Chamique said Really? Okay eM, write something about a Harley Davidson, pink fluffy marshmallows and a drunken brawl.=)
Um... okay. Story time, clearly, since this has never happened to me.
Once upon a time there was a girl called Isha who lived in a tiny flat with a huge balcony with her sister and her sister's husband and their two kids Brat One and Brat Two. Isha lived in one bedroom, her sister and brother-in-law lived in the other and the kids lived all over the house.
Isha had a boyfriend who she didn't know whether she wanted to marry. His name was Vikram. They had been dating on and off for two years. Vikram drove a Harley Davidson, which his dad had had imported especially for his eighteenth birthday all the way from Illinois. Sometimes Isha drove the Harley too, but Vikram told her it was too heavy for her body.
Isha wanted to go away from the small flat and the kids and the noises of her sister having sex. She couldn't afford to live alone just then, and her sister couldn't afford rent without her. The bed went squeak squeak squeak in the night. Isha wanted Vikram to be with her. But Vikram just bought her pink marshamallows from the Noida mall and pretended it was all okay.
The pink marshmallows were fluffy. But Isha felt their sticky sadness around her mouth.
One day Vikram got into a drunken brawl. He was that sort of guy. The type that got into brawls. Isha watched him fighting. She thought of the squeaking beds. She thought of her father and how he used to buy her sharpened pencils. She thought of skipping in the winter sunshine. And she closed her eyes and turned away.
Two at a time, I think. J.A.P writes Rant. Memories. Food (other than Dyna Bites which I did try at MB's and they ARE rather good but it's time to move on).
Harley Davidsons, oh yes very much.
But not sex. No sex, we are good devout Indians and we all came into this world by parthenogenesis.
And oh yes, how about tikas and dhotis? On women, as demonstrated in one of your watering holes recently.
(Also stoopid-ass mile-long verification codes on comments pages)
I'm not really much of a foodie. If you gave me a choice, I was telling a friend the other day, between cigarettes and eating food pills and no smokes and eating three course meals, I'd pick the cigarettes.
That said, I do have my favourites. Biryani from Karims. Nowhere else. Maccer's french fries. Pepperoni pizza with jalapeno and olives. I could live on those.
I used to have this thing where I couldn't eat in front of a boy. Especially not a boy I liked. When Golfer Ex and I were dating, we'd spend whole days together and I would demurely sip a coke and he would eat butter chicken and all. "Are you sure you don't want some?" he'd ask. "No-o-o," I'd answer weakly, all the time feeling my stomach rumble loudly. Then my braces came off and I was free to eat outside my home. Ah liberation.
I love bhutta and Fun Flips. I love the rasam vada at Sagar. I love the Def. Col. momos at the Rara Momo Stand. I love tandoori chicken at Hari Chutney in Saket. I love my mom's curd rice with my grandmom's tamarind pickle. I love my dad's prawn curry with the delectable smelling basmati rice and the sardines fried to a crisp. I love the macaroni I make with olive oil and garlic and dry red chillis. I love bhindi and baingan and vindaloo.
Fuck, now I'm hungry.