In Lahore, waxing eloquent
I have been in numerous awkward, potentially perilous positions before. But this one beat them all. There I was: flat on my back, the marbled floor cold against my skin, my legs held immovable under the ample thighs of a hefty Pakistani woman squatting in the V of my parted legs. No, we were not tangled in a sumo wrestling dohyo, pitting our strengths and skills in some championship. The Pakistani woman was inspecting me as would my gynaecologist, except that she was not my gynaecologist. She was a 'waxing woman', and was about to apply hot, molten wax to my most sensitive of parts.
Suddenly, she paused. Butter-knife dipped in caramelised sugar, suspended like an executioner's chopper over my lower belly, she queried: "Wayse meiN, aap kahaN ke haiN?" (By the way, where are you from?)