Adult Diapers and Arab Smocks

...male cooks. That’s literally a hair-raising experience if any. Ugh, so hard to swallow down even a morsel when a hairy man in a half tied lungi serves you your poriyal. Can’t ward off the thought that one or more of the fibery strands in that curry are not of the french bean origin.

You guys need adult diapers. Cos apparently you can’t control your stuff. Cos apparently the urge is so urgent, you gotta go right now. Right now when you are talking to me on the phone. And by by the – do not think it necessary to inform me until I hear that horrifying sound of the toilet flushing.

Didn’t your mommy tell you it’s poor manners to pee before others? Oh well, out of sight is out of mind right?

But God help me, I have a million bruises on my mind from horrifying flushes. I have permanent disabilities from the running sound of pee trickling down your wee wee. “These are the stuff that nightmares are made of and our little life is rounded with a tinkle” – Shakespeare from the Tempests of Rabia .

And you know the funny part – EVERYONE does it. And apparently I am the only wierdo who has a problem with it!!! And it totally beats me! I don’t even take a call if I am undressed, or in states in which I would ordinarily not appear before you. Why? Cos well, I got your voice pouring down my ears. There’s barely any distance between you and I. You are in fact very close to me. Physically. Because your sound is converting into physical waves. But you won’t get it na. You will jiggle your wiggle and slap your crap at ease. If there are no eyes there are no spies. Right?

Ugh.

Don’t bother talking to me. Any of you. I know you’ve all done it. I know all of you feel rather empowered and superior when on the pot. I can hear your silent “Let me show ya what I got”s. Show me what you got? I am going to come over right now and dunk your head in that pot and flush it all around.

Grossed out? But it didn’t happen right? Hmmmm. Remember a thing called the power of imagination?

Some people don’t even want to leave it to the imagination. I saw a well-groomed floor manager at an upmarket store – digging his nose away in glory … then go right up to a customer and shake his hand.

There’s a reason I don’t like shaking men’s hands. And it’s got nothing to do with my sense of modesty. It’s got everything to do with theirs. I don’t know why men think that when they scratch their nether-regions, nobody sees it. Hello yes, I may have modest eyes that turn away when you actually do that. But I know what’s going on. The same way I know that you don’t even wipe your hands after having publicly urinated or privately for that matter. There’s a reason male hands have that slimy look. 

I tend to believe that men suffer the rather impractical male clothing essential – the pants, for one sole reason only. Ease of urinating at any publicly available spot. If they had the control women did, the would happily opt for a lungi or a smock like those rather smug Arabs. There would be no nether-region scratching and you could actually hold my attention without me obsessing over all the items of mine that you have had the chance to lay your slimy hands on.

And male cooks. That’s literally a hair-raising experience if any. Ugh, so hard to swallow down even a morsel when a hairy man in a half tied lungi serves you your poriyal. Can’t ward off the thought that one or more of the fibery strands in that curry are not of the french bean origin. Ugh. Ugh. Yugh.

So are you all disgusted enough now?

Good.

Now dontchya ever ever ever call me when on the pot and dontchya never never never try to show me whatchya got.

Pssssst: Ladies, I am actually referring to you. You know that you are the ones who do it the most -- some wierd sense of female bonding going one too far I think!!

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Death by Dung or Kohinoor?

.... and hey if you didn’t notice, you are driving to the tune of her hands yourself! This is the point where I wanna roll down that window and scream LADY JUST STUFF YOUR HANDS IN HIS PANTS AND BE DONE WITH IT ALREADY!!

Now that I am back behind the wheel, the road is my video game, and I am winning it! Well, err, only sometimes. Every day on the road is an experience isn’t it? All the out of control asses, the out of control asses of asses, and just plain old cow asses! And if you are in an auto – well its like a whole another movie! Oh that horrifying fast motion experience of an upcoming cow ass, and if you are lucky enough to be carrying a dupatta you can slow motion throw it around your face and super slow motion duck into the auto as the big fat ass with that swishing tail and leftover poop looms closer and closer ... and closer. The tail swishes like a ball chain .... the poop wriggles slowly .......and its almost as if the cows ass took a deep deep breath to totally inflate itself! In my head I am enacting a dramatic “nahiiiiiiiiiiii” in sloooow motion as I jump in revulsion to save myself. But I don’t even know if I managed to duck it........ dear God ..Nahiiiiiiiiiii.......silence .... and then Ka Boom!!!

Ok, it was just the auto. Pulling out all its power and kaboom in that final spurt to escape certain death by dung. Silent thank you to the auto-guy. You are not so bad are ya?

You know that stretch between Hosmat and Domlur? The actual Hosmat hospital road? You know that ride? That super bone jerky ride that is designed to pop loose all the nuts and bolts that hold your body together? For the non-Bangaloreans, Hosmat hospital is the leading ortho hospital specializing in spine injury. The ROAD. Well, that’s a business strategy. Designed to drive more customers inside. The drilling machine effect begins at the start of the road. Hosmat lies right at the end. Then slowly the craters start appearing...and sudden mountainous ridges. And then you hit that one big ridge that ejects you right out of your seat and throws you inside the Hosmat compound. They are waiting there with their stretchers to take you away and commit you to the life of spine repair and wheelchair. Like a bad sci-fi movie.

Once you cross that stretch and start zooming towards Koramangala the roads are like inner city heavens for motorists. Every cyclist, biker, and driver will just gun his vehicle to make the most of that half a kilometre. And the road even curves so beautifully. I took some firang friends on that road once to show them the city in an auto. And as we were zooming, one of them stuck his head out of the auto to take in the semi fresh Bangalore air. Mmmm the sweet Bangalore air ..... Ka Boom!!! Lady Amba hit him right in the face!!!

Never happened.

But it could.

And it should.

That will give them the real taste of India. Amul India :D.

In the recent weeks the other kinds of asses on the roads have been testing my patience. What’s more irritating than a weaving motorcyclist on a mobile phone? A cyclist on a mobile phone!!! Oh God, like I am not that worried about running you over already that you had to go and add a mobile phone into the mix!! Oh uncle. unccclee - but you are road royalty aren’t you? Next in line to Lady Amba and Baby Swishy Legs and her friend Master Silly Pants. I have to bite my lips to stop myself from offering a saccharine “come, why don’t you sit down in the middle of the road and have some tea?”

In the days the various variety of auto-wallahs ferried me around, the only solace at long agonizing signals would be the thumping music surfing out of a car window. And thus, I now take the responsibility of traffic signal entertainment very seriously. I am the traffic light DJ, unleashing chammak challos and mohit chauhans upon the still audience. If it were an ad we would all start tumbling out of the vehicles and start jiggying with it. Uuuui Uuuiii. Ahan. Ahan.

Hey, in all this I forgot to mention the biggest road royalty of all – the condom ad actors. The guy on the motorbike with a girl plastered to his back. Her chin gently resting in the crook of his neck and shoulder. Her arms by the side of his legs. The wind blows gently, the bike slows a little, it weaves and sways, the hands move up to hug that chest.....the chin burrows in closer .....the bike sways some more .... drifting to the tune of her hands .... she laughs naughtily in his ear ... singing vaseeegaraa.... he brakes a little ... her hands move south ... he suddenly accelerates ....she presses in closer and he brakes some more .... and hey if you didn’t notice, you are driving to the tune of her hands yourself! This is the point where I wanna roll down that window and scream LADY JUST STUFF YOUR HANDS IN HIS PANTS AND BE DONE WITH IT ALREADY!! But the tease won’t have any of that.

By this time I have gotten quite horny myself. The other kind of horny. Please Sound Horn OK horny. But dear God I gotta beat this, so I gear up to zoom past that weaving bike. Hand on gear stick, foot pressing in on accelerator, I burst through with a warrior cry of EEeyyyaaaahhhHHHHHHHHH. But the climax stops me in my tracks. Or rather the anti-climax.

A traffic signal.

Condom adders rumble down to a stop right next to my window. A question pops in my head – do I prefer death by dung or by the kohinoor adders? But then I look out at their laughing faces and realize that probably I am the one out of line with my reactions … isn't this what makes desis - desis? – lawless, passionate, horny, loud, rule-bending, little adjusting, totally bursting, and throbbing with yin and yang. Slowly a song so corny runs through my head.

INdiaaaa ..... incredible Indi-yaaa .....

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D-RATTTTT!!!!

"There” I told her, “You can sleep now”. She nodded through troubled eyes and hugged her body tight. I mentally shook my head in a never mind. I felt so superior for being non-girly and somehow the brave one around. Even more so when the next morning, her friend came knocking. Through sleep-groggy states I ask him how I could help him. The laash he said. Hindi for corpse. For a moment I thought she had committed suicide, since I had seen her depressed from the time she moved in. The laash  he said again. Then I understood. He had been summoned to move Lizzie baby. Poor thing died a violent death at the hands of a fearless woman. Or so I’d like you to believe.

I have had many comic encounters with animals I fear. Okay okay, I fear most animals, but I think I fear rats and bees the most. Well rats, I grew up around them. An old rambling house attracts its fair share of rats and bandicoots and mice and the long-snouted mouse we call the chachondari. Of all the various sizes the rodent comes in, it’s the mid-sized one that scares the living daylights out of me. Because it’s that mid-sized goon that is the most sprightly and bright-eyed. And it has this evil reckless look in its eyes that clearly tell you that it will stop at nothing.  Just nothing.

Yesterday was quite comical. There I was video-chatting with my three year old niece when Mr. Ratashooey decided to make its debut in our house. It hopped out from just beneath the computer desk and started running all about. Before you could blink, yours truly was screaming her head off and climbing upon any high surface available. Had this encounter happened by the mountain, I most certainly would have jumped to my death. But I must tell you, even in my panic-stricken state I couldn’t help but be amazed at how cartoon-like the rat was. I mean, the way it hopped, the way it ran at breakneck speed, its body undulating with each jump, and the way – well listen to this --- this was absolutely comical : when I screamed it actually shivered mid-air, just like the cartoon rats. Its big fat body froze for a split-second. The feminine claws paws whatever they may be high up in the air, tail defying gravity, and mostly all of it was sort of suspended in air. Its shiver actually corresponded to the rhythm of my scream. And I was so fascinated, I screamed again to make it dance to my tune. AND IT DID. And somehow it ran even faster, careened at breakneck speed by our floor mat and magically slipped its big fat body under our door and disappeared. And all this while I was screaming my head off, flailing my limbs about like it was actually upon me. My mom reacted in disgust. My dad came running from upstairs with a torch in his hand –- apparently the biggest weapon he had to scare away the intruder who he assumed was attacking me. What he thought that a torch would achieve – God only knows. After I calmed down, I had to face a niece who was pealing with laughter. The three year old mocks me with “mitthu khala is scared of a rat…..funny lady” and continued to give me a tut tut shake of her head until I managed to reinforce somehow that I was indeed the adult, and she was indeed the baby. But I know that the balance has now been changed forever.

But after yesterday’s incident, I feel a deep sympathy for the animal-challenged. I pride myself on being super comfortable around lizards and cockroaches. And I know so many are deathly afraid of them. Including the girl who took my place at a flat I was vacating. When she moved in, I slept on the couch outside. In the middle of the night, she shook me awake. Trembling in fear. I really thought something had gone wrong. “Lizard…..” she whispered. “Whaaa….?” I responded. “Lizard…” she whispered again – I suppose afraid that a louder tone might bring it charging right upon us. Then I understood. Lizzie baby, who had been a friend all along my tenure at that apartment, had spooked her. “Allright I said --- I’ll chase it.” And so I went inside the room. And there we enacted a mid-summer night’s drama. At 2. AM, I chased and sadly killed a lizard for her. That – after a massive frenzy in which the mattress went topsy turvy, the bed had moved from one end to another, her suitcase upside down, and a blood-splattered carcass. “There” I told her, “You can sleep now”. She nodded through troubled eyes and hugged her body tight. I mentally shook my head in a never mind. I felt so superior for being non-girly and somehow the brave one around. Even more so when the next morning, her friend came knocking. Through sleep-groggy states I ask him how I could help him. The laash he said. Hindi for corpse. For a moment I thought she had committed suicide, since I had seen her depressed from the time she moved in. The laash  he said again. Then I understood. He had been summoned to move Lizzie baby. Poor thing died a violent death at the hands of a fearless woman. Or so I’d like you to believe.

But my bravery is indeed limited to the little ones. There is one favourite encounter with a monkey that cracks me up even now. A long time ago I went tripping to the Cauvery riverside with a bunch of friends. Now those familiar with picnic spots around the Cauvery will know about the monkey menace as well. We were having a nice relaxing time by the riverside. At one point, all my friends decided to climb upon this fallen tree by the bank. The tree was actually horizontally hanging over the river. They all lined up on it while I prepared to click their photograph. I had to climb down the slippery bank to get close enough for a good shot. All our bags and hats were piled up on the ground high up behind me. Then I see all of them stretching their arms out. I thought it was a pose. But that was followed by shouts. I turn around to see a monkey trying to steal a bag. Things happened really quick. I made a meek attempt to shoo it. But it responded with a nasty growl and moved to jump at me. I almost crapped in my pants. Fear was thudding in my ears. I knew it was either him or me cos I was literally caught between the devil and the deep blue sea. Rather a deep green river. And as the monkey moved to jump at me, the nastiest, most guttural growl escaped my throat. The animal inside me had been awoken. By a monkey.  It was like I was a cavewoman personified. Some gene inside me screamed "I am better than you monkey cos I EVOLVED!". What happened next was quite comical. The monkey just froze in its act of jumping upon me, dropped the bag and simply ran for its life. I stood there, amazed. Dazed. I had scared a monkey away. WOWIEEE. I had terrorized a monkey away and so nastily that no monkey troubled us after that!!! I had never felt more proud of being a human being. So superior. I was female of the man. On top of the ape gene stack.

But karma has a nice sense of humour. That monkey died, merged with lizzie baby, and came back in the form of a rat. That rat has the most evil red eyes. And a body that shakes as though its possessed.

It’s out to get me. I just know it.

Drat.

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My Mummy’s Soft Soft Tummy

The womb is actually a drama queen. She hogs all the glory just because of those meager nine months that she goes to work. Yes, the womb may be a heroine – but the real Mother India my friends is the lady standing guard outside the chambers of the theatrical queen. It’s that lady always decked in layers of silky smooth….plump…satin, exuding a warmth that goes straight to the core of your heart.

Sniff. Snuggle. Snugggggleeeee. Burrry my face. There’s a saree upon my eyes. and Underneath that saree lies the softest, the smoothest, the most wonderfully comforting place on earth. That most wonderful place is on my mummy. Rather her soft ….. soft …. tummy….

Memories?

None? Then you were probably a product of the 90s. And if so, read on kiddos on the true manna of motherhood.

My earliest memories of my mum are really those of her tummy. I don’t think much about having been inside of it – cos hello do I remember that? Nope. What I do remember is the feel of my cheek on the plump, springy, feminine tyres …. so refreshingly cool and warm at the same time … my tiny arms struggling to circle them. That’s the real bosom. That’s where the heart really lies. For when the cheek goes upon the tummy, the love comes pouring out of your mummy. The most loving hand caresses your hair, and the world … it’s just perfect again. All hurts are lost. All fears are gone. All hunger is filled. Your eyes flutter and slowly you are lost in the true rhythm of life. You can hear blood rushing under the skin. You can hear the heart pumping. And then a little gurgle of the tummy….a little hello from that forgotten womb. If a butterfly were to return to its cocoon – this would be how. And I know all those generations born to saree-clad Mothers will probably chime in agreement.

For every memory I have of running in the park, there’s one of me running back to her … lost in the folds of her saree as  I try to reach up to that tummy. A tummy hug….I want a tummy hug….

For every memory I have of sleeping in her bed, there’s one of slipping slowly down from the pillow to snuggle upon the God-given one. A tummy tuck …. I want a tummy tuck ….

For every memory I have of her singing me a lullaby, there’s one of her giving me one. My face on my happy place … riding with the waves …. the rise of that tummy…like the glide of the swing …. up … up … into another world I fly ….

Even today, that’s my happy place. When all seems hopeless – I just close my eyes and imagine the little me wrapping my arms around her and blowing fish bubbles on her tummy. The symbol of her lush love. That omnipresent warmth. Blowing fish bubbles ….kissing the satiny lady who staunchly protected me whilst I was being moulded by the drama queen, and let go of her sleek beauty for the cause of the umbilical.

The day the moms shed their sarees for the salwar kameez was a sad day indeed. The end of an era.

The butterflies lost their cocoons.

The drama queen fell silent.

What remains is a legend.

The true legend of a mummy.

The legend of my mummy’s soft soft tummy.

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The Biryani Lech, His Pimp, And the Pimp’s Geishas

I met a biryani lech once. Ok I am lying. I’ve met him many times. Ok I am lying again. I have met many leches many times in my life. Actually I meet a biryani lech every other time I meet someone new.  So who’s the biryani lech you may ask?

You.

Yes. You. Don’t look left and right. I am talking to you, you salivating lech. You. Didn’t like that now did ya? Then perhaps you may want to listen to me for a bit. Why don’t we start with a few affirmations to de-lechize you?

Your first affirmation.
1.a My first sentence to someone Muslim will not be “I love biryani.”
1.b My second sentence to someone Muslim will not be “So can you make biryani?”
1.c My third sentence to someone Muslim will not be “So when are you getting us biryani?”

Done? Now now, you may think that’s not applicable to you. But trust me it is. And if you sit firm upon this affirmation, you would have successfully excluded yourself from the group of biryani super leches. And I know this is falling on deaf ears cos now all you can think is - “I Love biryani.” Yes, I am sure you do. In fact I’ll know you love biryani when your eyes super light up on discovering that I’m Muslim and this brash grin crosses your face in forewarning. I know your next sentence will have something to do with biryani.

Your second affirmation.
2. I’ll stop envying Muslims for eating a kilo of mutton for breakfast, lunch, and dinner.  The real story is that we don’t. Well, not a kilo at least :)
2.b I’ll stop envying Muslims for the kabab and biryani orgies I presume are conducted behind closed doors. Wrong. They are not. Well not daily at least. ;)

I know I know, it’s hard not to believe it. But it’s true you know. We are not the super pleasure hogs we are made out to be. Indian Muslims are not Arab Muslims (I ‘m as guilty of stereotyping!). Our extravagances and meat-thirst is not more than the next meat-eating Indian.

Okay okay I made my case. Now let’s get back to you. I can spot a Biryani super lech a mile off. Hey hey, not painting a stereotype – but usuallllyyyyy a biryani lech has a slightly distended gut, strong muscular cheeks, and a gleam of saliva on his lips. And when he laughs, all 32 teeth roar from the very depths of their calcium caves. Always ready to grind into that chunk of mutton. And so when I am introduced to him, I try and morph my name to Ramya – in an effort to suppress my biryani heritage. But hey at least the superlech is honest and straightforward. No beating about the bush.  It’s the smooth-talking lech who should be watched out for. The smooth-talking lech is very suave. He puts in his time. Let’s say he’s a colleague at a new office. The first thing he does is come over and make friends with you. Next, he starts lunching with you. He times it perfectly. Sparingly at the beginning, then frequently as Ramzan approaches. And during Ramzan, he discusses Iftaar with you. Even drops hints of being wanting to be at one. He takes care. He is sensitive to your fasting needs. So by the time Eid comes, you’ll feel this burning compulsion to bring him that hotcase of biryani. Perhaps even invite him home on Eid day!

---

I gotta tell you guys something. Statistically speaking, only about 13% of Indians are Muslims. And a large chunk of those live in UP and MP. So while we are a prominent community – there are not those many of us. The auto-wallahs and commercial street shop keepers might give you an alternative impression, but frankly not so many of us around. I rarely meet a Muslim outside my own family (discounting the auto wallahs and the shopkeepers). Once in an Eid moon perhaps. But the point I am trying to make is that the ratio is terrible. For every one Muslim that exists in this country, there are 90 others who are not. So, if a typical friends and colleagues circle goes up to say 400 people, it makes for a minimum of 400 possible Biryani requests (assuming one request from each person in a year). And if we were to practically cater to 400 biryani requests in a year, we would be conducting a tidy-sized wedding right there!!!

In fact we almost do. You need to come home and see the size of our biryani dekchis. You can put a little lamb in there and roast it. During Eid, each member of the family sends in requests for at least 10-12 plates of Biryani for their “friends”, “colleagues”, “business acquaintances”, “family of some important man who is going to pass my tender”. 

And sure we are largely to blame. We know. We know as Muslims, there is no better bribe we can offer, than one dekchi full biryani by the ladies of the houses. ‘Thanks so much for the favour! ‘(extends a tiffin of biryani). ‘Please dude, please help me do this’ (turns up with a hotcase of biryani and tandoori chicken to the office). ‘Please sir, please pass my tender’ (invites ‘sar’ home for a biryani and chicken feast). Actually, if I call you the Biryani Lech, it would be fair to call us the Biryani Pimps. Yes fellow Muslims. Accept it. We are the Biryani Pimps. We have all varieties, grades, and tastes to offer the discerning ‘customer’. If we were to put a price on it, it would go such

50 rupees: One plate shivajinagari coming up (Read zeera barik rice, lots of oil and tomato, beef instead of mutton)
100 rupees: One plate bengaluri (Read zeera barik rice, lots of oil and tomato, greasy mutton)
120 rupees: One plate bengaluri – kerala hybrid (Read basmati rice, strong spices, and good lumps of mutton)
150 rupees: One plate hyderabadi (Read basmati rice, one egg, and nice juicy chicken, all mixed)
200 rupees: One plate dum biryani (Read basmati rice, the choicest of meat, beautifully layered rice, and that garnish of saffron)

Can’t put a price on it: A table spread of any flavour, any colour, any flesh, served to you by the fairest maidens of the house. Supervised by the healthy, sometimes stern, sometimes loving madame. And presided over by the head-bobbing pimp with a grin gleamier than that of the super lech.

---

Okay. I’d like to exclude the female species from the ‘we'. It's the men who wear the Biryani on their sleeves. For every Muslim lady knows that strange pride a Muslim man harbours for the biryani made in his house. Secretly or openly – they compete with other men for the title of ‘The Man With the Best Biryani Maker Wife’. Never mind if their begum is the ugliest, the nastiest, the loudest of the lot. If she makes the best biryani – well she’s won the right to be the clucking hen of the roost.

Every Muslim woman is aware that when she gets married, she needs to be prepared to take on the unspecified and undisclosed role of the Biryani Geisha. And that’s just a polite way of putting it! There’s a ranking system. Again - unspecified of course. If there are multiple women in the house, you start off as a standard Geisha. You may churn out a biryani once in a while for the house people - but the pros will handle the daawats and parties. Only after years and years of service you graduate to be the madame. If it’s a large khandaan, then the Geisha with the best skill is someone nobody dares put off. Cos they need her to come take over the biryani when they have thrown a large party!! And such a Geisha knows her worth. She’s secure. She’s proud. Secretly in her head she’s better than the rest of them. There’s a lot of ego around the biryani-making skills. Even the most disinterested young wife will attempt to learn to cook biryani. It's kind of a paradox. The better you are at it, the more requests you get. Requests that drive you up the wall!! But you can't help but be good. Cos like I said - it's an ego thing. Even the worst biryani is always ‘nice’. And the grades go upward from there. It’s an unwritten rule. When you sit at a biryani table – you must automatically go “wah wah”. Because as we all know it, ‘nice’ biryani is better than no biryani at all!

The biryani offers you hidden powers. You can dangle it as a promise. You can crack it like a whip. You can hold it back – and blackmail. You can dress it up in glorious diamonds and unveil it upon the throne of the peacock. While the maidens around you chant “Zafron Zafron”.

You my lady, can be more than just Geisha – You can be Queen.

And he my lady, can be more than just Pimp – He can be King.

And they my lady, can be more than just leches – They can be courtiers. Subjects.

Of the grand lecherous Kingdom of Biryani.

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Fraternity of the Diseased

Have you guys noticed how people tend to bond over diseases and ailments? It’s almost like a social convo savior. Like the moody weather or the bad traffic. In fact I think people find it far more exciting. Suddenly there is something concrete and interesting and serious to talk about. Just think about it. I am sure a lot of us have been in situations where medical ailments have been hearty topics of discussions. But only after some awkward pause where nobody knew what to talk about. Then somebody suddenly mentioned a disease and everyone latched on to that lifeboat. Hang on hang on tight everyone or you'll surely drown in the turgid sea that is this gathering! And once that happens, it’s the survival of the fittest. Each one has to try and up the other over either who has the more severe symptoms OR who knows more about this illness. Out come all the numbers, the advice, the dos and the don’ts, the tablets, the clinics, the hospitals, the doctors in California who recommended the strained juice of grapes grown in horse manure, the latest research, the drugs on trial, the homeopathic doctors with miracle cures, herbs found in the remote swamps of Kerala brought to your city by the trading Seths and which can only be acquired via the sister of the husband of the neighbour’s sister-in-law’s sister.
You think that’s too much? Did you forget the severe symptoms battle?

...it’s getting so bad, I have to get up twice in the night to pee.

“That’s nothing, I get up every two hours. It’s really tiring.”

I know, the other day I woke up such terrible cramps in my legs I had  to wake my son and he quickly ran and heated up some water and then gave me fermentation, and….

“Yea, it happens to me all the time – “

…and he made me some milk and was like mom, are you okay, are you okay ……

“That’s nothing, you are lucky. Once I had this sudden attack during a wedding, and my Goddd, I thought I would faint. Everyone around me was looking at my face and asking me what’s wrong, what’s wrong, and I was in sooo much pain, I couldn’t move my lips – ”

….I was like don’t worry it’s okay beta, just get me some eurobinflux tablets and only after that I was able to sleep for a little while…

And so on and so forth. And so on an so forth. Eventually, one or the other abandons ship. Or somebody else who’s had enough pushes them both out. The boat gets lighter. And people keep jumping or getting pushed out until all common diseases have been crossed off. Usually the last man remaining is the one who’s dealt with all those ailments, and found it pointless to discuss any of it. He would be the dude who just sits there sagaciously waiting for the newbies to tire themselves. Secretly in his head, he is the Rupa Frontline man. Just wanting to whip it all out and go Whatchyou got that I ain’t got. Dhang. Dhang Dhang. And he probably has a partner. And between the both of them – they probably have every ailment in the book. And eventually, the sages just roll up their sleeves,  stretch their legs, sip on their Saki and sail away into the sunset. While the rest just watch as they lie freezing in the turgid sea that is the gathering.

---

So the next time somebody walks into a gathering all super-confident and with this pompous smile on their face, you can be pretty sure it’s one of these two. a) They have secretly milked their company of millions and will be taking off to timbaktoo that night. OR b) They have just finished reading through The Idiot’s Guide to Glamorous Indian Diseases. The aforesaid being:

1. Diabetes
2. Almost diabetes and high cholesterol
2. Bypass of the heart
3. Something to do with the heart
4. Cancer of almost any kind
5. Computer related injuries

If you are past 40 – probably you have it. If you are inching to 40 – your parents or your uncle or your aunt or your cousin or your cousin’s wife or your cousin’s wife’s brother-in-law has it. ‘It’ being one of the above. And it’s like a badge to wear in today’s world.

Gone are the days of yore – when you established your social standing by boasting about which important person you have association with. Now it’s which disease. In fact I think it’s almost fashionable to have these diseases. Particularly heart-related stuff. Having a bypass is the ‘in’ thing. I mean it’s not like it’s been qualified as in. But people suddenly start sounding ‘important’ when they declare “My dad is having a bypass”. And you – the listener will not offer sympathy – you start acting all important and gyani as well. It begins with “Oh really? How many blocks?”.
“Three”.
“Minor or major?”
“Two major. One minor”.
“Oh don’t worry. That’s pretty standard. He’ll be in and out before you know it. And won’t take more than three months to be up and about”.

In and out before you know it?? Big mistake. Not because you didn’t offer sympathy. Because you acted too casual about this thing that suddenly gave your friend that certain feeling of seriousness, responsibility, and importance. Next time go with “Oh no! such terrible news, you must be overwhelmed!”

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When we were growing up, our grandparents and older relatives had two standard ailments – Blood Pressure and Arthritis. Cancer almost always killed, so let’s not go there. But now BP and Arthritis are kind of passé right? Mostly to do with realllllly old people who are in an out of the ICU with the frequency with which the yuppie generation takes off for weekend breaks.

But times have changed. Move over Amjad Khan, it’s time for Mallika Sherawat to be the bad one we all love. Mallika Sherawat urf Diabetes. People are injecting insulin these days the way once upon a time you would pop paan after a hearty meal. Detrimental. But totally cool. It’s the disease equivalent of acquiring an iPhone. It seems so hard to acquire it. But somehow everyone has it. And they act like they are a cut above us lesser mortals. I do have some news for everyone out there. Everyone has diabetes these days. Well not everyone – but most people past the age of 45. Diabetes is the new BP. So get off the horse and stop acting like a crumbling cookie. You will do just fine. And that goes for all those who find themselves bonding over it:

“My dad’s diabetic”
“Hey, my dad’s diabetic too, and my mom as well!!
And so is your aunt, your other aunt, your uncle, your other uncle, his wife, his two older children, their parents, and their brothers, and their sisters .....

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Now, I think it’s unfair to keep dumping off all the diseases on the middle-aged. Sorry uncle, sorry aunty. Didn’t mean to. I admit, my fellow yuppies are not unailing themselves.

I think we all drank too much 7Up in our younger days. Cause somehow Fido Dido is out to get us. Attacking every bone and joint in our body. And then on the other end is Obelix. Bringing out all the fats and sugars in storage. We the yuppies bond over two main things:

1. Bone and joint-related ailments induced by our ‘sedantry’ lifestyles. Like back and neck compressions. Fibromyalgia. Carpel-tunnels and the what nots.
2. Other food and lifestyle related ailments like pre-diabetes, cholestrol deposits, IBS, ulcers, hormonal imbalances and some other things I can’t mention here.

Hands up those who have one of the above. Ah. Too many to count :). Look around to see who didn’t lift their hands. Liars. Creaking fat liars. Or they have it and don’t just know it yet. When you acquire something new, my advice is not not panic or feel depressed. Just check around and you’ll realize that you are not alone.

And I’d like to offer comfort to the most diseased of all. The dieters. You are not alone. Everyone else is dieting and not losing weight too. Sacchi. Promise.

Losing weight. Yes that is yet another social convo lifeboat.

But that has got to be another blog entry altogether.

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Narratives of the Food Casanova

A true food lover possesses a Shakespearean passion for food. A secretive hot and heavy relationship that sizzles in the dark of the night. Floats in the light of the day. And offers that entire mix of temptations, indulgences, and even a spiritual liberation when you just want to drop to your knees and prostrate to the almighty in fervent thanks for this heavenly pleasure on earth.

Food is just not food.

It’s art. It’s music. It’s nature. It’s balinese massages. It’s all that the senses need to come alive.

Only a true food Casanova can understand the passion that it evokes. The nuances of this torrid affair. The ones who eat because it’s a necessary part of life – they are on a completely different wavelength. They cannot comprehend the emotion. They cannot comprehend the tears that well up at the end of a wonderful meal that makes up for all the wrongs that have been committed against you in life or perhaps just on that day. It may just appear to be melodrama. But oh what glorious melodrama. Oh what joy there is when something wonderfully tasty lands on your thirsty tongue and the juices in your mouth just jump in joy to hug their long lost friend. Might be that spicy fried chicken or that mushy chocolate mousse or just that single morsel of hot soft rice drenched in dal and dipped in ghee.It’s a big fat magic pill. It’s the hug of a hundred mothers. Hush my little baby. It shall be okay. It shall all be okay. Just eat and sleep and heal.

Yes amma … Yes..amma ….. ..

Loving food has little to do with the stomach and more to do with the mouth. Ok that sounds a little gross so I am just going to refer to the oral equipment involved as the Littles. The Lips, The Tongue, and The Teeth. All of the Littles have their opinion on what they like and what they don’t. At any given point any of the Littles can start pleading for a treat. And as a food lover you know that if you ignore their pleas for long – they react like children. Turning stubborn and demanding until the only way out is to get them what they want. And you might have to upturn a lot of things to get them what they want. I am sure tons of memories sprung to life right now. Sure did with me. The midnight Seven Eleven runs for that  one ball of Ferrero Rocher. The one hour train ride to get to the supermarket that carried the brand of beef I liked. The waits to fly to a destination and go straight to that restaurant that steamed the fish just the right way and garnished it with the right amount of green chillies sliced just to the right thinness. Oh – I have million such experiences. And fellow food casanovas – I am sure you have too.

But pay heed to my warning if you are a recently turned food casanova (perhaps due to a hormonal change or a recently change in state of affluence)- Learn to keep them in check. By them I mean the Littles. If  you don’t master  them, they will master you. Promise.

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The Lips

The Lips usually yearn for the soft soft cool cool smooth smooth stuff. Bear in mind that it’s the inner lip that’s active. You know that soft part that rests against your teeth? Now these are the Lips that crave. The outer ones are utilitarian. When a craving hits the Lips, it comes slow. Very leisurely. Like that little breeze that sneaks out of the corners of the trees on a warm day. That little breeze slowly but steadily turns into lots of little breezes. Dancing about like Aishwarya Rai’s extras in a Sanjay Leela Bhansali’s song. And if you don’t satisfy it soon enough, Salman Khans of the mouth ooze out from the point where the Lips meet the teeth. Filling up the swirling space between them with their teasing movements. And if you still continue to ignore the Lips, the mouth Salman Khan will start signalling his army which will start dancing around the white pillars that grace the palace of the Littles. Juicy mango. Cool chocolate mousse. Hot chocolate fudge. Ghee dripping rasagulla. Amma’s homemade pudding. Thinly sliced Kiwi. Rasperry sorbet. Just give it. Give it what it wants before the the little Salman starts tearing his shirt off!

The Tongue

I love indulging the Tongue. Because it’s the most mysterious. It’s the poet of the Littles’ Palace. The wandering Sufi. The meditating Saint. It lives in its own world. It’s own realm. I sometimes tend to think that the Tongue reflects the yearnings of the heart. It never thinks of something concrete. It just wants – something sweet – something sour – something soursweet – something liquid – something spicy – something sweetnspicy – something hard – something soft – something ….. something. It’s always a something. And not all of the Tongue speaks at once. Sometimes it’s the right underside that craves the sweet. Sometimes it’s the root that craves the spicy fried. Sometimes it’s the top that craves that sweet liquid. Or Sometimes it’s the way back that craves the sweet and sour and tangy. And it’s the bang center that shouts for the salt. Some of you just had the “Oh Yeahhh” moment right? If you are a true Casanova – you would already be attuned to these nuances. The tongue would be your favourite mistress to indulge. Because she keeps you guessing and never fails to bring that smile on your face with her reactions. And with the tongue – it’s always leisurely. It’s always a stroll in the palace. You take your time. Savour everything. Enjoy - every. little bit. And if you don’t indulge her – there are no tantrums – just a quiet sadness that sinks a well in your heart. And in time you’ll make up for what you denied her.

The Teeth

The Teeth – well what can be said about the Food Casanova’s teeth? I am sure you find them coming alive fellow casanova when Mel Gibson energy is bursting out of you. When the Teeth want – there is no denying them. No sir. No ma’am. You can’t do nothing to keep them in check. When they grind for that pound of flesh or that crunch of nuts or just that tearing and slicing into something tough – bow down before their will or they will go on a rampage – chomping on anything and everything that comes their way. And tragically they may not even injest it. Just chew and spit until the right stuff finds its way home. Steak. Deep Fried Chicken. Sugarcane. Find one of these three. If you are desperate – then just hunt for some carrot. It will calm them down for a while. But just for a while. But head straight for the tough ones or you will surely end up pulp yourself. Or someone else around you. Hey, the rule in my book is that if my boss is craving some chicken. I order it some chicken. Because I know if it doesn’t get some chicken – I’ll  be it. The harried hen in the pen.

Sometimes all the Littles get hyper. Clamouring for attention. There are some foods that are complete foods for all the Littles. Like Ferrero Rocher. Biting through one is like biting through earth itself. The grainy top layer that gives way to the soft clay-like encasing that paves way for that molten heavenly chocolate with a surprise hazelnut in waiting. Aaaah …..

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No life as a food Casanova is complete without those explicit tales of food. Recounting each little detail like it’s your dream wedding or a hostage rescue in the Sea. It always easy to spot true blue-blooded food Casanovas. No, don’t go by size. Remember it’s all about the palace of the Littles? Casanovas eat to indulge the Littles not the tummy. So some of them may eat lots – but in variety. Not in quantity. You’ll know a food  Casanova when food comes up in the first three conversations you have with them. You know a certified Casanova when they suggest a restaurant not because its good, but it’s got this something particular that tastes something particular, and blows their mind something particular, and you just have to have it or they just have to have it. And you’ll know a food Casanova with a PHD when they will spend twenty minutes telling you what they are planning to eat for dinner. The precise combination and quantity. Their eyes will light up, their faces will beam, and their voices will gurgle with an excitement that one usually experiences only when they are setting out to do something for the first time. Like sail. Or jump off a cliff. Or feed a crocodile.

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Life as a food Casanova is exhilarating for me and I could write a thesis on my trysts with food. But for now this will do.

Of all the passions in my life – my passion for food is the most consistent. Most faithful. I don’t know if I am the mistress or if it is the master.

All I know is that I am crazy in love.

Always have been.

Always will be.

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