Minding a Hurricane

Pin It Now! Gentlewoman decided to dine outside. She was pregnant, nearing her seventh month and she had relatives visiting with their fidgety brood. Besides she had her own little devil to mind, which was a task in itself, much like minding a... she didn’t know the word. But she knew she wasn’t going to cook for anyone. Oh no, not today. They would eat out. She was pleased by her decision. They would go to…

Residency Towers. It was just the place to go to for the New Year’s Eve. Now, leaning back on her comfortable chair, son on her lap, she surveyed the gathered. Everyone seemed happy to be there, all fourteen of them. She was pleased. They’d met up after a long while. Cousin looked thin; maybe she was on one of her fancy diets, soups and cucumbers and more soup. Oops! Was that soup that just fell on the floor besides her?

Before she could decide, another weeny blob fell on her lips. Umm. That was soup. Her baby was liberally spooning it all about him as he giggled in glee. Her immediate vicinity was getting progressively gooey and the hovering waiter progressively uneasy when she pushed the soup away from her baby, in horror. The waiter quickly cleared it with an inscrutable expression. Thank goodness the baby did not wail. He usually did when anything was taken… Oh!

There he goes! God, all eyes where on their table now. On her and the baby. “Please bring that soup back,” she thought with increasing unease. “Please bring something to him”. She’d ordered a noodle, didn’t she? Where was it? She later remembered someone pushing a plate of long-life noodles in front of her and her son becoming quite immediately like he’d been switched off. Amma! Could she take anymore? Wa… what was that?!

A strand of noodle had just plopped sloppily onto her hair; her baby was destroying the noodle now! How she loved those twiny, soft noodles, rich with steamed vegetables. And she had it on her hair. As she reached out for a tissue to remove the strand, her little one promptly dumped some more noodle on to the back of her palm. Where’s hubby dear who always came to her rescue? She had to shut her eyes for a moment. Maybe that would change things.

“Happy New Year!” She heard someone shout, close by, and immediately a weight came off her lap. Hubby had taken over just in time. Thank you. Thank you so much. She’d quickly go clean up in the ladies room and join the party after. But did she want to? All she was thinking of was a speedy escape. As she stood up, she saw the waiter looking at her with that inscrutable expression again. “Oaf! I hope you have twins!” she thought as she made a beeline for the rest room. Pin It Now!

Revenge Of The Starved!

Pin It Now! Saint Hunger visits the starved like a typhoon wiping out all traces of well-meant, well-begun but essentially weak resolutions. And so it happened today. A meek gent, who had hitherto sworn with a vengeance not to have a morsel of ‘sinful food’, called me at my extension this noon and suggested we go out to lunch, in the meekest of voices that was almost a whisper.

Now I didn’t have a heart to say no. I’ve always given in to meekness, besides, I was starving myself! But honest to God I wished I had brought my lunch along or at least had an early lunch. That would have given me energy enough to protest, in the gent’s own fashion, tooth and nail, albeit with more conviction than he had ever managed. And unlike the gent, I wouldn’t have then given in and agreed to have “one measly dry paratha” or suck on a soup spoon while the others around me fed themselves silly.

Back to the meek voice that also carried a steely undertone implying “You dog! Don’t you even dare…”. You can fill in the blanks with the choicest invectives. Well I didn’t ‘dare’ as the voice implied. So we, five in all, drove to a Chettinadu place that the gent gallantly chose where he graciously ordered Muringakka Soup for me. That’s drumstick soup for the uninitiated – a measly doggy bowl of an abominable concoction with a piece of drumstick, a hint of tomato and tons of pepper. Ranjit had one sip and went into a fit of coughing that had us seriously concerned.

Imagine! That soup, if it can be called that, was meant for me! I mean the whole of it. Providential interruption came in the form of an eager prod from Saint Hunger, around the table. That’s when Ranjit had a fit. Then came the chicken masala, egg masala and parathas, all equally bad. We tucked into it anyway, and a sad burp each later, we left swearing never to follow the gent’s gastronomic suggestions ever again. The last time I saw Ranjit, which was an hour ago, he was seen clutching his stomach. I’m yet to know what happened to Suneesh and Ajay.

So much for the revenge of the starved! Pin It Now!