“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!
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!
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