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!
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!
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