Curd Rice Or Pizza? The Last Meal Conundrum

I woke up in a cold sweat this morning. It was 48 hours before execution day and the warden walked into my high-security prison cell. “What will it be, then?” he inquired. I was supposed to have made up my mind. But, deciding what I wanted my Last Meal to be was proving to be a tough, tough task.
I was favouring curd rice, potato fry and mango pickle till the night before. But, the wild spices of Mangalorean ghee roast chicken had voodoo needled their way into my system, pricking away all manner of lactose from my memory. And, yet, when the scary warden stood before me, all I could think of was sinking my fingers into a massive hunk of dark chocolate cake. Err. Err. Tick, tick, tick. “…your time is up.” I had a sinking feeling in my stomach when I woke up, mid-way through the harrowing dream. Did I get my final meal? Or had I sacrificed it to the whims of my indecisiveness?
I confided in a friend who had the misfortune of having called me. I told him everything, right from how I was given a day to decide, to how I had acted like a gold fish when it was time to utter my final cibo syllables. “Oh, cool, so, what’d you go to prison for?” he asked with all the sensitivity of a saw dust heap. Men. Pfft!
 I hung up and retreated into the culinary chambers of my own imagination. Just in case I had the dream again. I wanted to whet all my options and come to the best conclusion.
Straight off, I decided against the curd rice-potato fry-mango pickle combination because it was home, and I’d remember the taste of home even up in heaven (haha, I wish). The Mangalorean ghee roast chicken… well, the fiery red hue of chillies and aroma cocktail would linger on my fingertips for ages. And, this might make me homesick, as I tried to teach Mathematics (my idea of personal hell) to noisy school children in the nether world. Chocolate cake. Sigh. How I’d love to. But, I wouldn’t want my family to go through the shame of having my extreme chocolate addiction going public.
How about a rich, coconut-y green Thai curry? Sure- except, the coconuts of my native place in Kerala would weep toddy buckets at my traitorous ways. Hmm, I could make the government pay through its nose for a platter of fresh sashimi. Or not. I don’t want to risk ending up a fish in my next life. I don’t trust karma.
 Pizza!! It’d go viral. “Indian criminal’s last meal is American!” would proclaim all the dubious-yet-addictive websites of the West. It would be heralded as the death of Indian tradition and culture. Italy would be mighty angry too. Global mayhemmmm. In your face, government, for killing me!
I’d certainly put a good mutton biryani on my list. Also, chicken 65. Bacon and cheese. Coorg pork? Yes, please!  Ghee dosa and fifty little bowls of piping hot sambar. Check. Gotta have a good pasta. Dal rice and tomato pachadi… only if made by my aunt. Hot coconut payasam… only if stolen from a Syrian catholic wedding hall.
When I called my insensitive friend, to discuss my list, he was far from supportive. In fact, he went so far as to insinuate that I had gone to prison, in the first place, for a food-related offense. “You must have walked into a food store, seen the last pack of your favourite green American Lays and killed a woman who happened to reach for it before you,” he said, paying no heed to my fragile emotional state. (I had, after all, just escaped the execution chair and lived to tell the tale. Insensitive cow.)
So, to make myself feel better, I turned to my good friend- Mr Emotional Binge Eating, who also goes by the name Mr Giant Ice Cream Tub.  And yes, in life as I would be in death, I was at peace! 

Memories in fabric

The fabric of his imagination

Comes alive, in a light rush of light blue and indigo cotton

Threaded together by its soft touch

Bearing still the memory of her careless caresses

And Arden, who co-habits with the dying spice of her tresses

He wraps this inebriating cloth around his neck sometimes

To feel her fingers tracing his being, chin to clavicle

Coiling with it, into a place of ceaseless wonderment

Flashes of laughter, innocence and worship

Whip past his face, as he spins around the room

Flushes- carnal and karmic- make his visage bloom

Even as a lone salty, crystal ornament glitters down

With all the purpose of a slow waltz…

… his legs are affected by it too

One step to the back, one forward

One reaching for castles in the air

A tinkle touch lands softly on his feet, as on cue

And, once again, he is dancing with his lady of honeydew

But only until the dotted stole comes undone

Extricating man from memory

Extinguishing happiness from his armory

A cotton circle unto eternity

Out of the mouth of a 'babe'...

‘Hey babe, sorry babe.’ Instantly, I was overwhelmed by a burning desire to rip the bonnet off my car and smack the criminal’s head with it. I was almost run over by this particular roadside Romeo, who was riding his bike like the street belonged to his ancestors. Still, I would’ve let it pass because I was in a hurry. But then he went and ruined it all by referring to me as ‘babe’. Twice. Naturally, I felt compelled to bestow upon him the most riotously potent version of ‘sod off’. Tomorrow will be better, I semi-growled to myself as I walked away from the scene of crime. This was yesterday.
‘Thanks babe.’ This greeted me earlier today. And it roused again the many-headed monster that was already seething from last evening’s attack. This time, all I’d done was convey my warm wishes to a male friend, it being his birthday et al. And ‘thanks babe’ was how he recognised my gesture. It was absolutely uncalled for and I was, understandably, b-stung. After all, I am not this nincompoop’s girlfriend. I am not his blonde secretary. I am not Cher. Or Sonny. I am not a cute, talking pig. And I don’t have the IQ of a sponge. So, I sent the only appropriate reply. ‘K’.
It is bad enough that some of my female friends refer to each other (and me) as ‘babe’. ‘Me n ma babes’ is a standard group photo caption these days. Might as well proclaim to the world that we're a bunch of brainless dingbats whose hobbies include ‘gtng manicures’. Still, I swallow my annoyance and put it down to severely deficient vocabularies. But, when a man utters the monstrosity, I want to freeze him and catapult him to another galaxy in which everyone’s name is Babe. In that distant land may he spew the word until he’s gotten it out of his system. There’s one thing worse than a man who calls me babe… a man who is a stranger who calls be babe.
There is just something so inherently off-putting about the word; in my case, even when it is said in context. (Context being if indeed I were an infant, an innocent simpleton or the utterer’s romantic partner.) It is sexist. It is condescending. It sounds like a blob of phlegm. The only environment that is conducive to the usage of the term is if one wants to describe a good looking woman and decides to say, ‘She’s such a babe!’ Cool, that’s acceptable.
When I discussed this with a male pal, the ignoramus simply shrugged and said he thought ‘babe’ was the equivalent of ‘dude’. A female acquaintance said the word was just a substitute for the word ‘dear’. (Oh dear, that’s another word I despise when used loosely and out of context.) She calls her husband ‘babe’ even in front of others, especially in front of others. As though the word is an infallible indicator of relationship strength. My heart goes out to the poor emasculated being. Yet another young woman said she in fact liked being called babe because it brought in familiarity to the equation. Like guys call each other ‘mate’, we girls must call each ‘babe’, insisted she. ‘Kinship will come off,’ she added eloquently. K.
And, then there are my closest friends who think I am far too reactive for my own good. Well, I seem to have company this time, ladies. #dontcallmebabe was trending on Twitter sometime back. Besides, according to a survey, ‘babe’ has been voted the most hated pet name for women. ‘But what if your future partner likes to call you babe?’ one of them demanded. I will call him Princess Consuela Banana Hammock till he gets over it.
Think I am being irrational? Yes? Okay, talk to the hand, BABE.

Leather bound, dust found

My longing for you swam in a secret place, hidden from light- incorruptible and criminal at the same time. I will never wake it from its lust-drugged slumber, I had decided.

But now, we’re both at a party and there’s a chance for a little dance. A spin with a dangerous romance. You tie my hands up in strips of coarse crocodile skin and steer me around- the willing puppy-t. My feet, you bind to your own with shoelaces of plaited leather. We dance. It’s dreamlike. An enchanted dust is manufactured right there on the dance floor, the particles swirling slowly, percolating body heat and the thickness of wanting. The ashes of combustion they are. Combustion of a combined desire. The dust is amorphous but threatens to crystallise unto eternity if not handled with calculated wantonness. That’s why you used leather, you whisper; so that neither of us strays from intention. You tug, I turn. You pull, we embrace. The shimmery gun-powder shrouds us, absorbs every worry, falls to the floor as photons of dull grey. The effort has turned our bodies scarlet. The perfect hue to be overcome by, given our state of satiation.

Let’s jive and grind till we grow tired. Till we’ve burned off the carnal calories that have been getting in the way of every normal function. Let’s hold each other tight and spin till we’re lean and wet with exhaustion. Till we stop producing that intoxicating dust of ours. No more magic powder to snort. Why would we stick around beyond that? With spent bodies and rent souls, we must say au revoir. And face up to the inevitable withdrawal symptoms that present themselves as cruel reality. I will have secretly stored away some of our private dust. To ease my way back into grey, the unwelcome successor of red.