ý How was your day? Uncle Ramesh asked me. I was scared heýd not do anything silly under the influence of hashish in front of his uncle. Instead, i backed up a little not with the fright but his uncleýs bad breath. Rameshýs habit of chewing tobacco made his breath worse than that of a person suffering from halitosis and he believed that chewing tobacco is more economical than wasting his money on a pack of cigarettes that cost eleven fold higher than the price of a sachet of tobacco, imported from India. ýIt was okay, uncle.ý I managed a smile and replied. ýWhatýs that at your hand?ý Uncle Ramesh asked me while we waited for an elevator at the vestibule. ýOh, itýs a letter from the immigration department, uncle. Iýve an interview tomorrow, is what it says.ý A rickety door of an elevator opened wide noisily at the vestibule. We took the elevator for our flat on the fourth floor. Inside the elevator was a small placard that bore a warning sign, a penalty of $5000 written under an art of cigarette with a crossway of two red lines above it. The elevator came to a halt and the rickety door opened wide again, noisily. ýYour id card must be ready.ý Uncle Ramesh said as we walked out of the elevator. ýMaybe.ý ýIts time now you get a job and make some money, Gopal.ý ýYes, Uncle.ý ýYour parents have high hopes on you.ý Ramesh said and reached his hand for the doorknob. ýI know, Uncle.ý Rita was busy with her chores as usual inside the kitchen. A daytime job as a helper in a beauty salon gave her ample time every night to prepare a wholesome dinner for the family. Tonight she was chopping pork chops. Ramesh put his bag on the floor and rushed into the bathroom for a shower. I took the seat of my makeshift sofa bed. Dinner was ready in awhile later. After dinner, Ramesh sat down on the sofa bed while Aunt Rita and i settled down on the jute-matted floor, cross-legged. The late night English news in a local channel was on. Hong Kongýs rising unemployment rate at a record high of 5% was the major headline. A protest outside the immigration department by a faction of illegitimate mainlanders for their legal right of abode was the next report. The female newsreader also read a report of thirty illegal prostitutes, held in custody after raids at brothels around downtown Mongkok. After the news, i delved in a thought that there must be no such place on earth, where women are subjugated off their bodies and are deprived off some rights. ýMatriarchy only exists in the kingdom of bees where a male bee is killed by a female bee, after copulation. Prostitution is a game in the name of sexý, i thought. Uncle Ramesh went to bed inside the cubicle straight after the news. A little while later Aunt Rita joined her husband. I turned off the lights, TV and slouched into my makeshift sofa bed. I shut my eyes. About a quarter of an hour later, a faint moan from the cubicle caught my attention. I opened my eyes wide at the dark and gave all ears to the sound quietly. A creaky noise of the bed that hit the plywood partition was also audible. My auntýs moan grew louder and louder until it almost turned into a cry in the end. It seems like uncle Ramesh had brought his wife to an orgasm, i reasoned, otherwise sheýd not have near cried like that. The last hum i could make out were a murmur from my uncle. After they were quiet again, i pretended asleep and started grunting noisily as if i he was snoring. Kalebhut.