Plan K or B?
Excerpts from the diary I found in the middle of nowhere, as if it has literally fallen from the sky.
"Plan A: Do Karwa Chauth.
Plan B: The Mars Bars are always there in the fridge.
See if you really want to ceremonialize some ritual with much righteousness, then do it more recurrently. I am the perfect instance of all the reasons why we shouldn’t be just waking up one day and putting our life in a different box altogether. It’s not the question of pushing it to the limits, because embarrassment awaits at the finishing line. Yes I shall come to it, patience my dear.
First of all I’m anything but a morning person. The pesky alarm went off at 5, much to my agony and here I am, sitting on the bed limply, like the vintage bedposts. This is my only chance to gorge my solitary meal for the day, before the sun comes up. And no wonder it seems to be in a hurry to brighten up the sultry alleys and damp attics of this concrete jungle.
My only fire-exit for the day: Sleep!
As much as I can stretch it , as long as I can prolong it. Nothing else has been this effective in alleviating the pang of hunger, if you don’t count manic depression.
So I finally woke up bypassing the morning, riding on my REM Cycles. Quite literally.
The noon was quite uneventful. Though I did learn abut the different harmonics and octaves of noise that my tummy can make when starved. As if it has grown a mind of its own and noisily revolting against this divine protocol. The Mars Bars were calling me like the veelas. All my strength went behind restraining myself from gobbling up the rich chocolate bars, rather than dealing with this ‘ungodly’ routine!
Finally, evening and my dear husband(who’s been generous enough to fast with me, to give me “company.” Now that’s sweet. ) arrived. The Grand Finale, the Celestial Epilogue.
Stringent steps were followed, panchalis were chanted. Legends were narrated. (Girl does KC for guy. Big-hearted brother homies make a bakhra out of girl by hanging a ‘tin-foil moon’ in the terrace. Girl dumb enough to believe it. Breaks fast. Hapless hubby pops off as an unprecedented outcome. Damn! Now what??!! After a series of unfortunate incidents, not Lemony’s Snickets kind though, girl gets back guy form the dead. Although after reluctantly swapping places with the maid for quite a while.
Moral of the story: Do KC or be ready for the swap!) I’m sure some chauvinist pork has penned this down.
It seems that my alimentary abyss has formed an angry vacuum that’s trying to digest me form the inside. The thought of you getting sucked into your own tummy is not remotely funny….or maybe it is. Who cares!!??...I’m as hungry as hell!
I can see the finish line now. I feel like a triumphant athlete, sans the mind-numbing hunger and the funny grumblings. How was I to know only embarrassment was lurking behind that seamless and velvety ribbon!
The final chapter of the ritual involves seeing your man in the pearly-white luminescence of moonlight. An age-old formula of courtship. The final few metres, the last few leaps. But the moonlight seems a tad dull today! Or is it just me??!!....what the……
The pale and palpitated face of my in-laws focuses into vision. They were trying to fan me, put soaked jal-patti on my forehead, slip some juice through my non-reactive mouth and feed me some of my beloved Mars Bars, all at the same time. And you can call me the smallest person alive, but my sheer stupidity and the resulting mayhem made me burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
And that secured the last, big fat nail into the coffin. My in-laws took it for a fact that the day-long abstinence has catapulted me across my limits of sanity. My ghoulish laughter was a result of the sheer cerebral imbalance that my senses were pushed into! I was the martyr; my legend would be narrated on this pious day henceforth. I made a quick effort to control my giggle and assured them with the sanest tone possible that I was fine and there was nothing to worry about.
After my dramatic performance of passing out on the terrace, my hubby had to put up with me and carry me all the way down passing the amused and sympathetic gaze of the tenants. Few of the concerned ones (or maybe the ones fishing for some more amusement) knocked on our doors and wanted to make sure that I was alive and kicking myself in humiliation.
Moral of the new-age metrosexual KC: When there’s a Plan B, follow it! It’ll save you a few bashful moments."
"Plan A: Do Karwa Chauth.
Plan B: The Mars Bars are always there in the fridge.
See if you really want to ceremonialize some ritual with much righteousness, then do it more recurrently. I am the perfect instance of all the reasons why we shouldn’t be just waking up one day and putting our life in a different box altogether. It’s not the question of pushing it to the limits, because embarrassment awaits at the finishing line. Yes I shall come to it, patience my dear.
First of all I’m anything but a morning person. The pesky alarm went off at 5, much to my agony and here I am, sitting on the bed limply, like the vintage bedposts. This is my only chance to gorge my solitary meal for the day, before the sun comes up. And no wonder it seems to be in a hurry to brighten up the sultry alleys and damp attics of this concrete jungle.
My only fire-exit for the day: Sleep!
As much as I can stretch it , as long as I can prolong it. Nothing else has been this effective in alleviating the pang of hunger, if you don’t count manic depression.
So I finally woke up bypassing the morning, riding on my REM Cycles. Quite literally.
The noon was quite uneventful. Though I did learn abut the different harmonics and octaves of noise that my tummy can make when starved. As if it has grown a mind of its own and noisily revolting against this divine protocol. The Mars Bars were calling me like the veelas. All my strength went behind restraining myself from gobbling up the rich chocolate bars, rather than dealing with this ‘ungodly’ routine!
Finally, evening and my dear husband(who’s been generous enough to fast with me, to give me “company.” Now that’s sweet. ) arrived. The Grand Finale, the Celestial Epilogue.
Stringent steps were followed, panchalis were chanted. Legends were narrated. (Girl does KC for guy. Big-hearted brother homies make a bakhra out of girl by hanging a ‘tin-foil moon’ in the terrace. Girl dumb enough to believe it. Breaks fast. Hapless hubby pops off as an unprecedented outcome. Damn! Now what??!! After a series of unfortunate incidents, not Lemony’s Snickets kind though, girl gets back guy form the dead. Although after reluctantly swapping places with the maid for quite a while.
Moral of the story: Do KC or be ready for the swap!) I’m sure some chauvinist pork has penned this down.
It seems that my alimentary abyss has formed an angry vacuum that’s trying to digest me form the inside. The thought of you getting sucked into your own tummy is not remotely funny….or maybe it is. Who cares!!??...I’m as hungry as hell!
I can see the finish line now. I feel like a triumphant athlete, sans the mind-numbing hunger and the funny grumblings. How was I to know only embarrassment was lurking behind that seamless and velvety ribbon!
The final chapter of the ritual involves seeing your man in the pearly-white luminescence of moonlight. An age-old formula of courtship. The final few metres, the last few leaps. But the moonlight seems a tad dull today! Or is it just me??!!....what the……
The pale and palpitated face of my in-laws focuses into vision. They were trying to fan me, put soaked jal-patti on my forehead, slip some juice through my non-reactive mouth and feed me some of my beloved Mars Bars, all at the same time. And you can call me the smallest person alive, but my sheer stupidity and the resulting mayhem made me burst into an uncontrollable fit of laughter.
And that secured the last, big fat nail into the coffin. My in-laws took it for a fact that the day-long abstinence has catapulted me across my limits of sanity. My ghoulish laughter was a result of the sheer cerebral imbalance that my senses were pushed into! I was the martyr; my legend would be narrated on this pious day henceforth. I made a quick effort to control my giggle and assured them with the sanest tone possible that I was fine and there was nothing to worry about.
After my dramatic performance of passing out on the terrace, my hubby had to put up with me and carry me all the way down passing the amused and sympathetic gaze of the tenants. Few of the concerned ones (or maybe the ones fishing for some more amusement) knocked on our doors and wanted to make sure that I was alive and kicking myself in humiliation.
Moral of the new-age metrosexual KC: When there’s a Plan B, follow it! It’ll save you a few bashful moments."
posted by emeraldpond at 10:07 AM
6 Comments:
[:0]
dude.. ami jaantaam.. i knew it.. nanage gothu.. mujhe maloom tha... it is not a dude... it being one dudette... but who being the KC for?? or should i take a guess.. maybe now :)
well written.. enjoyed reading it... though i must ask what prompted you to write this??
nice post ..very different..fun to read
hehe;;;good one;;;
@prits:
[;)]
@ankit:
dudette: he he...but i'm still way behind my shwinging sensation!
and as for the inspiration: just the sheer humour of the whole incident, and the way it was narrated to me.
no ripples on the pond of late...
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