Its male residents dress like crows: heavy black suits, black Borsalino hats, the old grandfathers hugely whiskered and the boys in peot, the curled sidelocks of the pious.
As I attempted to hit a six with a half-full bottle of mineral water, a papad vendor approached us to laugh at our cricketing abilities.
All the lullabies of the world suggest undulatory movements or rockabyes in the tree tops.
No leh, it's right here. ― No? It's right here.
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