Much Ado About Nothing!

Genesis…

“Much ado about nothing”

God’s honest truth, I never really understood these simple yet profound words of Shakespeare until now. Forty eight hours after I emerged unscathed following the definitively singular gut-wrenching nerve wracking experience of my life possessing immense potential to snowball into career threatening, life altering existential crises. Or, as is otherwise called in my playbook, the H1-B Visa Stamping.

“Much ado about nothing?” Most assuredly, yes. Considering it’s the same shebang all over. Same visa. Same consulate. Same paperwork and procedure. Same for the third #$%^in’ time for crying out loud!

Like any red blooded desi on both sides of the Mississippi who hasn’t been awarded the “Green Card” yet, yours truly too survives on that thick green one page document, affectionately called the “H1-B Visa”. Which apart from assuring me of a job (or other way around) and a few basic civil rights does pretty much nothing else. Uncle Sam has decreed “we” pay higher taxes for benefits that mostly aren’t eligible to us and more importantly present our weather-beaten faces to a Visa Officer every so often so he/she can cross examine us (again!) and deem us legitimate through a seal in our passport. A seal more dearly called, the “H1-B Stamping”.

If you’re returning to the “Land of Milk and Honey” after soaking up countries like for example… Costa Rica, Panama, Peru (insert shameless self-promotion) and want to do so by not jumping fences (or crawling through tunnels) but through crowded airports, you need one of these babies for sure.

This year I wanted to go home and figured I needed a new visa.

(Pauses 30 seconds)

I love my dad, all right? His energy, passion among plenty of other things. But I’d rather be hurtling down a ravine with jagged edges in a bundle of porcupine needles than face him when he’s metamorphosized into a full blown CIA-type interrogator armed with his document checklist and all. Two basket cases growling at each other before the interview, my mom would go crazy.

So onto Plan B. For a $475 round trip (including hotel) Vancouver put her hand up, smiled demurely and whispered, “Why… not me?”

“A known devil is always better than an unknown angel” Eyes locked, I smiled back and the date was on…

The Arrival…

My welcome couldn’t have been more brutal. 40 degree weather, incessant drizzle, darker and gloomier than usual skies, that’s not what I cursed myself for. Every living soul except me was walking around wearing a jacket or carrying an umbrella. I didn’t have neither. Not even a plastic sheet. Half drenched and almost slipping on the sidewalk I found an idling Toyota Hybrid and jumped in.

“Can we go to 401 E Hastings St, please?”

No response as car and driver stood still. “Ummm….” He started to say something.

“Oh! Budget Inn Patricia” I loudly remembered the name. That did the trick.

“Oye! Puthreeshia Otel” he repeated with severe emphasis and set off. For the next few minutes I tried to keep pace with his Hindi and Punjabi using my stock “Haan ji… Bahuth sach hai” (Yes sir, most definitely true) but gave up after we got onto the freeway. I either laughed after his every sentence or pretended to have a very spirited conversation with my voicemail.

“Hey! Is the elev…”

“Oh! It’s broken. Don’t know how long it’ll be out” and swiftly went back to his open chat windows. Great!

Cursing the pony tailed clerk, myself and random others that came to mind, I huffed and puffed my way up five floors over steps that each seemed a foot high. With my heart about to give up I managed to land in front of Room 526, my official residence for the next few days in Vancouver.

What the #$%^ What the #$%^ I cursed twice in frustration looking at the room that even a rabbit would’ve termed too small for its liking. The only discernible object was a huge bed forcing me to navigate inside by scraping my behind to the wall. Heater was an assortment of pipes that hissed louder the closer I went. Obviously in a room so steeped back in time, wireless internet is a miracle and fifteen minutes after fiddling with my laptop I realized today wasn’t my day. Frustrated, I turned around and kicked the double door and let out a huge sigh. At least we have a bathroom of our own! I don’t hold a high regard for TVs that are smaller than my monitor so I didn’t even bother switching the micro version on the table.

• 
  
  Elevator doesn’t work. Check
• 
  
  Room’s cold and the size of my closet. Check
• 
  
  Room’s got no wireless internet. Check

Oh well! If ever I had come to Vancouver to kill myself, there couldn’t have been a more perfect setting than this. No one was complementing nobody now. The rest of the Tuesday was spent in catching up on my emails and keeping my manager off my back. Things were uneventful save for those apocalypse thoughts that kept popping in my head reminding me that it was back to the Devil’s Doldrums if my visa was rejected the next day. This might be the last time you send an email to the team! This might be the last time you restart the servers! You’ve already had your last coffee at work! Oh please! At 9.30pm I couldn’t take it no more and finally decided to have that cigarette that I’d been putting off since morning. I scurried across the street to a small convenience store run by a Punjabi woman and her daughter, who immediately figured out that I was here for my H1-B visa. That obvious huh! As I was collecting my change she flippantly remarked, “Hope you get my passport back next day” “Why do you say that?” I innocently asked. “Last week there was a guy who’s been forced to stay one year in Vancouver until his visa is approved” I almost dropped my change and cigarettes. And no, I didn’t want to know who he was. One #$%^in’ year! One day in this city and I was ready to tear my nails out. What the heck was I going to do for a year here? There we go. Out with the demons and devils please… Inside the Lion’s Den… D-Day dawned gloomy and rainy as usual. Given that I was wired more than a semiconductor chip, 20 minutes to get ready seemed too long. I looked at myself in the mirror and couldn’t stop grinning. Go get ‘em tiger! Never pick a cab where the driver’s arguing with his wife over the phone and listening to talk radio and growing madder by the minute. I counted at least three jumped red lights, two glares from other cabbies and one gloriously raised middle finger from a homeless man. At least he kept to himself and didn’t freak me out with more doomsday stories. Ten minutes and a thrill ride later I was deposited in front of the 1075 W Pender St, the US Consulate. Contrary to what many might think the Consulate isn’t a fortress surrounded by wrought iron gates and an overflowing police presence. Instead it occupies just a few floors of a tall skyscraper and manned by the same three surly security guards I’d seen before. “It’s all coming back together now…” I smiled to myself as I walked up the steps and parked myself in a corner. As is the wont I found at least a few being brusquely turned away by the guards thanks to their mobiles, backpacks, coffee mugs and what not. A couple of them tried to argue/snap back but these had “No #$%^in’ chance” written all over it. Pfft! Some things never change. I mean, the Consulate could take a front page ad in the paper tomorrow listing the things they regarded dangerous in their premises but people still wouldn’t know or bother. Forty minutes of waiting in line with nothing to do can drive a man crazy. Especially when you’ve sworn never to indulge in any conversation with your neighbors (like me), simply because you don’t want to hear any more cockamamie stories of how people were turned away because they didn’t bring a certain scrap of paper. I mean, c’mon on! I’ve heard my share of ridiculous ones each involving a “friend” or “friend’s friend” (who most certainly never exist) and as much as I’d like to call their bluff realized that “mum’s the word”. Finally! The same old guard from before beckoned me inside and I thought I detected a glint of recognition. Christ man! Haven’t you got your Green Card already? The Vietnamese guard next to him ensured no part of my physique was left untouched or unsearched. Thankfully I wasn’t required to drop my pants. Satisfied, both guards stared at me for a few seconds and then waved me off upstairs. Fingerprinting was relatively easy. I hadn’t been busted for carrying marijuana, passing counterfeit checks (or things to that effect) so I was fairly certain my prints wouldn’t cause a nation wide alarm. It didn’t! Oh! The inexorable wait! My number was “A082”, which meant I had the next forty five minutes to twiddle my thumbs and wallow in my maelstrom of emotions. My policy of zero interaction was still in effect and I quickly scanned the huge room to see if I knew anyone from before. Out in the left corner was a pretty young thing who appeared outwardly calm reading a book. Some of us are sitting here shaking like a leaf and you’re reading a book? Wow! “Aishwarya Rai could serenade naked in front of you and kiss you on the lips and you can’t get a boner!” I laughed loudly to myself. Dedicated to my cause, what else can I say? Time to check my documents (again) and I slowly pulled out my impressive array of labeled folders announcing every imaginable piece of paper about me, a. Essential - (I-797, pay slips, tax returns, employment letter) b. Completely Unnecessary - NIIT degree, Xth and XIIth standard mark sheets, ASU course transcripts, conduct certificates… “Paranoia” is my middle name, so excuse me when my mantra is “More is Less” when it comes to visa interviews. I spent a good two minutes glossing over document as if they were going to be snatched from me forever and spent another long time rearranging them back in the same order. #$%^ me. Twenty more minutes to go! “A080, A081, A082, A083, A084, A085 to the 20th floor please” The first really good looking girl I’d seen at the consulate thus far. I would’ve gladly walked the stairs for that smile. Thanks to the second broken elevator I’d seen that day I did just that. We were forced to go up through the outer entrance past a bustling Starbucks. Same guard. Same emotions. For reasons I can’t fathom our searches were more thorough than before with the emphasis this time around centered on food and drink. Oh c’mon! What was I going to do? Sneak a muffin and latte on my way up? Their demolition job took me a good five minutes to try to get things back to order and I finally went in. Ah! The Final Frontier. This was a cramped room with service counters where them visa officers with computers lorded over our careers. My mind was calmer and clearer than it had ever been before. No apocalypse or Devil’s Doldrums, just a strange inner peace as I silently sat there waiting my fate… “Now serving A082 at window no. 3” The voice jerked me back to attention. I stood up, cleared my throat and looked around to see if anyone was wishing me luck. No one gave a #$%^. “This is it” I steeled myself, “Good morning Officer. How are you?” I started off with all the cheer I could muster. “I’m fine. So you’re Kaarrrthik Jayaaraa…?” “Karthik Jayaraman, yes that’s right” I helped him complete it and just like that the inquisition was under way. The first few questions are always easy. More easy when you’ve been working for the same company the past three years and have been trying to be nothing except Mr. Joe Citizen. That we both established and I let out a tiny sigh. “So are you going for an arranged or love marriage?” Honest to God, that’s the first time I’ve heard that question in any interview and I swear it blindsided me, straight out of left field. Well… What should it be if I should get my visa? “Ummm… I’m not sure. The heart wants what the heart wants” I replied laughing weakly afterward. #$%^ me and my stupid one-liners. I’m going home and getting married to the girl of my Dad’s choice. Now can I get my darn visa please? Apparently option (c) – undecided was the right choice since I heard the magic words right away. “Your visa has been approved. Come back on Friday to pick up your passport” I almost let out a “Whopeeeeee” but reminded myself “This is your third time here and this is an extension. No great shakes. Now go away”. I quickly thanked the officer and briskly walked away. Dampener? I had to hang around in the city till Friday. Get the hell back home… Obviously the most easiest part considering you’ve passed the acid test. Watching a basketball game and guzzling beer I texted my dad, “How’s my favorite dad doing today? Your son just got his Visa approved!” My dad, the wily old fox he is, called me back pronto and over international roaming and skyrocketing rates I reassured him that my visa was really approved, yes I was drunk and no I wasn’t going to drive. For reasons best known to him he always assumes that I’m going to navigate a space shuttle or something when I’m off the rocker. My only accomplishment (or lack thereof) on Thursday was that I managed to somehow get through United Airlines customer service and convince them to reschedule my flight to Friday. My elder sister’s having a baby in Los Angeles and I really need to be there Friday night? Can you please waive the service fees? We’ll need to see birth certificate and other family documents first. #$%^ I blamed it on the bad economy since I was pretty confident that I could’ve pulled off that stunt when all was well. $150 be damned, I wanted to get back to Los Angeles before the weekend and that I did after collecting my passport without getting grilled any further. Goodbye… Continuing with the tradition I promptly texted my dad the moment I landed, “Your first born just landed in Los Angeles with his new visa!” “My first born is in Houston (referring to my younger brother). Who the #$%^ are you?” Dad was kidding, of course. I involuntarily laughed out loud startling a few folks around me and wondered where that humor was coming from. Oh my God! Where was my passport? I stopped dead in my tracks bang in the middle of the walkway and frantically patted myself. There she is! Passport and my 1-797 were bundled together squeezed tight in my jeans back pocket. I swiftly took it out and smiled at it, “Baby! You know I just spent $650 to bring you back home, right?” and kept staring at it as if expecting a response. But they why would there be one? “Much ado about nothing?” After all even the visa knows that.

Arranged Marriages 101

There’s something about this whole “Arranged Marriage” I haven’t quite figured out yet. Which is why I’m faced with questions like,

“Why every red blooded conscientious TamBram on both sides of the Mississippi seems to be putting it on a heavenly pedestal and proclaiming this to be the “Holiest Union of them all”?"

“Why every time anyone talks about this “aphrodisiac”, some of my bum buddies go ballistic and start parroting his patented statement “Family’s the fulcrum of this whole thing!”?"

I’m not one of those TamBram’s. Which is why I’m still parked here in Los Angeles with other pressing matters in mind. Such as, worrying whether Kobe Bryant and my Lakers are going to repeat as NBA champions in 2010. That people, is called “Putting the P in Perspective”.

To offer a preamble, your “arranged marriages” are probably the longest surviving legalized hooking-up-a-man-and-woman-for-life service in the world. How long? Well, before this, cavemen with several pounds of body and facial hair just growled at women, peed around them or simply whacked their nearest rival in the fray before beginning to hump her on a regular basis. That long!

On today’s episode of “Thirty Minutes To B***h About This And That!”, we have with us RajMohan Reddy and Sulochana, two twentysomethings, who’ve been courting each other for a month without their parents knowledge. To show them what else is out there, we’ve come up with a one stop Q&A about our latest course offering – “Arranged Marriages 101”. Things like what they are, how they’re played yada yada yada.

Whether this will make them rethink, dump each other and go back to their parents to start swearing by horoscopes and palmistry all over OR exasperate them into saying, “Cut this s**t out! Let’s go to Thiruneermalai and get married by ourselves!”? We hope to find out after the show.

(Gowri Kalyanam music starts playing in the background)

Raj: What gets “arranged”?
(Laughs) Oh no! Its not like we’re arranging flowers around the aisle or chairs around tables. Wish it were that simple. What get arranged though are the “bride” and the “groom”. Thanks to two focus groups of families, friends and relatives who don their conservative hats for a few weeks, poring over horoscopes, astrological charts (and whatever else they can lay their hands on!). Working out permutations and combinations, to determine if Mr.X and Ms.Y will “live happily ever after”.

When all’s deemed well, contact details and photos of the boy and the girl are then exchanged. As always, the girl’s bedecked in traditional attire making her seem as if she’s modeling for a Kumaran Silks ad. The only thing missing is the darn lamp in her hand! Thankfully guys aren’t required to sport a dhoti during the photo shoot. Which is why, you’ll find them smiling awkwardly standing at Niagara Falls/Grand Canyon or next to their car.

And just so you know, during this phase (and even beyond), the groom’s parents amplify his credentials sky-high making it look as if he’s a topnotch scientist at NASA or as if he’s the next Senator in the making. While the girl’s parents swear that her daughter’s favorite hangouts are the prayer room and the kitchen.

Compared to these shenanigans, Indo-Pak border talks would seem like a settlement-over-a-cup-of-coffee affair!

Sulo: What are the rules of engagement?
“You mean interaction?” Well, in the perfect world, both families would like the boy and girl to face each other in flesh and blood only on D-Day. But since we’re in the computer age and all, the rules have been relaxed a wee bit. Which means emails and phone calls is no longer taboo.

But in most cases, the two are separated by atleast half a million miles. That right away rules out catching up after work over coffee (or beer) or hitting that new nightclub across town on Fridays. Even if by some happenstance, both are in the same area code, “Family Values” prevent them from being seen together.

(Laughs) I know what you’re thinking! No getting to any bases before nuptials!

Raj & Sulo (irritated): Who lays down these rules anyways? Do you know when they’ll be upgraded?
Definitely not me, Uncle Sam or the Indian Republic. It’s the %^&*ing elder statesmen of the society. Who else! Men (and women) who seem to control everything from politics, foreign policy, selecting the Indian cricket team. Not to mention, the married lives of Gen Y.

Their family values rulebook was last updated in 2003 to include web meetings as possible methods of communication between the boy and the girl. Truth be told, these wisemen had to be extensively convinced that web meetings were entirely harmless. And that the guy talking to his lady love through a chat session, couldn’t pop out of the monitor and start kissing her!

Considering that satellite communication is still under development and time travel is still a fantasy, these rules figure to be written in stone for a long time to come.

Raj & Sulo (earnestly): Do we get to contribute in this marriage process?
Absolutely not. I mean, don’t even harbor a stray thought! The parents’s 500 page playbook articulates every step in this process according to customs and traditions, atleast 100 years old. The game’s “head coaches” lord over every minute detail leaving no room for negotiation. Which means, like it or not, there’s enough clothes and jewelry exchanged, sufficient to swallow the debt of an African country. And almost half the town gets invited to the wedding, even though more than three-fourths of them wouldn’t care a damn if you broke up the next day.

But even if you’re asked your opinion on trivial things like “What sweets would you like on the menu?” or “What color shirts do you prefer?”, don’t be surprised if they’re overturned at the last minute.

“Namma athu vazhakkam athu illa ma”, they’d cheerfully reply back. Whatever the $%^& that means!

Raj & Sulo (sighing deeply): Hopefully all of this is fun, right?
(Raising eyebrows and smirking) Depends on what you’re idea of fun is. Ladies, if you like draping yourself in yards of cloth and wearing half a pound of flowers and jewelry, go for it. Guys, if sitting around a fire pit half naked, your paunch and body hair in full public display gives you the kicks, snatch this opportunity!

Oh wait! There’s more fun to come. After the nuptials, the elders organize “fun” games like “Grab the ring” (bride and groom search for a gold ring in an empty vessel) and “Swing Sashay” (both sway slowly on a decorated swing and pretend to laugh heartily at jokes told by old women).

But hey! You never know. These elders keep proclaiming how “modern” they’re. So maybe in a few years, instead of empty vessels and swings, they might organize a game of touch football between both sides, with the winner taking it all.

Thiruneermalai doesn’t look that bad at all now, does it?

(Loud crashing noise in the background. People screaming and glass breaking…)

(Unfortunately due to technical equipment breakdown and the host getting thrashed, we’ll never know what happened to Rajmohan Reddy and Sulochana. Meanwhile, the host following his talk show fiasco has blissfully switched back to his bachelorhood existence religiously following the ups-and-downs of his basketball team, the Los Angeles Lakers. Did I also mention his only chance of a status change is probably through TamilMatrimony. “Arranged” with the auspices of his dad, of course.)

So much for spewing venom about arranged marriages! Pfft!

Pasi Vandhal Pathum Parandhu Pogum

“Pasi vandhal pathum parandhu pogum”

An excellent maxim, in my mother tongue (Tamil). Loosely translated it means when hunger (pasi) strikes a man pretty much his everything flies out of the window. Pride, morals and whatever else there is. On that fateful chilly night in Arizona, struck by hunger and the overpowering allure of chocolate and cream, a few things dear to my friend S flew out the window. Irrevocably. Most important of ‘em all? My steadfast impression of him as a righteous Gandhi-in-the-making who would rather wither away head held high than eat from a plate that wasn’t formally offered to him. Oh well!

(Cracking up) Don’t ask me why, but seven years later this s**t still sends me into fits whenever I think of it. And the reason I’m airing it out now is I’m fairly certain any one (or his/her friend) who’s flicked a candy bar or chips on the sly would readily agree this is right up their alley. Right?

(Simulating rewinding of movie reels)

December 2002 wasn’t a good time to be me. Between my thesis which was going nowhere and my penniless quandary (no campus job, no interviews) I was comfortably wafting in the “Devil’s Doldrums”, so to speak. After another futile night at the lab I was dragging myself back home with S, whom I guessed probably had a day that he’d like to conveniently forget. Nothing was said between us and I cursed myself for having forgotten the cigarettes at home.

I’m not sure whether it was my down-and-out demeanor or the fact that I hadn’t eaten in a long time, but my stomach suddenly growled viciously and seemed to scream “For the love of God, send something down my way”. Well, how the #$%^ was I supposed to do that? My wallet had been empty for the past week and didn’t figure to get heavy anytime soon. I quietly spied a look at S whose hangdog expression meant only thing “Don’t even bother”. Great!

This is America, which means there are no free lunches. Or for that matter no free Snickers bar from a Circle K at 3.00am. Damn thing stood right in my line of sight refusing to disappear and no amount of achingly looking at it would ever get us anything. That I managed to convince myself of, which made the remaining half a mile trek to my apartment even harder than climbing Mt. Everest without oxygen. I’m not religious and don’t know nothing about no purgatory or bad karma but I sensed if this was His way of sending me a darn message, I had received it loud and clear. “Guess what? Next time I see a homeless man, I’m definitely buying him a cheeseburger!” I swore to myself.

3.15am we finally staggered home, which seemed unusually hot even by my standards. 75 degrees, that’s why! S wasted no time in declaring that he better be fed something before he slit someone’s throat (or something to that effect). There would’ve been a “something” if I had cooked earlier that night since it was supposed to be my cooking turn. Not the first time (and perhaps not the last) had I forgot. Even the empty vessels on the stove seemed to reaffirm that. Gosh! Something caught my eye and I looked closer at the rice cooker and extracted a note. My roommate coming home to an empty kitchen had wondered in choice expletives why I shouldn’t be mutilated into a thousand parts that moment. “Night’s just getting better” I smiled to myself.

Somehow thinking this was still funny, I showed the note to S.

“I can’t believe you missed your cooking turn”, he glowered ready to pounce at me.
“Well… I’m sorry man. I was busy tonight” Busy playing racquetball and TextTwist afterwards!
“Is there anything in your fridge at least?” Anger had now turned into a plea bargain.
“Oh surely there will be something” I reassured him.

I knew they rang hollow even as the words came out of my mouth. Unlike other astute households that keep their shelves stocked with all kinds of knickknacks and snacks ours was always dried to the bone. Maybe we gobbled up everything the moment we came back from the supermarket or our wallets were always light, but I can’t seem to figure out why. “If it ain’t in the fridge forget it” my roommate would say. Yeah, the same one who wished I was dead.

“We’ll see what we’ve got”
I repeated these words as I slowly opened the door dramatizing my every move for added effect. Holy s**t! It’s been almost three weeks since we shopped for groceries!

Top three empty shelves and a freezer that has nothing but an old frozen spinach bag can confirm that in an instant. Thank God, S wasn’t peering down my shoulder. I noticed a couple of Tupperware boxes and gingerly opened those praying their smell wouldn’t be revolting. Wrong! Even S who was standing a good few feet from me got hit, which only made him even madder.

I was almost ready to slam the door in disgust, when a brown large object caught up attention.

“What the #$^ is that?” I loudly asked, even as my heart started beating wildly.

Food! Food! Like a newly minted dad handling his baby I gently prised it out of the bottom tray. Whoever had set it there had done a terrific camouflage job since it was wedged tight between collared greens, a slowly rotting cauliflower and onions. Onions? Even I know they don’t belong in a fridge!

“Hold on man! I think I’ve found something” Did I just sound like a deep sea explorer who had chanced upon centuries worth of treasure or what? No, it wasn’t chapatti dough or brown rice soaked in water. This was Pure Gold. 20 inches of chocolate cake dripping with fudge. 12 hours of cold temperatures had preserved the frosting well and I could see the writing clearly now.

“Congrats Prakash”

Normally we would’ve high-fived and hugged each other and proceeded to devour our windfall. But the writing was too poignant to ignore.

“Congrats Prakash” S repeated it again for effect.
“What the #$%^ is that supposed to mean?” I echoed.

Did he win the lottery? No. Maybe. But then he’d be buying us each a cake.
Did he get a job? Maybe. But then I would’ve got wind of it and self-invited myself over for the treat. So neither.

“Dude! He must’ve passed the Comprehensive Exam.” S blurted out loud enough to wake up mine and the next two apartments.
“Shhhh! Really? Wow! That’s good” I stammered. But something kept gnawing inside me that something wasn’t right.

“Wait a minute” I snapped back. And that’s when it hit me. This was the same exam he intentionally tanked last May so he could glean one more semester in campus. You don’t get congratulated for this. Certainly not with such a beautiful cake. If anything, I thought a simple cupcake would’ve served just fine.

In retrospect, think that’s what set me off over the edge. Or maybe S even more so. Within 10 seconds he had washed his hands, discovered a knife buried under a week old dirty kitchenware, cleaned it twice and was now ready to carve her open. The psycho in Texas Chainsaw Massacre would’ve surely approved of S’s composure.

Wait a minute! Was it really S lining up to gorge a cake that Prakash’s girlfriend had baked for him (and him only)? Holy Christ! I was getting hit tonight from all sides, weren’t I? And here’s where I need to clarify.

For the uninitiated, S was always this prim and proper guy who never cursed or smoked and drank less than a pregnant woman. He minded his P’s and Q’s at all times, which meant he would never ever waltz into someone’s kitchen, stuff his face with whatever he could lay his hands on, coolly top it off with a “Dude! This is good stuff” and slither away as if nothing happened. I thought that was exclusively my territory. Until S gently nudged me and proved otherwise.

“Hey! Aren’t you going to have something?”
“Oh yeah! Definitely” I replied shaking myself out of my stupor. Perceptions be damned, this was now a call of duty.

“Umm… Shouldn’t we at least say thanks?” I gently volunteered.
“For what? Do you want to wake him up?” he curtly shot back not even bothering to look up from his cake. I thought that was his second helping, even bigger than the first one but didn’t say nothing. Fair enough!

I silently went back to polishing off my portion while simultaneously taking a quick look at the cake hoping nothing was damaged. The letters were not. “Prakash” was still intact though he was hanging ever so slightly on a shaky foundation with the fluffy cake underneath and thick icings around the edges all but disappeared. “How many cakes has he decapitated like this?” I wondered glancing at S, who still wasn’t done making love to his cake.

Three more minutes passed in total silence and S stared at me and declared “I’m done”.

“No s**t! Why don’t you clean up now and leave Prakash and his girlfriend a note?”
Of course, I said none of that. A man who’s missed his cooking turn and left at least two people on the brink of starvation that night deserves no voice, you see.

Instead, I shut up and glumly decided this meant I had the “honor” of putting things back in the way they were. I was still licking my fingers acting as if that was the last cake I’d ever eat in my life. Five more minutes, straining every sinew in my body I managed to set the remaining cake back in place under S’s supervision. Was the cauliflower on top or on the side? Who gives a #$%^ now?

Apparently I wasn’t done taking orders yet. S grabbed me aside and whispered,

“Look. You spend the night on my couch. Stay away from Prakash the next few days. And for Heaven’s sake Deny Deny till you Die!”

Maybe even he realized that when confronted I would sing like a canary and would throw him under the bus at the first given chance. Did he know that I was down to two strikes already? Well… For what it’s worth, the first time I ate their muffin. My bad luck it wasn’t a run-of-the-mill blueberry. It had to be a one-of-the-kind Cinnamon raisin-nut raspberry begging to get noticed. Second time, me and bunch of like-minded drunks (my friends, that is) decided their “home cooked Poori Channa” was way better than tacos from a drive-through. Fallout was terrible, since I had a handwritten letter and an email delivered the next day reminding me of social etiquettes et al. I felt so bad that I almost wanted to puke it out…

“Are you with me?” S, the martinet wasn’t done preaching.
“Yessir! I heard you” I managed in an even voice. Whatever had happened in the past, this time I had a comfortable feeling that I wasn’t going to get nabbed. Third time’s always lucky, I reassured myself. Door was finally shut and the dirty little secret was ours for all eternity…

Whew! More than a thousand words of prose and there’s got to be a moral of the story, right? Well… Cake tastes infinitely better when you’re shoving it down your throat with your honor and dignity on the line. How about that?

And with that thought boys and girls I bid adieu. In fact you know what, all this talk about cake has made me suddenly hungry. Again! I think I’m going to grab a donut. Which I paid for with my own money, of course!