ARTICLES
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By Bhausaheb Marathe
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1)A TOOTH'S FAIRY-TALE
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You go to a dentist when you have a dental problem. To have a dental problem you need to have teeth, which means that if you have no teeth you don’t have to visit a dentist. Right ?
Wrong!
I have no teeth, not even a single one, and yet I had to frantically search for a dentist last month. The story runs like this. It has all the elements of horror and suspense attendant upon your last visit to a dentist.
It was a Tuesday morning. I was enjoying some cherries, while I happened to bite into a pit. Crrrunch!
I suspected I had cut the pit under my teeth. I spat it out only to find that a tooth had come loose from my denture. That’s it !!
I was not at all prepared for this eventuality. I had thought my dental fitment was to last forever. I rushed to the mirror to see the damage. It was a front tooth from the upper denture. I made faces to see whether people would notice the gap. Of course they would; no matter how I tried to hide it under my upper lip while I spoke or even just smiled. I kind of gained a new personality. Morosely I smiled to myself and set to consider the seriousness of the problem.
Two days later I was to entertain a few friends over lunch. I didn’t want the tooth or rather the absence of it to be the talking point among my guests.
"Notice his face?" someone would whisper loudly enough for a third person to hear. The third person would say," I spotted it even when he greeted us at the door."
"Poor guy ! To lose a tooth at this young age."
"Young? He may have crossed seventyfive. And I am not sure if his teeth are real."
"They have to be real, man. How can you lose a false tooth?"
" No, you can’t. God has willed teeth to fall off only twice in a lifetime. If a false tooth falls that would mean a third time. No that’s not possible."
So on and so forth. And then there would be others who, dunked in modern etiquette, would try to avoid me lest they burst out into a laughter on seeing my odd face.
Again, there may be a Babubhai Rathod, a sly dog, who would nudge me in a corner and encounter me with a direct question, ‘What were you doing man? Got into any mischief somewhere?"
I know what you mean Babubhai, and I also know how and where you broke your leg, chasing someone half your age in Ahmedabad."
Damn it !! Something had to be done; right now. Who can repair this silly denture? Who else but a dentist? The dentist I got this denture from had long left our city God knows to where. I wanted to take my friend to her a couple of years back and had failed to locate her clinic.
Then suddenly I realized that a clinic was right in front of our apartment. Why not try with them? I dressed up, cleaned and dried the upper denture and the fallen hero and packed them in a paper bag. I was at the dental clinic in a matter of minutes, pushed the ‘push’ door and entered.
A couple of patients were seated in the waiting area with faces drawn and hands massaging their cheeks. I went up to the registering clerk. After we ‘hi-hi’ed each other, I tried to tell her of my predicament. As I spoke I took out the exhibit to prove my point. The clerk had no ear or eye for what I was trying to say to her.
‘ Have you an appointment?’
‘ No.’
‘Please fill in this form and return it to me.’
So, the inevitable form ! As they say the man is a form-filling animal. Since my father filled in the form to register my birth, I have been filling forms by the hundreds. I can’t complain because I have been responsible in devising some really lengthy ones.
But this one really stumped me. Patient’s name and address. Am I the
patient? No, I am not. Actually the denture, in a sense, can be called a patient. But then it has no name, at least no last name. Its address? It could be my mouth during the day and a container filled with water at night. No, it sounded very silly. Who reads the filled-up forms anyway ! So, I decided to
write my name instead. That was a good enough compromise,I thought, and went ahead with the form.
What complaint brought you to the clinic to day ? That was easy. I wrote down in large capital letters the purpose of my visit, in the hope that somebody on their side of the table would read and follow it.
Name and address of the clinic you last visited.: Not so easy, as I had forgotten the name of the clinic and its exact location. I had remembered the doctor as Dr. Farida Butt, a Kashmiri muslim. I put her name and proceeded further. Some more questions followed and I dealt with them rather casually. I went and returned the form. She had apparently come across many like me. She turned the form over and seeing that I had not answered that side, returned it to me to complete it. Back I went to my seat. I never imagined that some Americans still use both sides of the paper. That’s probably why I skipped the back side.
This side listed all the human ailments under the sun and wanted the patient to tick whatever he thought he had. By now I had decided to keep my denture in the background and went on to reply the questions in relation to me. One question asked if I was or could pregnant. It had an asterisk at the end and an explanation that it need be answered only by women. I glanced at the old woman next to me and wondered how she would have dealt with this question.
Patient’s signature and date—No problem. I had as yet signed zillion times in my life and once more did not matter. I got up to return the form and the pen once again and this time I was rewarded with a smile. The clinic obviously employed wicked girls with good teeth and pleasant smile.
I returned back to my chair and kept fondling the paper bag containing the purpose of my visit. A little later a white coat approached the old woman in her seventies and gave her a yellow form to sign. I knew what that was for, because I had a couple of occasions to sign it in order to indemnify the doctor against damage that would be caused by his assault.
This again started worrying me. What if the yellow form was given to me? Should I sign it or not? What would happen to me if the denture perishes during the treatment? This was getting too complicated. I wondered if I was really the worrying type, although I would not admit it.
Minutes passed by and after about a half hour wait I was called to attention. The name sounded strange but since I was the only one left waiting, I concluded that it was mine. I followed the nurse into the sanctum sanctorum.
The room was painted green. It should better have been red to meaningfully match the ambiance and the patient’s mood. But why was I so jittery ? I had nothing to lose or be afraid of. As they say ‘ a chicken once roasted, does not fear the fire.’
I summoned up all my courage and once again tried to take out the cat out of the bag and to explain why I was there. My effort met with the same result as before . Had my speech become incomprehensible because I was without the upper denture in place? But then these people would be used to hear people prattle all the time.
"Please be seated. The doctor will be with you shortly. Please be comfortable." She said.
She did not carry conviction when she said that. How can anybody be comfortable in a dentist’s chair?. I sat down dangling my legs on one side. She came around and lifted them and placed them along the length of the long reclining seat.
And then she put a green bib under my neck and secured it with velcro; a clear enough indication that the doctor would have me open my mouth so he could manipulate it in any way. I could hear loud ‘Aahs’ coming from some wide open mouth in the next room and the gurgling sound made while irrigating it. I remembered the traumatic experience of the extraction of my teeth and I shuddered under the bib. The roasted chicken in me was now starting to fear the fire. I was alone in the room. It was inadvisable to get up and walk around. The hefty nurse who had lifted my legs could have easily lifted me and laid me on the chair. So I started looking around to assess the room.
Attached to my chair were some robotic gadgets. Hanging on a side wall were a couple of thick aprons, such as the ones used by butchers. On the opposite wall was a drawing titled ‘Home Dentistry’ depicting a comic scene, I was not in a mood to appreciate.
The minutes were dragging on. A senior looking doctor finally entered the room. I became alert. But she went to a side table, opened a drawer, took out something and ‘exit’ed. Minutes dragged on again.
I tried to recollect some jokes told to me by Babubhai Rathod. But I couldn’t remember even the soberest ones. How about counting one to hundred backwards? I tried and failed. My mother had told me stories from the Mahabharat. The one in which Arjun finds himself on the horns of dilemma started coming to my mind again and again. Then I remembered my father telling me of his great grandmother who had chased away a tiger with only a sickle in her hand. At this moment I didn’t want to chase a tiger, I mean a doctor. In fact I wanted him to chase me home.
And at a moment that was to be finally final, the doctor walked in. He had the paper in his hand. He smiled at me and removed the bib from my neck. He asked for the broken tooth and the denture. I got up and handed over the contents of the paper bag to him.
He gave them over to the nurse and passed on some instructions to her. I didn’t understand them as they were in dentalese. Patting my back and saying bye to me he walked away. The nurse told me to come at 3 o’clock to collect the repaired denture.
This was too good to be true.
I walked back home, had a lunch of soft rice, ghee, salt and ‘metkut’. I didn’t want to crown the event with a disappointment; So I went back at 3.30 instead of 3. The denture was ready and waiting for me in a nice little box.
"May I go and use your restroom to try it?"
" Sure. Please go ahead."
I went ahead and found everything OK. ‘Come on Babubhai Rathod; I am ready for you’, I thought . All of a sudden I realized I had had no relief since morning. And then I relieved myself.
Ah ! a total and ultimate relief !
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2)A GREAT RAILWAY JOURNEY
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(A JOURNEY WHICH TOOK PLACE ABOUT FIFTY YEARS BEFORE IN THE INDIAN RAILWAY THROUGH RURAL AREA, APPEARS TO BE VERY FUNNY)
This story dates back to a time when Saurashtra was more commonly known as Kathiawad; around between 1950 and 1955.
I had gone to a place known as Kodinar located on the south Kathiawad coast , in search of dried fish for our fish meal plant. I was returning by rail from Kodinar to Mumbai via Veraval.
The train from Kodinar to Veraval was to leave Kodinar at 8.30 in the morning. I got up early, went through my routine and ordered a cup of tea. The hotel boy told me I could have it but it would be without milk. The milkman arrives only after 8 o’clock, he said. I said ‘no, thank you’ and left for the railway station, where I was sure the milkman would be less lazy. But I was wrong. The tea stall keeper had the same reply to give. He however offered me ‘masala soda’ which was bottled water carbonated in his hand machine. So many turns of the cradle and the water was feebly carbonated. A powder of cumin seeds and black salt made up the masala. He also offered some padikas, that is packets, of bhusu as something to chew. It was a mixure of sev, ganthia. papdi and bhajias, all made of gram flour deep fried in ground-nut oil. I succumbed to his offer. I had a tooth for such spicy things.
The train arrived at the platform on time. It had a composite second and third class coach for Veraval. It would be attached to other trains en route. I entered the second class and took a seat. In those days there were inter and third classes below the second. Hence the second class was pretty exclusive. There used to be a first class, but that was mainly occupied by the sons-in-law of the railway company.
As I was settling down in my seat, I became aware of an offensive odor pervading the compartment. I opened the latrine door to check. Yes, I was right. The sight would beggar description. I had never seen so much of output by so many people in such a small cubicle. I picked up my bag and switched over to the third class section. The condition there was none better but there were others to share the misery. The train chugged along on its four-hour journey to cover the distance of some twenty miles.
Being a passenger train, it stopped at every station. By 10 o’clock or so we reached Zanzer, one of the nondescript stations. After picking up half a dozen passengers, the driver got the green signal to go. He sounded the whistle and released the brakes. The engine, however, refused to oblige. He tried again and again without success. He got down from his high perch and waited for the guard to walk up to him. I could see them gesticulating, inspecting the undercarriage and sharing their hopelessness until the fireman, his soiled handkerchief tied over his head and ears jumped down and went under the engine. Soon he came out with an iron part looking like a thick, heavy pin. The pin soon became the object of everybody’s curiosity. After some discussion, the fireman was sent to the village a mile away to get some temporary repair done. They knew a blacksmith there who could do it. After an hour or so the fireman returned in a tonga along with a boy, the local patel’s son, who brought buttermilk for us. It tasted nice and cool. After the parts were fitted, the guard decided to return to Kodinar, where there was a regular railway workshop, rather than taking the risk of going ahead on the journey.
So, back again to Kodinar. It was getting very hot and as I was dozing to the rhythm of the train, the contents of my stomach came awake. Solids and liquids started getting transformed into gas. That appeared to be a feature common with the other passengers too; however the village folks had no inhibitions as they were seen time and again to tilt on one side to let out the wind. It was past midday when we returned to Kodinar. The guard took me to a nearby eating place where I got the much-needed relief and a good hot meal thereafter. The woman running the joint baked and served hot chapaties to the customers sitting around her in a semicircle.
The train, now the afternoon passenger, left at 3 o’clock on time. As we approached Zanzer again, there was a feeling of concern. Nothing unusual happened though and we reached Talala, where our compartment got detached to be attached to another train. The guard, who had become friendly by now, bade good bye and resumed his return journey to Kodinar.
There was a half hour wait before the other train arrived. Soon I would start the second leg of my journey, I thought. Possibly the second class on that train may be cleaner and I could transfer to it. I got into my idling compartment. However although the other train had arrived fifteen minutes back, there was no sign of our getting connected to it. I got down again and asked the porter standing nearby what was happening. He pointed to an engine quite a distance away. From what he told me I gathered that the engine is now under the control of the station master who has sent it to carry out some shunting work in order to rearrange a few goods carriages in the yard. After finishing that work, the engine would be taken to the well to power a pump to lift water to the overhead tank before it would be handed back to the control of the guard.
The engine was finally released by the station master and soon we were on our way to Delwada Junction, where we would be detached and joined to yet another train. I continued in the third class.
The transfer at Delwada was quick as the other train was waiting for our train to arrive. This was a better train and I got into its second class. A passenger was already seated in it. He welcomed me and introduced himself as Dr. Vora, a health officer with the railway company. He was on an inspection tour of the tea and snack stalls of the railway stations on the way. He had just returned from the inspection of the stall and the mobile vendors selling food items at the Delwada station.. As we were getting introduced to each other, the owner of the stall walked in along with a servant carrying a tray laden with eatables, a kettle of tea, cups and other things. He whispered to the health officer, waited for his nod and went away. The boy served us as the train moved and I had a happy time enjoying the tidbits without having to pay for it.
And finally it was Veraval at seven o’clock in the evening. The health officer by now knew about my predicament and the unforeseen need for me to stay overnight in the town. He prevailed upon me to be his guest and to stay with him in the second class waiting room. I agreed. A VIP treatment awaited me. As I stretched my legs on the leg supports of the reclining chair typical of the railway waiting rooms, a boy came with a bucket of warm water and towel followed by another carrying a tray of fruit and lassi. As I was enjoying the hospitality, the doctor came back from his inspection to rest for the night. A reasonably good dinner was later served on crockery, some of which was being used for the first time as seen from the labels still sticking to their sides.
The doctor was to resume his travel early next day, while my train was at 8 a.m. He told me not to wake up when he left and said good bye as we retired for the night.
The next morning I woke up at proper time. The doctor had already left. The station was empty. I came out of the waiting room; the stall was on the opposite platform and in front of me. The servants were busy preparing for the day. Nobody took notice of me. The person who mattered had left. I clapped to draw their attention. A boy came up. I told him I wanted to ‘go’ raising two end fingers of my hand. He understood and came back with a tall tin can filled with water. He pointed to the railway track and asked me to proceed to my work. There was no W.C. attached to the waiting room. I gestured to ask how the doctor had managed and he gestured back pointing to the tracks. I had no choice. I had to hurry up not only because of the urge but also because the can was leaking a steady stream of water. It could be empty before I needed the water. I went ahead and succeeded.
There were more occasions to visit Veraval in the years that followed, but none to squat by the rail tracks. Thank god, never again!
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3)AT RUPEES NINE PER DAY
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It was a gloomy and drizzly September morning in Bombay. I walk briskly to be on time; because that was to be my first day at a full time job in government . So was it to be for Pandit Jawaharlal Nehru, as the first prime minister of India.

I reached a full ten minutes ahead of opening time. The Director pulled in a little later. He called the office superintendent and asked him to show me around. He did. I was amidst so many Babus wielding their pens. They came in all shapes, sizes, ages and attire. At college we were all demonstrators in Chemistry, all young and clad in white lab coats. Meanwhile my immediate boss was in and he took charge of me.

The Fisheries set-up of which I was to be a part was itself a new nascent Department. Constructions were in progress; but right then it was scattered over several rooms in the Old Customs House. Soon, its technology wing in which I was destined to work would move to a new spacious independent laboratory in Sassoon Dock. Shark liver oil production unit would also be apart of it.

The Director had planned to visit the Laboratory that day with my boss me and, by 11 am or so we were asked to be ready. It was a two-mile drive. As I kneeled to change my shoes into rubber boots, a whiff of strongly smelling nitrobenzene shot up to my nose reminding me of the girl accidentally spilling it on my shoes. Nitrobenzene? No more, I thought. Very soon we were in Sassoon Dock in front of the Laboratory, a spacious two-story structure with ample space to expand. I fell in love with it. It was now for us to plan, design, develop and create. Our hearts were full with pride.

We looked around, spent some time at the wharf, made some decisions and were back at the Old Customs House. It was soon to be lunchtime. The boss asked me what arrangement I had made for lunch. I had made none. So I had to depend on some restaurant for a grub. Our clerk finished his ‘dubba’ and kept me company as I set about in search of an eating-place. There were quite a few in the neighbourhood; but not a single had a seat to spare. I cursed myself being hungry. Gulshan’s and Rashid’ near college always had seats to offer. A plate of ‘maska – slace’ with sugar drizzled on it and a cup of tea would be served in two minutes. I kept looking at my watch. It was almost 30 minutes that we had been out. The break was getting over. The clerk sensed my tension and taught me an important rule. It meant that, if you are back at 2:35, your break had started at 2:05. The end defined the beginning! There were other rules and conventions too, but more about them later. Anyway, I had a banana for lunch before I returned. The two rooms in which our Technology section was temporarily housed were on the fifth floor. The shark liver oil bottling unit was in a shed on the ground floor. I had to alternate between them, up and down, at least half a dozen times during the afternoon. Walking down a long verandah to the left and making a left at the end you came to face the lift, an ancient contraption in the form of a see-through cage. It made a cracking sound as it descended through the second and third floors. It also shook and quaked to terrify you if you were new. They say that it had been like that ever since. The long verandah on the fifth floor was in direct view of the naval ships anchored in the naval docks and although the dispute between the navy boys and the British had been quelled, a few ammunition holes in the wall reminded you to be careful as you walked past.

Around 4:00 pm, a tea-boy walked in to place a cup of tea on my desk. He was to be called ‘Bhat’. He had got a page earmarked for me in his tiny notebook. A mark on it meant a cup of tea to pay for next month. Tidbits would be extra at cash. I had tea and a batata-wada and wondered if I had ordered a garlic wada instead.

Soon it was nearing 5:00 pm, the closing time. The day was dull but not so dull for me. I don’t know what it was for Pandit-ji. As I was in the tiny library enclosure in the Department, browsing through some scientific papers, I heard some kind of noise all around, noise of footwear being scraped, drawers being closed, registers and ledgers being shut, call bells being put into drawers, cupboards being closed and keys being turned. As I looked up everybody was making it to the exit door. It was 5:00 pm by the time the last man was out. My first day in the government was over. I was home. As I removed my shoes I realized the nitrobenzene smell had worn out completely.

There was another big change. The day had made me richer by nine rupees, a very tidy sum considering the prevalent power of the rupee.
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4)Being given to understand that….
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The University of Bombay certificate that Vishnu holds says Vishnu Mujab, born 1925, has passed his B.A. examination in History in pass class. Vishnu is now in search of a job. He joins the huge crowd of unemployed youths of 1947. The War has ended and the economy is down. B.A. in History doesn’t help Vishnu in the present. Suggestions keep coming from friends and relatives on how to go about job hunting. “Apply anywhere, start with ‘Being given to understand--’,” says one. Vishnu picks it up and starts applying. “Being given to understand that there are suitable vacancies to be filled in your esteemed organization, I beg to apply for one them…”. Vishnu handwrites the applications by the dozens with no result. On someone’s suggestion, Vishnu starts with ‘Respected Sir’ rather than just ‘Sir’ and ends with “I beg to remain, Sir, your most obedient servant”. That doesn’t help either,
“Are you prepared for an interview?” asks someone and suggests Vishnu should be ready with a suitable outfit. Vishnu goes ahead and upgrades himself with a blue blazer jacket with double breast and brass buttons, a pair of R52 trousers and black shoes. A necktie? No. No necktie. He can always borrow one from Shambhu, his distant cousin from the Central Bank. The result? Vishnu becomes smart and final. A friend comments Vishnu should improve his handwriting or use a typewriter instead. Daddy agrees, shells out thirty-three rupees and gets him a ‘Royal’ portable typewriter from Army surplus disposal. A real bargain!
The machine is okay but has suffered a lot during its army days. The lines look a bit wavy and out of alignment. Maybe it is good for lyrical poetry rather than job application. In addition, the letter ‘g’ is missing. No problem; just type a ‘j’ and hand-correct it to a ‘g’, suggests daddy. It works. Want to get? Type ‘jet’, ‘jood’ for ‘good’, ‘just’ when you need ‘gust’. The famous opening line becomes, “Beinj jiven to understand” and so on. There is a little problem also with ‘w’ and ‘@’. You have to hit those keys real hard to get them on paper. This is however not an immediate problem as these ‘@’ and ‘w’ are not going to be in hot pursuit for another 50 years or so.
Making true copies of marksheets and passing certificates is a tedious job; and the typewriter doesn’t help a bit. The inventor of the Xerox machine is still wasting his childhood copying his older sister making faces. Vishnu makes friends with the typewriter, learns properly feeding the paper and the carbon paper in between. Only two copies are possible on the rickety machine, that too if the carbon papers are fed properly and his smudged fingers have not made ugly prints on the white paper.
Besides certificates of achievement, Vishnu has to have a testimonial for good character. He knows a respectable person who is a J.P.—Justice of Peace— and gave character certificates by the dozens. However you have to visit him three times to prove your earnestness. The first time you may be told he is doing pooja or reciting a stotra, second time he may be taking rest and third time, he is gone to the toilet and that you have to wait. The testimonial is a non-committing document certifying the person to possess, “to the best of my knowledge”, a sound moral character. Vishnu got his on the third visit. It is handwritten by the J.P.’s daughter and it is barely legible. That adds to its authenticity. Vishnu types out and keeps several copies ready. Inadvertently, however, he hand-corrects ‘J.P.’ to ‘G. P.’ on all the copies.
Certifying copies of certificates attached, to be ‘true’ copies is another routine requirement. This has to be done at the hands of any gazetted officer of the government. Fortunately, such officers are plentiful and eager to do this. The don’t carry any responsibility for errors since the rubber stamps of their designation are too worn out to be identified. People are so used to such stamps that any readable stamp is likely to be considered unauthentic.
On somebody’s suggestion, Vishnu now concludes his applications by “thanking you in anticipation and hoping for a favorable reply”. Of course, the “I beg to remain, Respected Sir, your most obedient servant” continues.
A year passes by without any favorable reply. Meanwhile, Vishnu Mujab, B.A., accepts a 30 rupee per month job at a cloth shop; but continuing with the “Being given to understand that…” ritual for better prospects
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5)THE FACE CLOTH
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What on earth is a face cloth? Or a wash cloth? Well, it is an approximately 10 to 11 square inch piece of coarse white cloth of absorbent cotton. It is stitched around on all sides. It looks like a mini-napkin; but is definitely not one. It is used totally differently.

Although an important ingredient of the Western culture, many of us from India, especially those who migrated West in later life or after retirement, have not heard of it or seen it, let alone used it.

As the name suggests, this cloth works in the face washing department. Let us see how ----- Little boy Johnny got up a bit late this morning. He dashed downstairs, gobbled his breakfast and is now in his bath-room. He brushes his teeth and gargles with some mint flavored mouthwash. He then plugs the wash basin to allow some hot water to collect, takes a wash-cloth, squeezes some liquid soap on it, dips it in the hot water and scrubs his face with it. He then unplugs the basin, fills it again and repeats the process. He pats his face dry. His mission is accomplished. He is ready to go out and face the world.

My friend Babubhai Rathod, as a child in Surat followed a different routine. He would first swish some water around in his mouth, chew on a babul or neem twig going all over inside, split the stick in half and scrape his tongue with the flattened twig. After ten minutes of indescribable audio and visual outbursts, Babubhai would be ready to wipe his face with a napkin and go for his breakfast. Would the tiny face cloth have fit his bill?

So let us admit we don’t have the likes of a face cloth in our culture. But before we do that, let us ask some experts on Lord Krishna’s life and times. His life is supposed to be perfect and fulfilled. My research revealed lots of irrelevant things such as gallons of full fat milk, pots of unsalted butter, jars of firm yogurt called curds, besides codes of conduct and commandments to enable you to lead a worthy life. There were lessons in dancing on the head of a colossal cobra, some tricks on stealing sarees and one on supplying them. Yet there is no evidence of a face cloth But wait, I find the mention of an incidence where a woman tore away a piece of her precious saree to bandage Krishna’s finger. That was not a wash cloth and therefore we are not interested; are we?

But why look up to Krishna? Don’t we remember the most famous and versatile face cloth in our own life? Yes, yes, yes. Our mother’s pallu, always there when you needed it. Don’t search, don’t ask, don’t bother. Ever as clean and pure as a mother’s love is. Well, I am talking of times when mothers had palloos.

At the nursing home, where I am now staying, I have occasions to use face cloths while taking a shower. The helper takes a face cloth, squeezes a fistful of shampoo on it , folds the cloth to make a kind of a pouch. I then rub the pouch allover my wet body. A lot of the shampoo remains in the pouch unused. Wasteful? Yes; but wastefulness is hardly a lamentable attribute of the American personal life.

In this land of superlatives where king and queen sizes dominate, our wash cloth has no significant place to exist. Poor wash cloth! It has no company either; except for a bikini, that is. That too only in size. A bikini may be as scanty, but it receives extensive coverage literally, culturally and artistically.

But about the bikini, sometime later!
(Writer was very senior state government official in India.He has art to create humor on different subjects.)
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