(21) Baronial Class

After receiving your missive, I found myself plunged into a state of profound introspection. Here I stand: a former street urchin of decidedly plebeian provenance, catapulted by the whimsical caprices of fate into the ostensibly civilised world, yet forever carrying the indelible passport of the so-called Cattle Class

And still, in moments of audacious reverie, I dare to fantasise about composing prose in impeccable Tharoorian English.

What an exquisitely improbable Oxymoron! It is rather like expecting a bullock cart to compete in a Formula One Grand Prix, or inviting a village scarecrow to deliver the keynote address at a symposium on haute couture. 

Yet hope, being gloriously impervious to ridicule, continues to whisper that one day even a rustic soul might coax a sesquipedalian sonnet from the depths of an overworked dictionary.

Behold the most preposterous metamorphosis of our times: a humble denizen of the so-called Cattle Class audaciously attempting to compose in what may now be christened the exalted dialect of the Baronial Class

Ms. Fussy Zaroor, might I prevail upon you to apprise Saar of this momentous act of nomenclatural alchemy? A spontaneous renaming ceremony has just transpired within the confines of this very epistle. 

History may yet record it as the singular occasion on which a bovine passport was miraculously exchanged for a baronial coat of arms.







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