Kumbhīlaka. You see, she's here.
Maitreya. Who's she? Who's here?
Kumbhīlaka. She. See? She.
Maitreya. Look here, you son of a slave! What makes you sigh like a half-starved old beggar in a famine, with your "shesheshe"?
Kumbhīlaka. And what makes you hoot like an owl with your "whowhowho"?
Maitreya. All right. Tell me.
Kumbhīlaka. [Aside.] Suppose I say it this way. [Aloud.] I'll give you a riddle, man.
Maitreya. And I'll give you the answer with my foot on your bald spot.
Kumbhīlaka. Not till you've guessed it. In what season do the mango-trees blossom?
Maitreya. In summer, you jackass.