[Repurposed Text] My mother was a funny sort of woman, you must understand. She loved the company of people, and once, she had invited to the Westwood Club a guest she held in high regard. All present at the table began to make good and pleasant conversation, the subject of which shifted soon to the food to be ordered. “I hear the salad is nice here,” somebody said. “Maybe some cutlets, for the table?” said another. “Oh, I could use a cold, fresh lime soda.” And so, the list

You knew it was a Saturday morning if Mr. J. Pardiwalla was at the club. The man was colonial residue through-and-through. Sophistication could not help but seep through his being. His voice was firm, clear, and laced with an accent that intimidated anybody who did not have it. His presence was not of the imposing nature, but it could not be disputed that he invited awe. When Mr. J. Pardiwalla visited the club, he would wear a polo shirt, trousers, and shiny black shoes t

Mr. and Mrs. Somethingani of 7, Barrow House, were very well-to-do. The dream they lived was better in every aspect than the one most sought – the American dream . If you were rich in India , you had nothing to complain about. But being rich was getting increasingly common. What mattered was where  the money came from. If it was newly-earned, well… Luckily, Mr. Somethingani had inherited his money from someone who had also inherited his money. Intelligently, Mr. Somethingani