Early-ish Saturday morning, I stand at one end of Rampart Row and I can see clear down to the other end; my estimate is that there are 25 people between me and there. At no other moment during my visits here could I have said this.

I am struck by an inexplicable urge to find out what my future holds for me, apart from what I do know about it: that in an hour I will pick up my son from a workshop. So I saunter down to the other end, where I know the fortune tellers sit. On the way I run into — I mean physically run into — someone whom I heard described, two nights ago, as “an institution on the Bombay cultural scene” or words to that effect. Considering that I fell backwards as if struck by a battering ram, I’d agree with “institution”. Like running into the Gateway of India.

Where the fortune tellers sit, there’s nobody sitting. But like Charu, I’m struck by their offer to help me with FOREIN TUOU and EDUEOTION, and their injunction to “Look-for hands live”. I look quizzically at my hands as I saunter on.

At the Postcards to Pakistan booth — a further installment of the missives there will appear here soon — I’m standing next to several pre-teen boys chaperoned by a gent in a smart grey-blue shirt printed with fleur-de-lises, wearing sharp brown leather shoes with a gold emblem of sorts. We’re all reading the missives, and suddenly he leads them, with plenty of giggles, in finding words for each letter in “Pakistan”. This was their effort:

“P” — Pagal.
“A” — Atrocious.
“K” — Kutta.
“I” — Idiot.
“S” — Stupid.
“T” — Terrorist.
“A” — Arrogant.
“N” — Nikamma.

By the end they are so convulsed with laughter that I am worried that in their mirth, a couple of the kids will fall on the floor and roll around.

What would a forein tuou, to Pakistan, do for the edueotion of these kids?