Friday, March 16, 2012

Cooking Myself a Chinese

Let me start as a usualer. And, start shooting the Blame Gun to somebody for all the mishaps. But, first I need to find a suitable one. (Tough job, huh!) Moron! What are you ranting now? Last evening, I put my culinary skills to test and I successfully plated the noodles from China that was not chewy or half-cooked; but, crunchy like fried potato chips. Urrgh! 

Happily, I got no guests and thus, all of it goes to the trash along with the eggs and favourite prawns. Sighs! Excuse me, I ain’t a bad cook but it is the repetitive news flash on a goofy railway budget that dared to go a facelift from its usual economical look; got a ‘didi’ huffing and panting.  The blamehammer is going to fall pretty hard solely on the Tweedledum and Tweedledee

NO. I wasn’t bothered about the hike causing a hole in the wallet; rather it’s a deserving move that a government could’ve opted earlier. But, that menopause stricken ‘didi’ howling foul and lunatical that got me distracted. By that time, the oil was mercurial hot and I add the noodles to the pan – all in hurry. The Lunatic Barbie starts rolling before the camera. (Yeah! Yeah!) I know I could’ve saved the noodles but, the baldy-headed, parrot-nosy; about-to-exit Railway Minister basking in the glory of his 60-seconds of famedom started his speech. I clutch to my hot seat and stick to it like glue. So, does the noodles. (Humph!) 

He is the current ‘Joan of Arc’ trying his best to be the national hero; who fall prey to the Moody Cow from Bengal and agrees to take the last walk before he gets beheaded without a trial. Pitiable! Ain’t so? The entire nation will witness his ‘sacrifice’ with anticipation and my hungry heart try to sniff the blood or the noodles that left on the pan undisturbed lest they meet a fate that the minister is about to. 

By now, the noodle starts losing its softness and got a dirty look. Yet, it wasn’t as dirty as the recent telly tube where a 40-plus rich hero attempts to consummate his marriage of convenience with a 30-plus middle-class wife. An ‘invisible lip-lock’ stirred the nation that has written a 1000-page pictorial book on ‘art of love’; centuries ahead. What a farce? 

My ever-maniac soul now brimming with libido restrained my body movement, except of the baiting any other Indian householders and give-in to the gesticulating temptation in secrecy. We are, otherwise, asexual. I could now smell the steam and the about-to-get-burnt noodles on the pan. Wink! There wasn’t anything flashing yet...we flushed through. Huff! 

Oh! By the time, it all finished, I’m left with a plate of Chinese noodle that tastes like fried potato chips; and an open lid trash bin. Grrr!

Saturday, March 10, 2012

A Brief Holi-day!

After a long haul, since I made my journey to 'this side' of the subcontinent; the world and its rituals seems to have changed to unknowing. Till, one day (after five years of hiatus)  I found colors smeared on my face. Happy Holi-day.! Life isn't that colorless as I often make myself believe.

My Sojourn Self

Thursday, March 1, 2012

How Am I in 2012?

It’s been long to revive and write something back. Though, not worth yet a lame effort to talk!

The year starts uneventfully. I am still waiting for some official documents to get published and status is ‘doomed to pending’. Now, the bright-chinned dark son makes no effort to dig a fortune for himself. Rather, he seems to have casually accepted to surrender. Is this a sign to grow old like the world around me? Possibly!

Peoples around me, rather, growing like plump organic foods – sweet, pulpy, and juicy. In comparison, I weeds start weakening my joints, my breath is now controlled and often end with a sound of huff. When I read from the archive, I could sense ‘being mellowed’. Meow! Forget tickling the funny bones; I seems to have fractured that and now under wraps. Interestingly, I improved from being ‘a boring brood’ to ‘an insignificantly normal’ – deaf, dumb and paralyzed. In brief and precise, I am a big rotten vegetable. Arch!

Growing old and being insignificant is so borgasmic. (Hmph!)