All quiet on the southern front

Yep, for weeks now I am at a loss at 7 p.m. Without a television, my nights are not entirely empty - I've got books, you know - but they are quiet. No news, no Mahendra, no Johendra. There is no Tsepiso, no newsbie perhaps. No longer is my screen suddenly dominated by an ill-chosen necklace that could have been a chandelier at a shabby-chic, quasi-Eastern-European tearoom. There are no longer the ties that bind Mahendra to me.

No, it's all bookish. With my chicken mayonnaise sandwich in one hand, book in other, I try and forget what I am missing. But so it will happen that I hear the faint but unmistakeable sound of a television next door. I strain my ears, even perhaps lean against the wall - no, I get a glass and use it as a stethoscope, but no luck. I cannot hear much.

Is it Mahendra I cannot hear? What is he wearing? By God, what is he wearing? Will someone just tell me...

All I can do is scroll through my few folders of old pictures of the Raghunath.