French Toast

My brother is a racist. He looks down upon French and Bengali people. One of these prejudices has returned to bite him in the ass.

Those of his batchmates who had taken French as thir optional language in Class X are currently on an exchange program where they’re visiting France. The ones who took Sanskrit- such as my brother- are stuck in Delhi, where they’re wilting under heat and dust.

That’s not the half of it.

One of his friends- named Gian- is being hosted in France by a “hot French girl”.

That’s not the half of it either.

They have been going on picnics to the wine country in Bordeaux. Chaperoned by her parents, but it still counts for something. Meanwhile, my brother goes for tuitions to Malviya Nagar. Oh, and there’s a strike on in France, so he’s not even going to get the olive oil seeds that he asked for.

But that’s still not the half of it.

The girl’s name is Fanny.

Let that sink in.

And let your imaginations run wild.

And let this be a lesson to you to never be racist.

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