Wednesday, April 25, 2012

Delayed Reaction to an Incident in a Mallu Hotel in Bangalore.

       No idea why some Non-Mallus come into a Kerala restaurant and say 'Arrey u make this in coconut oil? I dont want it.' If I was the hotel owner I would add Pig-shit to their stupid order of 'Bhaiyya, normal aloo paratha bana do, groundnut oil mein.' and serve it to them with a fart. I dont go to a Punjabi hotel and say 'Shit, sarso ka tel...chhheee!'....or to a Kannada hotel and say 'Chhhee, raagi mudde tastes like mud.' or to a Gujarati restaurant and say 'Oh God, they put sugar in everything!'
       I am not partial to any cuisine. If I am in Tamil Nadu, I want to eat Tamil food. Same with Maharashtra or Bengal or Rajasthan. Right now I am in Singapore and we love savouring the local cuisine. We do not like all dishes, but everytime that we are out, we order a new dish. If we don't like it, we remember the name so as not to order it next time. We dont sit and crib and tell Singaporeans to stop making local food and serve us with food from our Indian kitchens. Simple.
       Did they go to sleep at night and on waking up in the morning, discover themselves in Kerala? Probably they were illiterate to not have read anything. Kerala is known as the land of coconuts and spices and bananas for no other reason than this. That these products grow in plenty here. Obviously when people settled here, they made use of the natural bounty. U don't need Darwin to tell u that unless u are living proof that he was wrong about his evolution theory. Coconut oil is used for cooking. Coconut oil is used on the hair. But obviously Keralites are not retarded enough to use the same bottle for both. If u don't like the fact that coconut oil is used for cooking, please travel with ur own gunny sacks of whatever oil u are using.
       Again yes, Kerala rice is different. The grains are big but softer than boiled rice. We don't need to polish the grains as long as they look like rice. But THIS DOES NOT MEAN that we cannot grow basmati rice on Kerala soil. The land obviously is one of the most fertile in India. We can grow live babies too!
       Also yes the Sea is generous to us. We eat seafood. A LOT. But it does not mean that EVERY family eats fish morning, noon and night.
       Neither does the fact that people drink Toddy, mean every man living here drinks Toddy.
       Again we use banana and mangoes and tapioca and jackfruit a lot - in our curries, in our kheers, in chips. But we don't eat only these four things. Kerala is blessed with a lot of vegetable and fruits most of which grow in our backyards.
       And yes again, we wear white. For the simple reason that it is so tropical and humid that we cannot go around in gaudy gold embroidered red synthetic dresses and do our work at the same time. The men wear 'mundus' NOT 'lungis'. There is a vast difference between both. It is the same for Tamilians. They also wear 'mundus' not 'lungis'. And they have an angavastram on their shoulders. Reading forwards and joking is all right. but laughing in their faces because they do not wear stuffy jeans like u is another matter altogether and I am always surprised why one of the natives does not just punch u in the face.
       For some reason I am unable to fathom, most foreigners are so much more open and interested in Indian culture and cuisine while thay are on vacation in India.
       The Retards above are not only limited to ordering food. They travel to places outside India and crib 'Arrey, there is no home-made paneer available. Arrey tamatar mein Indiawala taste nahi hain. Arrey these people eat only bread. Arrey this. Arrey that.' I mean yes it is a little uncomfortable to to be uprooted and we do want our old clingy comforts around us, but still. How can someone travel to a new place and NOT be interested in learning about the history, the customs, the cuisine, the local people? How can someone want to sit in the comfort of their house and say 'No I do not want to know anything about this new place I am in!'?
       To someone like me, That is pukish.

Monday, April 09, 2012

Look not See. Listen not Hear.

I hide my grief
behind
sarcastic FB updates
make all of you
laugh
with my self-deprecating humor.
You come running
to me
when you are sad
asking me to cheer you up.
You invite me to all your parties
because
I'm the life of any party
you say.
You 'like' all my
statuses
photos
notes
and say you miss being with a
nut
like me.
Not even once did you ask
'What is wrong' all those times
my throaty laughs
ended midway.

Sunday, April 01, 2012

That Last Night.

This post has been published by me as a part of the Blog-a-Ton 26; the 26th Edition of the online marathon of Bloggers; where we decide and we write. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton. The topic for this month is 'That Last Night'.
Saturday – 15th June 2013.
       The last memory she had of him was him chomping her breasts. She flinched. Then turned and looked at the body beside her. His snoring had always turned her stomach upside down, not to mention ruin her sleep. He was drooling in his sleep. Now the damned bed sheets would stink at that particular spot. It brought up a wave of nausea and she almost gagged. She was sick of him to death. 
       The unpleasant part was that it had nothing to do with the drool. She was sick enough to want to smother him with the pillow. But he was strong. It would never have worked. Unless she pretended that they were playing one of his kinky sex games and she would have to tie up his feet and hands to the bedpost. No, no. It would be all too easy for the police. What with the marks on the ankles and wrists, and the forced suffocation, they would unravel her so easily.
'There has to be some way to end this'.
       That night was the last one she wanted to spend together with him. That night was the last one she wanted him to touch her. But she would have more such nights. She knew. She knew that, that last night would be the beginning. She sighed. And tried to go back to sleep. But instead, the tears came. First as sniffles, then sobs. Little racking sobs which she shovelled into her pillow. Shovelled into, burrowed into, along with the snot and the grief. He must not wake up. She did not want to speak to him. Not now. For just some more time she wanted to be alone. She flung aside the sheets and rummaged for her slippers.
***
Saturday – 22nd June 2013.
       Groggily he called for her. His brain had just started to tune in to the sounds and smells of a Saturday morning. The coffee grinder whirring. The toaster tick-tocking. The juicer spitting out the seeds and rind. The weekend was here. A smile played on his lips. Wasn’t she just going to be surprised today! He had planned an impromptu dinner at The Regency tonight. He would tell her to wear the Mauve dress. Maybe with the brooch he had gifted her last week. And he would lead her by the arm and everyone would wonder how he could be so lucky so as to possess such a beautiful woman. His little own trophy wife. His little dirty mistress.
       Stifling a yawn, his eyes wandered to the framed photographs on the side table. And the portraits littering the wall. Regret clouded his mind. And guilt. And shame. He had been too rough with her that night. It was not that he wanted to. But when he saw her naked, the rage claimed him. Gnawed at him until all he wanted to do was to leave his mark on her. Disfigure her. Brand her a whore and parade her around. But he loved her so much. It was all because he loved her so much. He knew it. And she did too. That he would never be able to stop loving her. Her whimpers excited him and her screams filled his mind with fantasies for days together.
       He called for her again. “Darling, I am awake.”
       There, he could hear her faint answer from the kitchen at the back of the house. Not clear enough for his sleep-muddled ears to catch perfectly, but enough for him to know that she was coming to him. A rustle. A movement behind the curtains and she appeared. Freshly scrubbed. Smelling of lavender and soap. The serving tray in her hands. 
“Here is your coffee.” She said through gritted teeth. 
What was it about her that made him look up at her, warily?
“I have something to tell u”.
‘Not a baby. Lord. Not now.’ He prayed inwardly. He detested the little monsters. Whimpering, pesky little maggots. He had no time and no inclination to subject his house to their attacks.,
“What is it?” He flicked his tongue over his lips. And she would remember many a day later that he looked like a lizard eyeing its prey.
“I do not want to stay with you. Now now. Not ever.”
He flung the coffee at her. It soaked her silk robe. Burnt her skin.
“What the fuck did you say?”
“I said I cannot live with you.”
       He punched her in the face. Her nose bled. She clawed him. Across his cheek, she drew her nails.
       He was screaming. Incoherent. Flinging aside the tray and the sandwiches and whatever he could lay his hands on. Stamping on her face and hands. Kicking. Mouthing obscenities.
       She would have to endure this. She had to cry. Now. She had to feed his anger. Make him do the exact things she was scared of. The exact things she wanted him to stop doing to her.
       For some more time. Some more days. Just a matter of some more days.
       Her senses shut down. She swam out into the black salty sea.
***
Saturday – 13th July.
       He flung aside the sheets and looked around bleary-eyed. It was afternoon. Christ, he had slept all through last evening and the night and till noon! He called out her name. She did not answer. He waited and called out her name again. And again. She did not answer. He limped out of bed and made his way to the kitchen. She was not there. then he made his way to the balcony. Neither there. Nor in the living room. Nowhere. She was out. He gnashed his teeth.
       The bitch had not woken him up. Nor told him before leaving. He went back to the kitchen and started to make coffee.
       He had just settled into his armchair when the door bell rang shrilly. He placed the coffee mug on the table. The bell rang again. And again.
“One minute. I’m on my way”. He wanted to punch the idiot in the face. Whoever it was. But of course he could not do that. He was a gentleman. At least everyone knew him as one.
       He blanched when he opened the door. It was a cop. No, cops. Almost a team. And there! There stood his wife. Almost unrecognizable because she was dishevelled and dressed down. The black spot around her left eye, the remainder of last night's coupling,  throbbed with a life of its own. Her split lip gorged red. The purple bruises on her cheeks glared at him. Where was her make-up and what the fuck was wrong with her?
“I assume we can come in, without waiting for you to invite us?” The inspector tapped on his chest with his baton.
Stupefied, he let them in. He let the men walk into the house. His wife started to follow them. “What is the meaning of this?” He whispered, grabbing her arm.
She looked at him. She smiled. It hurt her to smile, but she did.
“Ask the camera fitted on the AC vent.” She spat at him.


He knew. She knew. And now the police knew too.  


That last night had been the beginning. And the end.
                                                                             ***


The fellow Blog-a-Tonics who took part in this Blog-a-Ton and links to their respective posts can be checked here. To be part of the next edition, visit and start following Blog-a-Ton.