The Wind will pass

I was pondering over for some time to scribble something precious in this column, when this thing just came out of me. It came out so subtly & so delicately that, I prayed that it just continues till the end of eternity. But then how long do good feelings ever last? It fainted away slowly & then it stopped.

It stopped and this fellow sitting beside me in the bus started to choke. At first he hastily tried to get his perfumed hanky from his trouser pocket up to his grimacing face, but clumsy that he was, he lost precious time in doing so. The killer aroma had breached the defense of his nostrils & it pounded the nasal walls & thrust deep into his respiratory tract. The poor chap then had to use the same hanky shield as a weapon to fight the deadly whiff & he started vigorously fanning the air around him trying his best to survive the stench. A quick sheepish glance at him made me realize the lethal potential I possess.

“Man!” I thought “…the samosa-pav was REALLY GOOD…..“. The poor guy’s histrionics gave an impression of a lone surviving warrior from the losing side of a battle sullenly waving out his surrender flag, praying for the gift of his life. But then I realized I had to react quickly or else the culprit will be behind bars of embarrassment for the rest of the journey. So I too removed my sweaty tattered piece of cloth and followed suit. And my eyes pointed finger to the fat old lady sitting in front, deeply engrossed in her sacred book & his eyes were smart enough to decode the message & they gave THE finger to her. I gave the best expression to manifest the oh-these-fat-fart-bombers look and I could see him mumble the “F” letter word in her glory. I looked outside the bus window & gave an imaginary hi-five to this idiot peeing across the street and thought to myself what a close escape that was. While getting out of the bus at my destination, my eyes thanked the good old lady (who was still unaware of the scene behind her back) & I passed a sly grin to her, to which she gave a face as if I just groped her daughter sitting beside.

Whatever the episode was, it just made me feel more confident to face the pressures of life without fear…………WTF !!!

The last sentence was a mis-print. It was supposed to be the ending line for the anecdote I was writing for a Moral Science school textbook for the 5th standard kids.

Actually, the whole episode only got me reminiscing about another incident about this plump fellow passenger sitting beside me in a train journey a few years back. The moron was the only passenger sleeping soundly in the sweaty overcrowded train & amidst the entire hullabaloo the only two noises that he made were one of the snores from his nose & the other of the disgusting farts from his ass. For a little while, I contemplated if that’s how he exhaled to live.

Anyway, there’s no summary to the above passage, but it’s just a tribute to all the silent skunks of the world. And hey…. I am not a regular at it; it was just an accident that day, you see. Otherwise the next time you smell something rotten & I am around, you’ll give the look to me; but now you know it’s the fat old lady in front who did it. :)

Silly Pasta

I do not want to turn this space into a cookery blog, but can’t help it; because that’s the only exciting thing I believe am doing these days. Most of my friends visit this blog anticipating amorous erotic content & my sexcapades, but I cannot publish them here, since I have such an iconic image among children, you know…

Last evening was another milestone in my cooking career. It is no myth that a child learns more, when he explores on his own. I have been exemplifying the truth of the adage lately. I tried to blend two distinct cultures together totally oblivious of the result. It didn’t come out bad anyway and so I named this Indo-Italian creation as the “Pasta ki sabzi”.

In reality, the venture began a week ago, because of a case of mistaken identity. The packet of Pasta looked exactly like a packet of “fryams” or whatever that is called; they are hollow pipe shaped things & you fry them. And I did exactly the same, only to realize it tasted like wood. I recognized this err only a few days later, when I was criticizing the Hispanic food in front of a few colleagues, who made me aware that you are supposed to read the label before buying anything. The label clearly read “Italian pasta” in bold, only to turn me into a laughing stock for them. But as the saying goes, “mistakes lead to success”, I had to do something, coz I could not throw away the packet; it cost 3 USDs and that’s like 120 rupees…one month’s newspaper bill !!! And this spirit encouraged me to go for it.

So, from the entire episode, I learned an important lesson. Always read & understand the label on the packet before buying. This applies to humans too. Innocent looking damsels can actually be bitchy whores; so know them well before picking…..errrr…I had to derive the moral rationally…..am bad at that though….its a tip of sloungue…you see….

I did it !!!

It was my first time and so I had every reason to be anxious. It was one moment I had waited for so long in my entire life. I had heard from friends how good it makes you feel, but never had the backbone to take the plunge. Even on days, when I had made up my mind, the opportunity was apparently never there and moreover I had other means to gratify my urge. They say look before you leap, but at this point of time, no man can withhold his starvation. And I coaxed my anxiety by keeping aside the fear of performance. Not everyone can be perfect on the first time, and moreover I am not of the perfectionist kind. She was getting ready to please the ravening wolf in front of her. My hungry eyes got wider and every hormone within me got stimulated as her sensual aroma kissed my nostrils. But before taking the final step, I made sure that I am not getting carried away by the situation and am not forgetting the most vital part of the play, without which I may have to regret later. So I reached out my already trembling hand to the nearby shelf & took out the small packet which I had bought last night.

I neatly cut it with the razor, which I had beside me, took about two pinches of salt from it and sprinkled over her. My first ‘sambar’ was all set to be devoured. As I looked into the nearby mirror, I could see a proud face of a very promising cook.

I never believed that I could cook. I mean, even water tasted burnt, when I boiled it. And I never showed any keenness in learning the art too. Actually I never had to, since amma was always there. When I had to stay away from her, I was again fortunate to find sources to fill my tummy without tiring my other parts of the body. I mean… I found cooking to be such a slog. But here in the other part of the world, where humans have a totally different set of taste buds, I fell short of alternatives. I finally decided to wear the chef’s cap.

And lo there she was…my first baby, the elite Malayalee queen of all cuisines, sambar. I had taken great pains in memorizing the ratio & proportion of all the ingredients going into it, from amma over the lengthy Skype call conversation. I turned off the stove with great apprehension, unsure whether the vegetables in it are well cooked or not. The color, I thought was a little darker than what it used to be at home. The extra tamarind could have been the culprit. Just to confirm, I took half a spoon from it to my tongue and it authenticated by beliefs. Wow… I said… I have already started getting a knack of it. A plateful of rice with sambar all over it, mango pickle by the side, what else does a Malayalee need?

It was one moment; I’ll never forget in my life even if I am taken over by the Alzheimer’s. Every second of cooking had my senses totally engrossed in it, which no other activity possibly can….barring porn of course. I will definitely suggest people like me, lacking a good hobby, should seriously pursue cooking as one. It is one you can enjoy for the entire length of your life as long as your limbs obey your brains. Also it is one which appends to your survival skills, which is very important to possess, to keep your ass alive in any part of the world. And due to all these pros involved in it, I have decided to become a sincere student of this wonderful culinary art form.

So with a plateful of rice thoroughly mixed with my debut preparation and a tinge of pickle, I had a delightful evening. Although it never tasted like the conventional sambar and it had a little burnt flavor, I licked clean even the slightest of grease from the plate. After all I had my hard earned sweat going into it. And anyway as I said before, this was just the beginning. There’s plenty more to come!!!