Swami's words - Bashi-Bazouk, curd-rice and Kremlin
He read all the time. Even while walking, he splits his vision between minimum safety on the street and on reading. His index finger has become smooth on the edges, like a stone softened by the flow of water. Every word leads to another. He looks at the onion soaked to pink in the vinegar. Gleaming like a dome in the Kremlin. At twenty five, even his hormones had submitted to the negligence. The words become Bashi-Bazouk and tickle his insides when he is asleep. His mother, tears in her eyes and diamonds in nosepin begs him to marry soon. He threatens to go to Istanbul. I will survive on curd-rice he tells her.