I can't help it. It doesn't matter how ugly they are or how long they drone on about John Locke or differential equations. I am a man who melts when he hears a guy with an Indian or Pakistani accent. Bonus points if it's a New Delhi accent, with that British tinge - that Passage to India feel - that smooth, warm way they roll every "r" - and I can't help it. I turn into butter. Or, I guess, ghee. Maybe I've read too much E.M. Forster. Maybe Maurice was the mistake. My life is a joke, and it's the fault of the Asian Subcontinent.