Satiricus was mumbling to himself as he sat on his veranda and read the newspaper. His wife looked over at him from under her lids but didn’t say anything. Finally he couldn’t hold it in anymore. 
“So which day we celebrating Diwali?” he asked her, while putting down his paper.
“YOU want to know when we celebrating Diwali?” she asked with raised eyebrows. “Like you miss Cappo or what?”
“That’s not fair,” Satiricus said in an aggrieved tone. “You know I don’t drink on Diwali.” He smirked virtuously. “And I’m sure he’s drinking like a fish over in New York!”
“Well, we’re celebrating both days,” said Mrs Satiricus, with a smile. “And it’s not because you don’t drink on Diwali!”
“Both days?” asked Satiricus. “Why would you want to do that? It’s more work for you.”
“Sato, I can’t follow what those Pandits are saying about the different days,” confessed Mrs Satiricus. “So I’m playing it safe. And I get you at home for two days!”
“So how many diyas we lighting this year,” he asked as he looked over to his wife as she went to “turn the pot” in the kitchen behind them.
“Twenty-four,” she replied, as she returned, wiping her hand.
“Only twenty-four?!” Satiricus sounded incredulous. “But you’re always trying to outdo Champa. And she always has at least sixty!” Champa was our next door neighbour and was married to Hari, Satiricus’ sometimes fellow habitué at the Back Street Bar.
“Boy, things really hard with Champa and Hari this year, you know,” confided Mrs Satiricus. “Champa says she can only light one dozen diyas.”
“Well, things getting hard with us too, you know,” complained Satiricus. “Why don’t you light just one dozen like Champa?”
“Well, you know how you still buy beer for the boys, not to let them know our story?” said Mrs Satiricus. “I can’t have Champa and the girls know, can I?”
“I hear Cappo already got a job in New York, you know,” said Satiricus, suddenly.
Both he and his wife fell quiet. Satiricus thought about why he’d voted for Nagga Man and Rum Jhaat. His wife thought about getting a visa to the States.
