flat because she says social scene is dead in Mumbai but she goes home to Bandra for winters because she’s a pukka patriot and can’t stand the dark cold winters of London. So I told her, ‘Nisha, guess what? I’m coming to London!’ I must have woken her up from her afternoon nap because for one two minutes she didn’t say anything. In fact, I think so she was yawning. And then she said as casually as if I’d announced that I was going to itvaar bazaar, ‘Oh haan, I forgot! You all just came off the red list. We all came off ages ago. I’ve tau even made two chukkers to the South of France. To Niece and Can and all. And one to Grease also. We went island hopping and all the smaller islands like Noxious and Porous were so cute but Meekon Us was a total blast yaar. You must go sometime but take your own yatch.’
Haw, just look at her cheeks! Nisha can pretend that she has umnesia if she likes but rest of world – particularly those of us who’ve been band from doing summers in London and instead have been sarrohing on the red list for six long months because of the delta variant – we all remember where it came from, okay? And who gave it to the whole world. And we also know who had it most worst. Jee haan. But of course I didn’t say because I’m not betty like her – and Nisha throws the best parties after all – and so I said, ‘Hai, can’t wait to see you yaar and hear all about your travels.’
Andar andar say I was so angry. What does she think, we Paks are some kind of social leopards? I hope Nisha’s maid runs away.
