We had steel utensils, plastic ones, a glass set and gold-plated ones, and these did not include the new set Gurung Bada and Appa had recently sent us from Hong Kong. In addition, Aamaa had, in a charitable mood, given us a few plates—real-life plates—from her kitchen. The glass set we used when we had special pretend guests. That day, our special guests would be our Gurkha fathers. We’d play our respective fathers and ourselves. Gita had stolen two fake mustachios from Drama Sir’s desk in the staff room. We donned our mustachios, and Gita even wore a black hat. Gurung Bada never wore a hat, but Gita took a little wardrobe liberty. Her Phantom cigarette sweet that dangled between her lips was again out of character—for neither of our fathers smoked—but I didn’t mind because she gave me one, too, which I tucked above my ear. “Give me some beer, Budi.” Gita looked back. “And Gita, turn the jaabo tape recorder off. Your Appa and Bada are talking.” “Okay, Appa,” Gita said in a meek voice, and took off her mustache.
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