Millat's face fell, troubled that his answer did not seem to be the right one. He looed over at his father [Samad], who was gesticulating wildly behind the teacher, trying to convey the jerky head and hand movements of bharata natyam. (...) 'Thriiiii-ller!' sang Millat, full throated, believing he had caught his father's gist. 'Thriii-ller night! Michael Jackson, Miss! Michael Jackson!' Samad put his head in his hands. Miss Burt-Jones looked queerly at the small child standing on a chair, gyrating and grabbing his crotch before her. 'OK, thank you, Millat. Thank you for sharing... that.' Millat grinned. 'No problem, Miss.'
Sist sett
