Gastronomical bereavement

How much we crave the food we like! Don't we? The poor old man of our story did too. Things were better for him before he fell unwell and saw himself sentenced to an unbearably insipid diet. And his caring wife wouldn't let him astray. Even a bit. He was banned from consuming anything that resembled pickles, spices, sweets, oil...The list got longer while his lifelines grew relatively shorter. As the pendulum swung by, she got so caught up in this race against time that her gentle heart couldn't realize how deprived her husband felt. Maybe she knew perfectly well what was going on but then, she wasn't his enemy. The debilitating disease was. She was aware of the fact that he grew up on the food he craved and he had no vice otherwise. He was a man of tasteful tongue, not a glutton. Torture can't come close to describing the vocabulary of his gastronomical bereavement. One day, as his frame became thinnest, he gathered his breath. Her ears greeted his lips as he whispered the anthem of death. He is said to have said, "Cook what your hands are used to. Please." She must have cried a thousand times but in the end, she decided to stick with their doctor's sagacity. A few more days passed them with him suffering his nosh instead of relishing it. Stomach is innocent enough to not know what it's being fed. To his extended ordeal, he wasn't. He summoned his wife's ears again. This time around he only mumbled, "Feed the crows once I'm gone." The voice's desperation superseded the anger within. Silence followed this imperative line before he was transferred to ICU where they drilled a hole in his throat for essential fluids. He didn't make back home. However, even today, birds with 50 shades of black—who loiter around their veranda—are grateful to his last words. 

A Prison Full of Tomatoes

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Boy who loved tomatoes. Fondness of food ain’t a human novelty but not everyone falls for a tomato. In fact, Boy took a shine at a very young age and grew up stealing them from kitchen, if urge demanded. However, he remained a fidel for a long time ahead. But fate believes in surprises. And how!

And before Boy could realize his penchant for slipping tomatoes, he had become an infamous klepto. And before he could fathom the extent of his kleptomania, he found himself in a crowded prison on charges of theft. And before he could do anything about anything, the jewels he burgled from a local store proved costly.

No one likes crowded place, and least of all, prisons. Not only are convicts struggling for oxygen and privacy, they are also stuck with each other’s incivility. Hygiene is a far-stretched idea in such banal existence. You are no more you. Personal identity is reduced to numbers and the days spent enclosed. Individuality suffers the loudest. Conclusion: Life in a prison sucks big time.

Boy often reminisced his school days and how promising he could have been had he made better decisions. He realized how everything has transformed right in front of his nose except for one thing – his appetite for tomatoes. He still craved that plump red piece of nature like anything. He thought life is not THAT bad. At least he thought so.

It seemed the prison authorities loved tomato more than Boy ever did. The reason being they employed the vegetable in almost all the meals they cooked and served. One might have called it a culinary potpourri of La Tomatina minus the funfare. Needless to say, Boy wasn’t complaining. He relished whatever the prison was dumping on his plate. He never displayed a smug face unlike his fellow prisoners. He never sulked at the excesses of tomatoes or at the apparent lack of choice. He was content with tomatoes and vice versa. Just like he thought, life is not THAT bad.

Well, that was about to change.

As time passed on, he was growing tired of loneliness. The ironical element couldn’t escape the presence of loneliness in a place full of people confined against their wish. He started missing his folks back home who hardly paid him a visit. Sleep was the toughest part. Nightmares were longer than the minutes he kept his eyes shut. Memories of carefree days kept replaying in his insomniac mind. Ergo, prison was growing on him.

Out of sudden, he found tomatoes repellent. Maybe it didn’t happen overnight but he surely got a hang of his co-prisoners’ opinions about prison food. His intense liking for it was now replaced by deep abhorrence. At least, others, despite their daily cussing against slammer order, ate what was laid in front of them on the table. Boy couldn’t. He blamed tomatoes all his misery. At last, he found a scapegoat who was responsible in making him what he was today. And it was rather impossible for him to consume his enemy.

Life's *Storry*

Since I’ve got absolutely nothing to blab on, I’ll try my bad luck with stories. Like you know, stories go back a long time. For most of us, our grandmas held the password to the magical world of endless tales that kept us engrossed when we were less-stupid little kids. And then one day you grew up and stopped paying heed to impossible fibs. In simpler words, you became a part of your own story called Life. You were the main character, for a change. Of course, you realized every now and then that you weren’t cut-out for the part but still you carried on with it. Needless to say, you often wondered, “How the heck did I bag this role?” So you started looking around and acknowledged the fact that this whole world is an exotic stage and we are all mere hams, diligently trying to act professional, ad-libbing every now and then to add a twist to the script. But in the end, you get a story to call your own.

No matter where you come from, you always carry some f-ed up story with you. These stories, so to narrate, are mostly based on personal inexperiences and utter disregard to consequences. That’s exactly what makes it so damn captivating – its raw unpredictability and undeniable authenticity. Somewhere down the line, we learn that our story can’t be perfect the way they show in movies. Our stories are basically sad, to be frank. We love melancholic drama and not even attempt to get tired of it. Maybe this is the reason why our stories mostly turns out very hospitable to tears and warms heart. Luckily, a fortunate few find the silver smiling lining amid this charade and laugh their heart out at the trivialness of breathing. And some join in the laugh riot.

This story we’re talking about here is alive. It has procreative gifts. For instance, it can give rise to spiteful rumours, adulterated anecdotes and misquoted quotes, too. Far from being dead words, this story is life itself. It may so happen that once in a while, life may abandon you and digress towards loneliness, lethargy, maudlin and other such inviting corner. Despite this interlude, the story goes on.

"Dearest Life, January was here but you weren't, where were you? February is here but you aren't, where are you?”

The search never ends nor the hide-and-seek routine. Just for a story’s sake.

A prank gone all wrong

The following is inspired by a true story...

There was this girl in a Medical College and stayed in hostel. She was beautiful, rich and spoilt. She was a bit disturbed by some personal problems and didn't like mingling with other students on campus. This created a sort of sequestrated feel about her character. She was probably the only girl around without any friends, not even female ones. No one knew why she was disturbed and what was her side of the story. Though a lot of fellow students, particularly boys tried to make an advance and kindle friendship with her but she stayed aloof and rejected any relationship. The boys were kept at a distance and girls were envious-pretty balanced scale of enmity.

Slowly but steadily she was becoming the talk of the campus not only because of her solitude but also because of her beauty. She wasn't particularly attentive in classes or practicals but she made sure she was never absent. The teachers had no issue with her detached personality since her grades were decent.
Once, a brash boy who thought he could claim to be the first to develop 'contact' with her, decided to express his love to her and the words he used were heavy with emotions but didn't create the same reaction on the girl. On the contrary, she went ballistic with her rigid response and called him names such as Romeo, chauvinist and a fool!

This encounter from which he had expected to bear romance had gone all sour and prickly. He was no doubt hurt but he wasn't the one to stay silent. He decided to teach this arrogant girl a lesson. He contemplated a plan he thought wasn't horrible but no less innocent either. He along with some of his friends decided to play a prank on her.

So, this girl returned to her room like usual after visiting library and having food at local mess. As soon as she entered the room and locked the door, someone strapped the door shut from the outside as well. Obviously, she was irritated and surprised by this act. She called out to open the door and kept on banging it. But no one responded as if like the whole hostel had gone deaf.
Tired of this prank, she retired to her bed. As she leaned back to lay her head on the pillow, she felt something under the pillow. This was the actual prank awaiting her. So out of curiosity and anger, she lifted the pillow to find an amputated hand which no doubted was made available from College morgue.

A deep shriek boomed out of the room. This cry of fear was reciprocated by a equally loud choir of laughter from the crowd standing outside the door, presumably waiting to hear the bawl. But the laughter outnumbered the wailing voice because the deep sound of fear and angst didn't repeat but the laughter kept on multiplying.
The prank was supposed to have ended here and someone was supposed to unlock the door and let the poor soul out. But that didn't took place, may be everyone were so indulged in laughing riot that they forgot to lower curtain on the show.
As many hours passed by, one of the participating girl realized that no one had opened the door and she decided to open it herself but at the last moment thought it would be better if someone would accompany her so she asked one of her friend and ultimately collected a few more students and they all came to open the door and see if the girl was asleep or what.

But the sight they were going to witness was neither called for nor planned but a severe consequence of a blatantly irresponsible act. As soon as the door flanged open, they saw that there was no one bed, nor under it, the windows were tight shut from inside, and this created panic. Amid this ill puzzlement, someone from the crowd glanced above to the space between the ceiling and cupboard.

The vision of a girl with dried tears and disheveled hair and strange mannerism greeted them. The girl was sitting devoid of any display of emotion on her face but her teeth were busy chewing something. The very sight of this once beautiful girl turned diabolical sent chills through the crowd because she was indiscreetly chewing the amputated hand that was the tool of joke for the crowd staring below.
The mental trauma the girl suffered is unfathomable but the question is the level of barbarism one can stoop to just to get a kick out of it.

[The credit to this story goes to some independent film makers who made a short film on the same story.]

A story of a famous waiter

He was born in 1947, a few months before we attained independence. My granny used to say he was all white like milk but weak when he was born and had this rosy lips that was later talk of the village. He grew up to be 14th child of my grandparents and the progeny ultimately ended at 18th child. Unfortunately, only 7 offspring saw more than 10 years of life. That was mainly blamed on poor nutritional value and foreboding.

My dad was named Sunder which meant "beautiful" appropriately. He was a sincere boy and used to do all the chores as expected and very naive too, unlike his elder brothers. Many a times, it so happened that he was the one sleeping empty stomach while the younger siblings got rice. He attended school but complemented it with household and farming errands like collecting dungs, drawing well water and et al. He seemed to enjoy these hard work to flipping pages of book. Apparently, he left school at the age of 13 after attending his mid-term exams which he, no doubt must have failed, owing to poor attendance which was mainly due to his dad's failing health and demanding need of people at farm. My grandpa had better things laid out for him. At least he thought it was so. He left school, now he left the village and set out for Bombay.

He landed on Bombay in the year 1960 and this was the period of conspicuous panic and turmoil since Bombay was drafted to its minimal boundary and Maharashtra and Gujrat was drawn on lingual basis. No doubt, there were some linguist and regional tensions going on then. He spend his initial one month wandering from one place to another with hardly anything to lean on. He did menial jobs, earned too little to save and slept on jutecloth sacks. He once told me that he was given Rs. 13 by his father while leaving his native and half of it was spent on travelling.

This gloomy period was soon to end as one day, he was spotted by this Gujrati-speaking Parsi rich and was given table-cleaner's job at a small bistro-like place. He is still grateful of that one touch of kindness that provided him proper mat for sleeping and ample water to wash. This continued for about a year or so when suddenly he got a note from his brother who had got himself a job in Pune. My dad was earnestly sent for to fill up vacancy there. Without any second thoughts, he escaped. He had to escape because he knew that he was now quite an asset to the working place and won't be let off with ease.

He arrived in Pune in the summer of 1962. Pune wasn't anything like it is now. It was rather dull and wildly empty to say. But my dad was more than happy to be there in comparison to Bombay as he was homesick and wanted someone from his family to behold. So he got this job, again as a table-cleaner at a small hotel run by some Mr. Nayak. He worked there and was "promoted" to water boy and this went on for less than a year when he was asked to fill in for some waiter who was absent. Dad impressed all with his serving skill and memory. Now, there wasn't any need of a genius in a hotel and neither my dad was one but its a tradition in an Udupi Hotel for a waiter not to write down the orders and to serve all the orders mentally without any note to remind. He did superb and it stayed on like that for good long time.

Now, by the year 1966, he realized that Bombay was a better option because he wanted to do something else with his life, something in business, for option. So he left Pune and headed to Bombay again. Here once again, he donned the role of waiter at a place called Madras Cafe which was in King's Circle. This joint was quite renowned and was a daily pilgrimage for students and teachers from nearby campus. He was quickly took a liking to by all and girls in particular, if my uncles are to be believed. They even say some of them were deadpan smitten by him that they even proposed! My dad, being the person he is, still undermines this anecdotes. But he did said once that there was this girl studying at Khalsa College who was in awe of his eyebrows and she always used to wait for his table to get empty so that she can get his service. Bizarre but my dad had other plans and wasn't keen on romance with nubile wealthy students. He worked there for five years and remembers serving today's superstar Akshay Kumar who was a student then at nearby place and used to take lunch at his place regularly.

In early 1972, he was asked by the owner of Madras Cafe, Mr. Shetty to transfer his service to Saroj Hotel which was located at Chembur. He couldn't say no though he was a bit disappointed considering the camaraderie you strike with most of the customers there. He left and joined Saroj Hotel and was again blowing off competition, if any, with his dedication and hard work. He was good looking, better with four plates on his hand, moved swiftly, talked softly and was good with numbers too. This all helped him again to establish genial relationships with customers. He remained a waiter at Saroj till 1996. Then one day, he was asked by Mr. Shetty's son, Rohit to work as a manager. Considering his time as a waiter for almost 35 years, this step was inevitable.

He was made third manager since there were already two working since long time. Dad was assigned with stuff related to banks, accounts, Municipal clearings, taxes which required him talking with bigshots and he was clearly a charming personality to chat and discuss. He was accepted into the fold of managerial clan. It wasn't all easy coz most of the times customers were awestruck to see him in formals roaming the corridors looking out for customer satisfaction and proper disposal of service. Some old customers haven't seen him before in anything other than formal uniform topped by a traditional waiter's cap. But his run continued with a demeanor which made him one of the famous person on the streets of Chembur and even struck a chord with innumerable faceless customers that he met and made sure to leave a etch on.

This story seems all rosy and colorful but it wasn't always so. My dad is and was a reasonable man with virtuous lining but he too wanted to do good. so he tried other avenues of success. He once opened a pan-shop in Mazgaon Dock area which was later usurped by his dear brother, fraudulently. My dad, even to this day has no malice in his heart for this treachery. He earned fine money due to the kind tipping gestures of his customers. He made records with quick serving and multitasking tables. He was sort of a legend of his own.

Today, he is 62 and wishing to retire off in the quiet of his native. He is still working though his pension is up. He still feels that working as a waiter was something more fulfilling coz it had nuances of customers attached immediately to the whole process. He still remember the great doyen of CINEMA, Mr. Raj Kapoor who was a regular customer owing to the presence of R.K. Studio in vicinity, who according to my dad, was a big niggard, unlike his siblings who were a bit too "noble".

My dad always used to say when i was a kid that he didn't want me to be a waiter and that's the reason why he's working double shifts to fill up expense. He was unfazed by his goodness and that's quite unique considering the tag we attach to someone who is good and then ruin his goodness to capital assessment. My dad didn't wished for fame nor did he got one, but he lived a life of memory where people recognize him for his kind way with them. Happy B'day Pa.