The Happy Prince wiped the last morsel of shorshe ilish from his pouty bhadralok lips and tore his bhadralok eyes off the television where he was watching dented and painted women protesting.
Dazzled as he was by their beauty, he couldn’t fathom why they would be out there in the Delhi winter baiting water cannons.
And then someone asked a Question.
Questions, Questions, he muttered under a sputter of fish breath. Ever since Papa was crowned Emperor, someone or the other was bothering him with Questions.
He furrowed his bhadralok brow, scratched his bhadralok temple, and wiggled his bhadralok chin.
And then he delivered the demented answer that has since dented his ego and painted him black, that has tainted and daunted and haunted and tormented him. It just wasn’t what he had wanted.
Papa was livid, we hear. And ever since, he has been an Unhappy Prince.
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