<p class="title">We were at the dining table of the Ramans wondering what the bill of fare was going to be. It was worth waiting since Mrs Raman always surprised us with an exotic dish that would be a treat to the choosy taste buds. The guest list included Sridhar, the English professor and humorist who, among other things, liked to hear his own voice uninterruptedly. Gourmet food was second among equals. Before someone else could take the floor, Sridhar began rather pompously...</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Friends, Romans, and countrymen - correction - Ramans and colony men...</p>.<p class="bodytext">"The purport of my after-dinner address at the table of the hospitable Ramans is to narrate a singular story having several points of interest. If you all remember your Shakespeare, rather Julius Caesar, you will recall that Caesar's wife Calphurnia was to be above suspicion. I would add, in addition, above superstitions like omens, portents and such. I'm not Caesar, but Sridhar. But before long you'd realise how there is a semblance of parallel in my life as well.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Ever since my wife became pregnant - thanks for the round of cheery applause - she became a bundle of nerves. Short of walking in her sleep like Lady Macbeth, she had been exhibiting signs of an attack of nerves. Poor thing!</p>.<p class="bodytext">" 'Screw your courage to the sticking place,' I had admonished her. '<em>Macbeth</em>, Act I, Scene 7,' she had shot back, accusing me of offering a mechanical solution from a toolbox in the garage.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"She said, 'You talk about courage, Professor Sridhar. Are you courageous? Thrice you were offered the principalship. And thrice you refused, fearing the warring elements in the student community. Infirm of purpose!' She sniffed. I'd rather be a coward than be superstitious. Consider this matter of the Ides of March. Preposterous! Of all the times, her confinement had to be in March, in particular on the 15th of March, as predicted by her obstetrician. Alas! She was scared. 'Beware the Ides of March' was the soothsayer's warning to Julius Caesar. But pray what of it to a lady teaching English Literature to teenage girls?</p>.<p class="bodytext">"She shivered like an aspen the whole of March 14th, blabbering she was going to be carved with a knife on the Ides of March if she were to stir out of the house. What raving madness! She sat up in bed now and then, sniffed her little hand and murmured, 'Here is the combo smell of onion, garlic and blood that my knife drew while I chopped them. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.'</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Can you beat that? Frankly, I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. But, lo and behold! The labour pains promptly began during the early hours of the Ides of March. As she got into the ambulance, Brutus, our, rather, her pet Alsatian celebrated, for his saintly habits acted differently. It barked and barked, looking at empty space, baring its fangs now and then. Perhaps the animal mistook the ambulance for the corporation's dog van. But to him, it was the last straw. 'You too, Brutus?' she murmured, her face blanched.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"To listen to one's wife gloating 'I told you so' is the unkindest cut of all. Believe me, ladies and gentlemen. The 'Ides of March' syndrome came true eventually in her case as well. Indeed, she was carved with a knife that day. By a doctor, that is. The delivery was not normal. She gave birth to a boy on the Ides of March after an operation - a Caesarian operation."</p>
<p class="title">We were at the dining table of the Ramans wondering what the bill of fare was going to be. It was worth waiting since Mrs Raman always surprised us with an exotic dish that would be a treat to the choosy taste buds. The guest list included Sridhar, the English professor and humorist who, among other things, liked to hear his own voice uninterruptedly. Gourmet food was second among equals. Before someone else could take the floor, Sridhar began rather pompously...</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Friends, Romans, and countrymen - correction - Ramans and colony men...</p>.<p class="bodytext">"The purport of my after-dinner address at the table of the hospitable Ramans is to narrate a singular story having several points of interest. If you all remember your Shakespeare, rather Julius Caesar, you will recall that Caesar's wife Calphurnia was to be above suspicion. I would add, in addition, above superstitions like omens, portents and such. I'm not Caesar, but Sridhar. But before long you'd realise how there is a semblance of parallel in my life as well.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Ever since my wife became pregnant - thanks for the round of cheery applause - she became a bundle of nerves. Short of walking in her sleep like Lady Macbeth, she had been exhibiting signs of an attack of nerves. Poor thing!</p>.<p class="bodytext">" 'Screw your courage to the sticking place,' I had admonished her. '<em>Macbeth</em>, Act I, Scene 7,' she had shot back, accusing me of offering a mechanical solution from a toolbox in the garage.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"She said, 'You talk about courage, Professor Sridhar. Are you courageous? Thrice you were offered the principalship. And thrice you refused, fearing the warring elements in the student community. Infirm of purpose!' She sniffed. I'd rather be a coward than be superstitious. Consider this matter of the Ides of March. Preposterous! Of all the times, her confinement had to be in March, in particular on the 15th of March, as predicted by her obstetrician. Alas! She was scared. 'Beware the Ides of March' was the soothsayer's warning to Julius Caesar. But pray what of it to a lady teaching English Literature to teenage girls?</p>.<p class="bodytext">"She shivered like an aspen the whole of March 14th, blabbering she was going to be carved with a knife on the Ides of March if she were to stir out of the house. What raving madness! She sat up in bed now and then, sniffed her little hand and murmured, 'Here is the combo smell of onion, garlic and blood that my knife drew while I chopped them. All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand.'</p>.<p class="bodytext">"Can you beat that? Frankly, I would not have such a heart in my bosom for the dignity of the whole body. But, lo and behold! The labour pains promptly began during the early hours of the Ides of March. As she got into the ambulance, Brutus, our, rather, her pet Alsatian celebrated, for his saintly habits acted differently. It barked and barked, looking at empty space, baring its fangs now and then. Perhaps the animal mistook the ambulance for the corporation's dog van. But to him, it was the last straw. 'You too, Brutus?' she murmured, her face blanched.</p>.<p class="bodytext">"To listen to one's wife gloating 'I told you so' is the unkindest cut of all. Believe me, ladies and gentlemen. The 'Ides of March' syndrome came true eventually in her case as well. Indeed, she was carved with a knife that day. By a doctor, that is. The delivery was not normal. She gave birth to a boy on the Ides of March after an operation - a Caesarian operation."</p>
