So, we’re a bunch of classy, elitist men discussing the subtleties and nuances of a Rembrandt; the rich browns and the gentle beiges in a classy lounge bar, sipping on Château Cheval Blanc. We talk about Ezra Pound and Fascism. ‘I quite enjoy him. He’s an exotic, fragile thrill,’ I say, my voice sounding classy, flavored with an exquisite, rich, deep-as-marrow Baritone. The conversation drifts to right-wing American conservatism, which we endorse because we regret the sexual revolution with a modernist’s melancholia. ‘A generation of parasitic sybarites,’ I say, adjusting my Roberto Cavalli tie with a gentle, smooth motion. The Mini Caviar Parfaits have arrived, and as we indulge we discuss Bergman with great panache. ‘Persona is a work of Jungian excellence. Leaving behind an alter and those still unplumbed existential questions it posits have left an impression like a Rorschach blot on the deepest traces of my consciousness. I understand exploring sexuality, but we must do it like Bergman with an avant-garde Delphic flair,’ I say and then belch. I excuse myself immediately and rush to the bathroom. ‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck! I just had to! Fuck!’ I scream and ignore that small inner voice that says, ‘At least it wasn’t a boisterous fart.’ ‘Fuck! It’s like reading Helen Steiner Rice to an audience looking for the rich symbolism of Eliot,’ I whine. And then I pull out my mobile phone and text my dealer. ‘I need you to hook this old bastard up,’ I text him and wait. In minutes I’m sent a group sex video on WhatsApp. I head to the urinal and relieve myself, and return to the table and sit down. ‘I apologize for the inconvenience gentlemen,’ I say and then boisterously fart.
© Nitin Lalit Murali (2018)