Why is Uma so striking? Well, she is sexy, smart, successful and thirty.
In the mornings on working days, I have seen her step nimbly down the stairs and slide into her new sleek car. (She lives on the floor above us in an apartment in South Delhi.) Always dressed in an immaculate business suit, Uma looks every inch the senior manager she is. I’ve never seen her return from work because we’re fast asleep by 9.30.
One particular day, something out of the ordinary happened.
I was returning from my evening walk around 6.30, when Uma’s car zoomed past me. She braked hard, flung open the car door and, after getting down, she banged it shut loudly. Her handbag slid from her hand and fell to the ground. Instead of picking it up, she began kicking at it. Once, twice, thrice, and then a series of hysterical kicks, punctuated with the choicest profanities. At some point, she hurt her toe, clutched her foot and began yowling. As I rushed forward to help her, she buckled and fell on my shoulder. Had she not been such a wafer-weight, I would have fallen flat on my back and cracked my skull.