COFFEE OR TEA

I miss coffee.

There was a phase in life when I would be hanging around my mother while she made me cold coffee after I ran in sweaty from playing in the clambering summer oppressive heat.

Sometimes it was a tall glass left in the fridge and sometimes made fresh in front of my ricocheting energized eyes…

I have to be fair though how I stare at mango shake is more reverential, now that is a KING shake if there was any,if that is in the fridge my heart sings yummy yummy en route to the fridge and half way across town.

The thought of it sitting in the fridge gives me a smile,(though truth be told mango shake is best had fresh, the stage where the pulp settles and the milk floats on top all chilly and cold is not very appealing, Cold coffee on the other hand is a decent keeper in the chilly climes.)

But I still miss it.

First let me answer why did it have to walk out of my life and even after a few years in exile, trying to show it the door in , has failed to raise my stomach up to a toast.

Hungry is a feeling I love. I love to follow my nose to the table and we have a mini affair in the hungry period of my life.

Uptil I was sick with a pathogen that floats in the water and invades your stomach,relegating you to the back burner of metabolic stages for the rest of your life,incapable of digesting milk in simple things like tea and coffee, specially those.

Uptil then I could sip coffee like a snap.And yes digest leather.

When some people talk about  “in my hay days I could digest leather”days…I don’t mind as they are about sixty decades down the countdown,one can forgive their dedication to the rudimentary problem on creeping years..I on the other hand beat everyone to that grasping rant by three and a half decades.

In short coffee is not an apertif for me it’s a whole course, it leaves me feeling like the coffee with milk or tea with milk has taken over my stomach and shouldered out all empty spaces,leaving me full.

So after a few years of flailing around sipping all varieties of black teas and infusions,as a grown up(not giving into to kiddish demands of hot chocolate)The deafening queries of insensitive forgetful lifelong friends ,who hammer the question down my ears,do you want coffeeeee????I mean what happened to tea??that too black.My favourite answer should really be ,I still don’t drink it NO.

So why do I miss coffee?

Its how you miss a thing when you know your greedy graspy hands are just flailing

In thin air and what you want is tantalizingly a mirage oasis.

 However there is something about holding a hot cuppa in a crowded café while you reminisce about all mundane problems, constantly touching your cup to reassure you of its ebbing steamy presence,that kept pulling at my strings.

I don’t know how many of us would raise hands to this but asking for green tea in a starbucks queue with people waiting to steep their tongues with coffee, is an explanation waiting to fall on ears that judgementally come paired with ‘o you poor sod eyes.’

So to flow with the crowd on a caffeine haze ,wrapped in concerned conversations,peering into my coffee to take a contemplative break to find a great insightful comeback in the conversation ,I jumped into the fray by deciding on the black,which without milk in it, should technically not churn around merry in my stomach.Rather I think it shouldn’t.But body chemistry is all about experimentation.

That’s how I found my self in starbucks queues miming like the rest for black coffee.

(Its after going a couple of times Black no milk no sugar ,I discovered world over in all cafeterias you just say Americano…and it miraculously produces a black coffee.Why is Americano  “black” ?not being politically correct but geographically layman anthropology it should be Africano..PARDON!!!)

Drifting back.

However maybe my racist mentality is suffering from the snobbish demands,and Americano now moves inside me with a sluggishness that makes me want to pull at my hair,and walk for hours in circles trying to beat a heavy head and shake out the lead like caffeine from my system.

I'm tenacious it has to be said.I gave my crowd instinct driven desire more than a couple of shots.

I However today solemnly decide after walking an hour around the block after today's coffee  to shift back to green tea.I mean how many dinners could I skip just to hold a hot cuppa.

 I have yet not been able to identify my problem.Should I knowledgeably with a practiced painful air of the chronic describe the malady as a lactose or caffeine intolerance?Its not a known cause as my lazy bones haven't dragged themselves to the doctor yet.

But what I do know is the answer to your question.Coffee or tea??Meet me next time  at a tea parlour(thankfully which are fashionably catching up) and we shall practice my answer over an unfurling jasmine tea ball.

EFFUSIVE DIFFUSIVE

There are some sights that transport you back to a decade when you walked around observing life from a lofty height of four foot.The other day me and my trusted shaky and vibrating with music transport were doing an intercity loop between the parents house and mine.

The road less travelled by vehicles of courtesy,but more so by vehicles of might is right.Amidst all this gay chaos and cacophony,which I obviously battle with music,I happened to stop for a lady with a raised hand on my windshield, almost down my throat.

The lady was accompanied by a four footer drowned in a typical open box pleated neglected faded blue skirt,a favourite with many government schools in India,which swished around her ankles and  a shirt which was faithfully accompanying her from the three footed age,obviously meant to be enjoying a retired life but being dragged along,strengthened by Robin Blue and Nirma( a whitener and a magic washing powder, which could make you resemble an emitting orb of shiny white ,delivering your neighbours to jealousy and blindness)

But coming back to the young girl,fresh on her way to school,was the fact that she had probably stood under her mother’s hurried ministrations in the morning and  been drowned in Ponds( a scented Talcum powder).So up from this little tykes collar till her chin it was almost impossible to tell the colour of her neck or skin ,and with white socks that vanished under her skirt,the only colour indicative parts were her face and hands.The perfect “White Neck”

I know we are a country obsessed with the colour white,I wonder if that is one of the reasons that after camouflaging our neck and bodies,some smear it over their faces??

I mean nothing can reflect light better than white,and it was hard to miss even by my untrained child eyes,the caky self assured countenances.

If my idle mind were to span the reason for powder smearing tactics which had the whole nation in its shroud of loose talcum till at least the eighties,where a lot of white necks conferred in business meetings with other white necks,(a sure shot sign of early morning ritual completion)(though I’m sure even in the eighties there existed kindred people who hoodwinked the system, like me today in my car,keep guessing how!!!),the most plausible and non condescending, probably based on truth,reason is,for its cooling effects on a Hot almost equatorial country.

How from an invisible aroma that was meant to be just a personal signature,the white out spread to massive proportions of the body,peeping shyly out of collars in some and proudly stating its presence on others? Maybe the fact that the neck sports some bands of skin that get highly uncomfortable in the heat could be a remitting truth.

Initially the ‘thanda thanda dermicool’(an advertising slogan)was a towering product that cooled,and vanished off  shop shelves,directly onto ready,sweaty bodies.

So to combat the sweltering heat that grips the nation, the citizen’s wielded their powder boxes, empowered in their knowledge passed down from their parents and theirs before them,plus fueled by the ‘thanda’ (cool)   campaign.

But what happened to the white neck species? Why is it now not a generalization rather than my Barging down the road regardless of traffic, anomaly? They seem to have become suddenly extinct, probably hiding behind the air-conditioned doors, they exist only in need bound people who still refill their Desert Coolers every night.

They are also probably lost in the Dolce and Gabbanas of the world that enveloped the free trade India, Invading the bathroom space that muscled out the Talcum Powder, with a powerful spray, that Lasts and Lasts and Lasts; It was not a fair battle. It was Armageddon.

However some psychological factors will always trigger a reaction of my system that is entrenched in childhood memories. So the perfume which has won victories in different percentages over the Indian populace’s washroom stands, in my mother’s home it is a fifty -fifty partner, and every time she bathes and comes out swathed in all white dust, which is a precursor to the perfume in her beauty regimen, I feel Cool just looking at her.

And with that feeling some things never change,the perfume can pretty the air up but it doesn't usher the 'cool' in, however much we open up to free international porous markets. At least my generation will still love the white necks, the next, is a generation in transition, and this is just my interpretation.

ANT-ik TROUBLE

Have you ever given a thought to annihilating a trail of ants????

In all my happy sunshiny years I had never given it a thought.For me there are two sides of the fence, one is my side , which is the plaintiff,and the other is of course the offending side,the ants.

And being my court of justice, I at some stage in life having passed the judgment of ' found guilty',have been swatting them out of edges of the bed, trailing militarily along kitchen ledges,and sometimes most visibly hanging off my chocolate boxes.(could I be presented as a temptress for having aired them in public?)

And if I can swat all human offenders away from my chocolates then these are merely ants?

“But swatting them kills the ants”,wailed one of my friends,who could happily have been one of the guilty parties,as he was responsible for all the food strewn across my bed.

“look at these fellows”he mewled,simultaneously stopping me from going after another formation.,”they are just going about searching for food,and there it is, they are just happily doing their job”,he justified their most itchy presence on my bed.

All good and kind of him to say so,but I was wishing I had swatted him off as well as I woke numerously at night to kill off a few other formations, that had been granted bail, at the behest of their defensive lawyer in the afternoon,but continuing with their scavenging behavior even in the absence of the sweetly presence (mine excepted),I Thought my massacre justified.

Do I think of myself as unkind? Do I berate myself at the ruthlessness I show?

I wish I could say his words acted as enzyme for my coming off age puerile murderous self, but sadly I state, that as far as ants are concerned I now stock even more deadlier weapons off mass destruction, than my hands. Sprays of all kinds that could knock off cockroaches (convince them to go out of the house to finally rest in peace), mosquitoes(another offending cousin),and of course ants.

So no It did not bring about a life altering chain of events, however he immortalized himself in my memory, by associating himself as an ant lawyer, he will forever knock my head with his speech whenever I commit the crime. (Though not guiltless now.Every single time his head and his horrified expressions grow in their saintly proportions,I fear they could pop one day and fill  my entire existence, then maybe you would see a saintly me, sitting atop an ant hill meditating despite ant itches,but that also is a long long way off till then,I happily swat them out till god catches me out!!!!!)

morning madness

If you need to pick a song to hate,put it on as your alarm tone,guaranteed hatred.

Its the period post the alarm ,and I'm  focusing on the population that swings out and plants their feet straight to the ground and grinds them in,stuck in their resentment of being slung into action and heads meekly hung,bowing acquiescently to gravitational forces beneath, because this rude shock definitely cannot be from the department above.

Mumbling all about departmental politics and brushing hair that have fashionably been flung about at night,in throws of hurried passion,or just general squishing around as the head turns in and around looking to align itself to the rest of the appendages in that perfect illusory repose.

Unglueing the soles from the bedside, that beckons siren like,the trek to the bathroom is made in silence,or sometimes if our paths cross other time battled compatriots, we mumble in greeting,each steering a path to readiness, by time perfected rhythms in disgruntled silence.

A monotonous trek,navigated by vacuous eyes that stare uninspired into the day ahead,its like our spark plug became faulty at some point and we disjointedly continue because of lack of inspiration.

As a child you don't lack the fantasy to improve on the day and even though it begins at unearthly hours,you can see kids go from dreamily drooping on each other in school buses,to jumping out all legs and arms to greet their friends.

This Creativity, enthusiasm and energy all get lost along the winding path of time.

Long, long, time ago When I was'nt mistress of my wake up calls and my life ruled by seven to nine periodically bound classes each day,I remember clutching onto my quilt for just those extra five minutes,turning away from those insistent nudging,waking hands and then curling up and snuggling deeper into the softness that mostly smelt ,by that time in the morning of naphthalene and me.In those five extra begged minutes, I almost always packed in dreams of myself brushing and having already bathed. My amazement was truly genuine every morning to find on awaking that,the case was not that,and I was in fact five precious minutes behind schedule.I still Popped up and imagined myself at Malory towers.

But when we stand a few years down the timed path,What gets us out of the haze of the dreamy maze??What makes you ready to face the frontiers of land beyond bed??

For some it’s the sip of coffee,for some it’s the first printed line of the paper as it crystallizes clearly after fumbled efforts with the glasses,for some it’s the kick of their spouse,for some hot milk kept lovingly by a maternal hand,that guaranteed, churns the stomach muscles to expulsion and welcomes the consciousness into being.

For me it’s the feeling of pressing back into my pillow,and sniffing it from a different groove,burrowing my toes into the mattress,and stretching my self to face up again,as I fight a losing battle trying to remember my dreams ,because the speed with which they dance back into the oblivion of darkness, leaving me grasping at wispy strands, is confusing. Its either playing catch with my dreams or I tune my whole, to the strains of music that ensconce me into a world of its own. The rhythm beating down the sleep into submitting to the freshness of a spanking new day.

It’s the days that I get to greet like this and not like an electrocuted, confused sheep counting, time rationed shepherd, that I smile. Which is the best ‘good morning’ greeting I could give myself.(I still do not achieve enough nirvana to not hate my wake up tune though!!!)

I don’t know how strongly you subscribe to the Indian’s need a kick-start theory, or how religious you are about the concept but try it once, cheat your dream space by reducing the screenplay, and set an alarm for five minutes earlier.

Don’t even open your eyes just try and squish your mattress and curl your fist in the comforter as you breathe in deep , don’t try and compete with my celebrated dream catcher status, dance to your own tune and just think a happy thought. And it would generate warmth, not enough to make you not resent throwing the covers off, but enough to give you one moment of peace in the milling million of madness.

 (P.S.If the bed partner is new think also of the head-start you could get by hurriedly combing your hair to picture glossiness and readying your teeth to blinding freshness,benefits all around.

P.P.S don’t kick me I’m just a messenger nudging a theory into being, and it being late again tonight I’m sure my feet will plant themselves firmly to the ground tomorrow, but there is always hope for day after.

P.P.P.S becauseeee' tomorrow never dies',sorry, couldn’t resist my James bond repertory !!!!!)

HAVE A GOOD DAY!!!!

(tin tin tannin..Brittania..)

  

DOSA DARWINIAN!!!

Sizzling hot pan dribbles the water on its equatorial territory,making it leap and dance, ‘AH!! Its ready’, pronounces my sister in law.

I am standing in obedient attendance to the right,all tools in place. The thinnest flip,tick(available in plastic, steel and wooden forms),Batter: tick(after spending five minutes staring at the instructions and then carefully mixing the ingredients according to the exactness mentioned on the overleaf,I waved around scissors and poured into my multitude little containers,feeling slightly professional. I mean how difficult could it be?)

What are we making?Question is what are we creating by omission ? But that we shall come to in a bit.because the objective is to create a Dosa.or for future article reference cripsy’,courtesy my familial demand for this particular snap in the recipe.

It’s a papery thin savoury crepe,prepared from rice batter,which apparently has my whole family up in orgasmic pleasure if the bite is accompanied by a resounding crack of the crips dosa.AHHH!!! perfection.

There is a general law when you mention this dish,the gatherings mouth waters, but  the prospect of actually making it elicits,gasps of helplessness.My mom a cook of say thirty five years experience but courtesy lacking the genetic pool that fills the southern finger tips with ingrained flair of spreading the batter just right… she has just about started to get things under control, but still drawing a big Aiyyo illey,not passing the strict muster of my dad’s crispy demands.thirty five years of lumpy and thick,and perfection looming now.

Back to the present and finding my feet impatiently standing next to the stove,and post the dancing droplet pronounciation my hopes for the crips were running high,I mean here was my sis in law proclaiming knowledge to the ancient art,who was I to disbelieve! Its for me to dream up images of crips and her to conjure,well my task was also to make the batter,a task that should not be taken lightly.

So like I said me and my assortments were ready and set.

Though pronounced runny by the grand chef!! I still thought it held the hopes for a great cripsy.

Fingers crossed we added the delicately balanced batter on the hot pan that was to deliver it from its watery existence to a plate full of palate teasing crips..

But as most well planned events tend to walk down murphy’s lane,we stood there fighting a battle of prevention, against sticking to hot tawa by the runny batter,a battle that was valiantly fought by first the plastic flip(which turned up its plasticky fake lips at contact with the fiery beast,not a great idea),then the wooden flip,and then to hell with non stick ,full fledged scraping with steel.

But like they say events that have to unfold ,unfold and even the universe aligns its self to the hotness of the agenda producing a pan whose every pore has been homed in on by the dosa batter,caked in short.This I diligently washed, in the hope of producing a crips,in trial effort number two,did I tell you I am a very optimistic , persistent person.

This optimism saw me floating around the sink with my steel swipe,cleaning the slate paving the way to a clean pan,just around three times,before me and my sister in law rechristened our goal to what they call ‘Set Dosa” we decided crips had too much phoo pha attatched to it.

So set dosa it was.A fat little fluffy dosa,though here too ours resembled a beer bellied star fish,goa returned and totally sunburnt.Thanks to the pan which refused to comply by only conducting the perfect heat setting through.

After three washes and a name change,we still didn’t get the feathery delights promised on the flip side of that heavenly sounding batter packing.

Set,or unsettled or anything remotely like a dosa’s cousin.

Growling stomachs ensured ,we ate it with relish ,but the air bore the promises of an oncoming postmortem.

And as we concluded our medley of various cuisines for dinner,on the next note we started querulously naming the culprits, from the batter, to the company that produced the mortar, to the heat emanating unevenly from the stove, to the incorrect curvature of the pan, to the lack of skilled tools available to the professional housewives some thousand kilometers south of us,to the next time we shall swipe onions on the pan declarations.

 In all our muttered scientific analysis,we completely skipped the human error that bought two people who believed till recently that kitchen was paganistic territory ,gracefully relinquished by us to people who wielded their tools with grace and produced cripsies with an easy flair that could now make me green.

And just because we decided that the tools of edible warfare need not be alien anymore,doesn’t mean that with that pronouncement, and with the you tube parroted knowledge,and some gleaned from hour long conversations with mom, would come the skill of that little extra salt sprinkle ,that feel of the perfect heat off a pan, by waving your hand over it.The whiff of perfection by bending down to smell in a pot if the crackle smelt just right and The art to presciently predict the state of the contents inside a cooker after hearing x number of whistles from the symphony of the pressure cooker.SIGH!!!!!

All this gyaan evasively dances around me,while I play with grown up toys ,pretending to understand the hiss of the crackle,the whiff of the readiness of the oil ,and my favorite ,tossing the pot around,like Nigella the chef,grunting in satisfaction at the compliance shown by the residents of the pots,they however miffed with my carelessness decide to jump,practically out.

So after my professionally qualified circus antics I am also the official mopper around.

My transition from mopper to chef de resistance is an evolution ,by which I mean that by the time your eyes pop out of your sockets to evolutionarily make space for the presence of constant staring at computers,till then coming into my kitchen to dine will be an Amazonian experience, a chop off the old roach variety,throw in a little fire and treat yourself to he man and she jane meal.

But the air in my lair has love,lots of love,lots of smiles and tonnes of mischief!!!and hope.

So maybe for now you can place that on your tongue and let the spirit sip in and maybe the breeze brings in ghosts of Deccan supreme chefs to speed up the Darwinian experience a notch. BON APPETIT!!!

ITCH GUARD

How to put a Giraffe in to the fridge in three steps?

How to put an elephant into the fridge in four steps?

And so on.

What is the height of stupidity?

A moron looking through the key hole of a glass door.

Few jokes or smart one liners fit around long enough from school to filter through the age barrier.Sound stupid as you bring them out to air them,but then just for Humor.

Answer me this, what I asked myself today. the joke suddenly springing to surface.

What is the height of confidence?

A moron scratching a straight line across his crack with an itchy hand while conducting an audience

Do I need to mention the sex of the offender?

To break it down,A lanky man walking in front of a beautiful girl(obvious reference being me,do remember it is a joke;)) tentatively scratches his butt Crack,looks back over his shoulder,shrugs looks ahead and continues walking with his hand firmly taking out a grudge with the obvious Itch.

To view this encounter,the sun hid firmly behind the horizon ,leaving the stage for the moon, who was obviously not having any of it from behind the clouds,that left me walking with this man in front.Alone!

His shirt blue and pants darker still. Belt, obviously hanging on a crowded peg in his guard’s office after a long day out.Shirt having a nice easy unrestrained time creating a loose V pointing to the area of crime,as the scene sets itself.

Picture me an unsuspecting audience.Head phones, Pounding music,fast paced walk.

Picture him,a thin shadow,a rear that you would miss as it does not stand out.No ear phones on his head just the loud thought in his mind, repeatedly going,'Scratch me','Scratch meeee'.

And in that look he gives me before the show,I am sure he crossed the inhibitive point of no return, where the voice, drowned out the stage fright he felt as it rose in crescendo. Propelling our man in blue to continue his slow swagger,while positioning his hand over his posterior,even as I drew closer.

And as I crossed him, along with three other people in quick succession, I noticed that his hand was still being conducted by the symphony in his head,and a desire that literally had his A** on fire.

Confidence.Full marks.

Is that a male thing?or would I ever find myself crossing a woman who doesn't need to even look around to scratch that itch beneath her B***s?

Not one.

I look twice before I even loosen my bra strap away from where it pinches.

And would probably die two deaths by embarrassment were I to find my dress in between my Ahem!posterior vertical crevice,as I stood up and walked off.And it took a third person to pull it out.

Basically were I to do anything that diminishes the perceived goddess status?I would take out my surveillance cameras and if I see a bogey approaching I would instantly abort the mission.which however leaves me to speculate at the mystery of this man. Any man.

And probably salute him,and through him all men and their kingly assuredness!

Yes men have been known to waddle past with potbellies and hanging gardens for rears in birthday suits,past women who elegantly drape their sheets around strategic mounds,that could rival Venus,Did I say drape?

I should have said hide.A quick cover up,as the spectacle returns to cross our orbit,with ‘ball’ed up confidence that need obvious priming with a little scratching.

I was told this ballsy event was the most pleasurable thing for a guy, and the Ecstasy derived,unrivaled!!

My admiration lies in the fact that for men to perfect the art of self pleasuring to an audience,not for the spectators but despite the gaspers,is a self effacing act bowing hundred percent only to feeling.

So in Men Vs. Women,what stops the manicured talons??Is it the social conditioning of the popular media??The race for perfectionism?The stage set to hide and protect the image we portend??and men technically ,literally give Balls to it??

But that is a debate for another moon hiding phase.

Till then I say,

Guys,The itch in the rear garden is great,humorous even.But when the party gets transferred to the front lawns,that’s when the itch turns contagious,transferring to my hands.

And yes you are definitely god’s creation ‘butt’ whatever creates that itch,funny admirable,Your Don Juan Moment,its STILL like a sneeze and you have got to cover it up.

Till then Ladies,lets keep our eyes alerted and smiles strategically averted to these wayward disasters,I salute and call  ITCH GUARDS.

Home SWEET Home

Fact:  India has the largest cases of diabetes, sitting preeningly sweet above China, USA ,Brazil,Russia and Japan, and every other country in the world. And under the age of 35,3/4ths of the deaths are attributed to Diabetes.

It’s a disease that blows out candles as fast as AIDS, 3.2 million a year.

Controllable,predictable,preventable,yet,Why? The reasons could be enumerable. From genetic to Lifestyle, but mainly boil down to the sweet tooth we possess as a nation. A thread that ties us as strongly as innumerable boundaries divide regionally. Maybe it comes down to us genetically encoded and wrapped as a hand me down gift of traditional seasons greetings sweets box.

Could it be that as a nation we are genetically predisposed to the slayer?long generations being exposed to the culture of nothing can be too sweet,slowly creeping its way from habits to silent trickle me downs in the wills??

We have all heard tales about how our ancestors, okay this one is purely mine, could have a box of ghee and used to drink their tea half full with sugar, he also used to ride a horse across hundreds of bighas of land a day, probably burning it all off, he died as healthy as his horse at 94.

(Could it also be that losing all our horses to the lazy winds of time we are just left muddling about in the sugar,tilling land in Farmville or building cities in CityVille with no horses to pull us out of this quagmire? )

If you do not remember any such stories and you pick at sweets delicately and probably just hand out platitudes of ‘I don’t like them’ when someone offers it to you while secretly salivating, then you will probably not relate to what I write, because you are already on the path to emancipation. A generation separate from the greedy that is the underlying definition for the rest of us and maybe eventually the plague in you shall spread and dethrone us from our highly placed spot in diabetic hall of fame.

Could it also be that our 'will power 'courtesy being dipped in sugar over centuries has become porous to popular healthy notions of sweetness and are blinded into letting the saccharine slip through,unawares??

Many reasons, but I can only extrapolate from what I feel.

Let me start by introducing you to my personal battle field where recently,only two contenders are alluring me away from reality, the fight between cookies and chocolate fondant .Explaining me, a small digit in the billion denominations, but still a part of the majority that places us at the top of the charts.

Small steps to the right,big steps back in reverse,my body perfects a rhythm,eyes disciplined in their aversion of the cookies that display the RAID THE LARDER,a space jammed with chocolates icecreams,cookies,chocolate covered Raisins…now imagine a more attractive corner at 35,000 feet. This is my work altitude.My work space limited, my imagination with the hyperactive switch on.

I do this regulary,you know.Not flying I mean,just dancing around the Larder.

I have this image that plants itself in my mind and then the dance begins.

The theory being that the image supplanted in my mind translates to repeat telecasts, making the hologram med image a delightfully succulent treat for the tongue.

Tea Coffee???As I pour along, POP comes in the image of me munching that shortcake.

Nibbling the corners to reach the strawberry core,which needs a hundred percent attention,rubbery yet full of gummy strawberriness.Snap out!!!!

Row two,Would you like some dessert? Or cheese??and remaining correct to theory fruits???

This sluggish drama unfolds and my mind provides the background score,the word dessert,desssssssert rapping mindlessly soundlessly on.Rapping on it while the product lies tangibly close is pure agony for my senses, the spoonful of chocolate dreams are dancing tittilatingly up.

My conscious mind will never let me live,were I to eat both.

However the ability of the mind to placate the belief system, lulling it to mute by replacing it with a temporary relief patch is an art that we subconsciously practice to perfection.Basically I am all about zero control.

Desitny,It was meant to happen,Uncontrollable,sab bhagwaan ki kripa hai (God’s will) are all gateways to heavenly mouthfuls,brushing aside all scientific data.So may be its god’s will or psycho kinesis that I find a cookie,then another, in my hand to go along with the hot Chai.

Also my sweet jaw needs a little nourishment to revert to sweet status post a savoury lunch.For which the star attraction is the Fondant(I can even feel the molten chocolate in the centre move lavaishily past the crumble of the cake,and into the river of caramel,where i scoop it all lovingly and enjoy my piece heaven.now that is what i equate the golden gates to,I don't know about you..)

Justification?reality?Fact?whatever.

This is how I came to perfect the dance around the RAID THE LARDER.The really professional dancers have written guilt out of the equation.For me this is such a hindering factor,because then guilt turns to self admonishment , as the size of the coulis reduces with each walk-past. and the self admonishment only goes when the memory is written over by an overly concerned call bell,or a nice and scandalous chat over a cup of peppermint tea which I savour.

The question that I answer most frequently,why do Indians have soooooo much sugar in their tea,or put in milk bottles for children?? I guiltily answer in between my bites of the short bread or the chocolate coulis.I don’t know what I say,I hate justifying to self righteousness, or regional or palate perceived superiority, I need to find a great come back.(If i start to explain the orgasmic pleasures derived by our genetically primed tongues,it could be leaking an open state secret,plus it will take practical demonstration,which the salad part of the world is deprived of,as it is wont to do.)

(But what I should tell you is my heart bleeds when the rotation of meals changes, that is the depth of emotion an Indian can feel towards a piece of sweet.)

And as we come totally religiously programmed, with ingrained knowledge of  the circle of life ,(you may even buy bracelets depicting it celebrating the eastern-ness of the concept )and if I am blasé about it, In life what comes must go, what begins must end, and if it’s a circle the end is just the beginning. and if it has to be never ending and what it calls for is devotion dedication to the finer things in life, well who am I kidding its actually ambling along sweetening the unbearable bumpy never ending ride, enjoying it while watching the cirque of life.

So for Indians basically life is a Jalebi ,(roughly a crooked sweet doughnut) and we rise in it like a cake.(which we now, bowing to changing times, make with sugar-free.)(and its a fine way to be,but as we stare at computer screens all day long,we just need to figure out a way to balance the missing horse riding for hundreds of bighas in the equation of Sweets+horseriding= Long healthy life,because sweets+computer+god's will=Fast Track to God)

WE LIVE IN SWEETNESS.WE THINK SWEETS.WE ARE SWEET.

How else is it that pan India you wouldn't find a person who doesn't smile at you, as you ask for directions in broken Hindi, in the worst possible accents we may have ever heard in our lives? What makes us still smile when you turn around and poke a jibe at the poor unkempt fellow who just waved you along? What makes that smile so sweet? Religiously awakened tolerant enlightenment? Or just five sugars dissolved in the mid-afternoon brew?? You will never know.

As for me I am part of the unquestioning sweet parade with just a smidgen of self flagellatory tendencies and a very bad case of Selective short term Amnesia.

WELCOME UNQUESTIONINGLY TO INDIA.

Till the neo- savory healthy underdogs overthrow us and  bleed out the sweet .Then we would brush past a questioning you with the blank polite stares of New Yorkers,munching salad and sipping Americano.