"Whaau!" says Bins. "Did you know that Scheherazade's father was the Sultan's VIZIER?" I look up with what I would like to imagine is a weary, all-knowing look. But it is wasted of course, because Bins is not facing my way. Instead, he's reclining on his bed with his eyes closed, indulging in his new favorite pastime: listening to audio-books on my iPad. Even sighing won't help because he won't hear me.

I walk across and remove an ear-bud. "Yes, I know," I say, "because unlike you, I read the Arabian Nights when I was twelve years old!" Bins yelps in surprise. "Ow! Why are you yelling and – ahh! – I have lost my place in the – how do I stop this thing – where is the OFF button–" For a few moments he's in disarray, arms and knees flailing, knocking the iPad to the ground, spilling his coffee, snarling and sputtering.

Fifteen minutes later when decorum and coffee mugs have been restored, he says, "They are really something, huh? The Arabian Nights? The ladies, those days –!" He waggles his head and pumps his untidy eyebrows up and down. "It is interesting that they had so much freedom and influence," he says. "But only as wives and princesses," I say. "They didn't seem to live a separate existence." "And yet," says Bins, "the whole story is set in motion by the Sultan's wife! One lady's lust is the trigger that sparks the entire universe of tales! That's a lot of power, no?"

Not wanting to concede this point to him, I pick up the book that I've been reading. "See this?" I say. It's called GRUNT, by Mary Roach, the best-selling author who has made a name writing about all manner of squelchy subjects from human reproduction to toilets for lady astronauts en route to Mars. "It's about the incredible amount of research and technology required to prepare American soldiers for war." The name refers to a slangy term for soldiers. Bins is looking puzzled. "How does that connect to the Arabian nights?" he wants to know.

"Well," I say, struggling to join the dots in the pattern I can see in my brain, "this book is full of stories too. Of men and women, picked up by the terrifying genie of modern warfare and hurled across the planet. Of the magical gadgets – long-distance radios, tiny surveillance cameras, flame-resistant cloth – they use. Of the petty private ambitions of callous rulers that result in whole battalions of young men and now young women too laying down their lives for their country." To me, it's just another form of the tales.

Bins cocks his head to one side. "The scale is different," he says. "By a funny chance, both books are set in the Middle East. But your book has barefoot suicide bombers, nuclear war and no-one knows how it will end. My book has camels, peasants and silken carpets. At the heart of it, there's a clever, beautiful girl, telling stories to a stupid, powerful man in order to save the lives of all the young girls in the land. And, best of all, at the end of it? She succeeds!" With that he replaces his earbuds and lies back, smiling contentedly.

Manjula Padmanabhan, author and artist, writes of her life in the fictional town of Elsewhere in the fictional town of Elsewhere, US, in this weekly column

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