The Goodly English I is Speaking.

All this controversy about Goan Government’s decision to give grants only to English medium primary schools, and the ongoing fallout has my head spinning.

I could never in a zillion years imagine MY parents supporting me, leave alone joining me, in boycotting classes and demonstrating outside my school, no matter what language I protested for. What a thrashing I would have got had I even broached the subject. Leaves me wondering what namby-pamby parents kids are inheriting nowadays.

But I agree it is important to learn English and maybe Bollywood aspirants from the Tiatr companies need to brush up on their Hindi as well, because, let’s face it, on the World Stage of Opportunity neither Konkani nor Marathi is going to bring home the lolly.

Foreigners who visit Goa for the first time are often shocked to discover that, despite all the progress that has been made in the past 50 years since Liberation, many local citizens still converse in pidgin Portuguese. However Russian tourists who arrive in Goa are thrilled that their cab driver and guides are extremely fluent in Russian, and know exactly how many rubles buy a shot of vodka.

Oh, sure quite a few Goans speak a modicum of Hindi but usually just barely enough to land a job as head-waiter at a beach shack. And there are some who know the English alphabet, which just about allows them to read the labels on alcohol bottles.

This leads to problems for the rest of India and the world, firstly when the domestic tourist needs to obtain important information from them, such as, “Nangae logon ka beach kahaan hain?” (Where is the beach with the naked people) or the international traveler who asks, “Say dude, where can I score some primo weed?”

To their credit some countries such as the USA have made a sincere effort to adopt English as their native language. But even there you have problems.

Travelling around California which is possibly the most linguistically deformed area in the US (maybe because the Latin-Americans there consider marijuana their staple diet) I found that Americans seem to have misplaced the letter “O” and lost their “T’s” altogether.

I mean listen to them when they tell you they like their “cahfee hahd and sweed” and their “bahdled wahder cold” and you’ll know what I mean. When I pointed this out they sounded very apologetic and “sahree” when they told me that quite a few “G’s” too had “gahn missin’.”

So if any of my ardent readers have extra alphabets that you no longer need, and need to free up some closet space, please send them to: Alphabets R Us, Secretary of State for Linguistics, USA.

But the point that I and the Goan government is trying to make here is that the rest of the world seems to be taking its own sweet time to learn English, except for China. So in the interest of combating terrorism and improving customer relations with Pakistan, it’s up to Goans to put the bull to the grindstone and seize the horns of the day and show India how to learn English. If virtual monkeys can do it then why can’t we?

As a nation we are not strong in this area: A recent poll showed that although India has 29 languages and 1600 dialects, 92% of Indians living in India and abroad speak no foreign language at all. The same census showed that 95% also cannot speak English and 59% cannot speak Hindi, 80% cannot name the village they live in, and 76% believe that the Himalayas are covered in vanilla ice cream.

So you can see that education in India is going to be an uphill task here in the sense that Indians, are forever going to be linguistically challenged. C’mon, let’s face it, this is why the Chinese are capable of hosting the Olympic games, whereas we view just getting Mr. Kalmadi into prison a major achievement.

So,let’s stop blaming the education system for the fact that we score lower on IQ tests than the Chinese, the Koreans or the Japanese, and maybe a few other vertebrate life forms on the planet! This is nothing to be ashamed of, Indians! Say it out loud! “We are like this only!” See? Doesn’t that feel good?

And… let’s stop whining, feeling sorry for ourselves and crying in anguish over the fact that the Central Minister in charge of human resources, has a multiple personality disorder with a matching surname that sounds like “Sybil”.

Remember: We still have nuclear weapons. Hee hee!

But to get back to the point of discussion, we should all learn to speak English, and maybe understand the local language of the state where we plan to live and work.

HOW TO LEARN ANOTHER LANGUAGE:

The key to understanding how most people communicate is to know what is meant by an “idiomatic expression” of which some examples are:

ENGLISH: “Watch it buster!” (“Sumbuddy is gonna get hurt!”)

HINDI: “Teri maa ki!” (“Sumbuddy and their mother is gonna get hurt!”) Although some Australian cricketers think this refers to their simian ancestry.

KONKANI: “Aae! Jeeb Sambhaal!” (“Look! Let’s discuss this! And maybe no one will get hurt.”) One of those namby pamby parents maybe?

TAMLISH:

Also when speaking Hindi, always remember, that for some strange reason everyday actions and groceries are “masculine” or “feminine” depending on who is referring to whom. Dogs for example are usually masculine, even if they are not, and wild animals like the elephant are masculine. (This does not mean, by the way, that a dog will not try to hump an elephant’s leg, it probably will.)

If you land up speaking Hindi in Kashmir, at certain points during each sentence you should give the impression that you are about to hawk up a major gob of phlegm.

Ok? Practice speaking English, in front of a mirror or with someone who speaks it fluently until you feel comfortable, then go to a country whose lingua franca is English and try to achieve world peace and international understanding, the way Zail Singh did during his Presidential visit to Britain, when; while the Queen was feeding the Royal swans, he said that he was, “extremely pleased to be admiring her bathaks.”

Battling the Weather Blues.

Blame it on the weather. Four plus months of almost perennial downpour and I swear I think my ears are growing vestigial gills, mould lining my leathers, slippery moss on the sidewalks, and what really irks me is the kid with that really, really bad cold. He’s sniffling and snotting and is one of those brats who will not blow his fool nose. He chooses instead to use his palm to wipe off the extra mucous bits and then wipes it on his shirt and sniffs and snorts and makes that liquidy, annoying sound that makes you want to take a cricket bat and make of his head a snot "dahi-handi". Maybe blowing his nose and emptying his nostrils into a tissue is deemed uncouth in his remote part of the planet Melmac. Whatever the reason, he has one humongous head full of snot.

But I digress. Despite the weather or because of it, there is always something to do. Something that must be done. And then when you're done with that, there is more. And then even more. And then you sit for a minute to rest. GET UP! Get that lazy butt of yours back in gear!
And right there is another problem: forcing yourself to enjoy it. It sounds like a date with Simi Garewal.

And no matter how long you keep your washing on the makeshift line that traverses the bedrooms, living room and the kitchen, the ceiling fans just tend to swirl the dampness around, and after four days the damp odours begins to fester.

I should have learned my lesson from the previous monsoon in the first place and gone and gotten that dryer when it only costed an arm.

Take my advice folks, when you find those patches of fungus forming in your pits, when birds are drowning in midair, and priests are cursing openly in the streets then go down to the store and buy a dryer. Or if you already have a dryer, you can try to get someone to fix it.

Thus far I went with the same pitiful mindset. For instance, I just bought this relaxation CD. A 15-minute deep muscle relaxation audio that supposedly will help me lower my blood cholesterol. So I tried listening to it. And instead of deep muscle relaxation, I got deeply teed-off at myself for not being able to relax, for not effectively using the 15 minutes of relaxation, and letting into my consciousness my grocery shopping list, my stock portfolio teetering on the brink of disaster, and then age old questions like: "Why is there hunger and why can't I get rid of this belly fat?"

Where was that feeling of calm? Where were the dreaming big dreams of snow clad mountains, babbling brooks, and deep sea fishing excursions to the Andaman Islands and being covered in chocolate by Nigella Lawson? Or, er, maybe those were just MY dreams.Where was I? Aah yes the mindset, which begs the question,” Why do we in India with our plentiful sunshine need to buy a dryer of all things?” The answer staring me in the face, as glaring as Obaba Bin Ramdev’s beard has only just registered. As of the last monsoons I did not have one, and was feeling that emotional strain that comes with a water-soaked peeling wrinkly epidermis (epidermii?)

So I went to the store and joined the crowd of people thrusting their credit cards at the saleslady who was being extra surly and slow. Who could blame her? For eight months in sunny weather she stood alone behind the dryer counter while we all sauntered past her with nary a glance. And now we were clustered round her in supplication like candidates hoping to obtain a political party ticket.
ME : Please PLEASE can I buy a dryer?
SALESLADY: Will you also take the extended sales warranty?
ME: Yes of course I’ll take two extended warranties.
SALESLADY:Hmm, I don’t know....
ME: And the dryer with the largest capacity... along with two plugs and this
voltage stabilizer… plus this toothbrush. PLEASE!

So wise consumer that I am, I bought the dryer with the maximum “load capacity” which is the binary value of how heavy a dryer is. I was in luck, to carry it into the house the company “installers” arrived a week later and they moved it into place, thus saving me and my manhood the stress of trying to move it on my own and avoiding the subsequent ignominy of requiring to wear a long term helpful crotch-device.

This dryer comes with a 4-yeat warranty which means that if the device does not work as originally intended anytime during this period, you may return it for a full refund ( ha ha just kidding).

It merely means that you are required to keep the original bills and the packaging they came in along with the sealing tape and provide proof of identity along with proof of address of ownership, together with an affidavit on 20 rupee stamp paper witnessed by at least two upright citizens who know you, that the appliance has been used in accordance with the rules and regulations (which the company has the right to revise from time to time) the company without prejudice to itself and depending on the gravity of the problem will have someone call you during the latter half of 2012 to let you know exactly which month the service person will be able to inspect the appliance.

This particular dryer is one of those new “energy saving” appliances , which means that rather than draw power from the mains , which costs money, it sucks the power out of all the other appliances in the house when it is working. When it boots up you can actually see the fridge shrink and writhe, and hear the pitiful cries of the mixie, which we have used for many years and does not understand what is going on. My niece is concerned that maybe I am overloading the system, but I reassure her using the term “volt- amperage” which I think maybe is a screw broken off from the fuses and short-circuiting the wiring.


If you cannot install a dryer I suggest you iron all your damp clothes before you wear them, or else you will smell like a dead rodent, which will make you use more deodorant; this will then force your body's natural smell-ejectors to reroute the odours to the mouth, where it forms bad breath, which is the Universe’s way of telling you that you should maybe get a dryer.

So, ergo-ipso facto-colombo-oreo, life is too stupidly busy. I end up longing for time to learn the samba or just do some carpentry so that I don't feel quite so much like a stoned hamster careening around in its running wheel.

You ask what would I do if I had nothing I had to do? Well on sunny days I'd lie in my hammock and read books, lots and lots of books, but in the rains I write blog posts with slightly hidden homicidal references.

HOPE I wasn't just dreaming !

I’m declaring this year the Global Year of Hope.

Yes so far it is a year of Hope -- at first in the sense of ``I feel hopeful!'' that Anna Hazare and his anti-corruption tribe would succeed in his battle….. and now with the knowledge that he is probably on his way to winning the war, in the sense of ``I hope this year never ends!''

It’s also a year of Change, especially in Egypt and Libya, where the tired old "dicktaters" of yesteryear finally lost out and the reins of power are now held by a group of fresh, young, idealistic, new-idea outsiders such as 76 year old Mohamed Hussein Tantawi and 59 year old Mahmoud Jabril.

As a result Rakhee Sawant, rejecting``business as usual,'' finally stopped trying to solve her frustrations by getting engaged on television reality shows, and instead started trying to solve them through yoga by offering to wed Baba Ramdev.

To be sure, it is a year that sees plenty of bad news. But in almost every instance, there is offsetting good news:

BAD NEWS: The economy remains critically weak, with rising unemployment, a severely depressed real-estate market, more and more farmer suicides, the total collapse of Indian Test Cricket and the steep increases in food prices.

GOOD NEWS: More people are buying Blackberries than i Phones.

BAD NEWS: The downward spiral of the Sensex continues, resulting in severe depression amongst hundreds of experienced stockbrokers and an apparently permanent deterioration in the quality of their sex lives since they switched to IDEA 3g cellular services.

GOOD NEWS: A lot more people are tweeting.

BAD NEWS: Maureen Chao the American Vice-Consul views Tamilians as dirty and dark.

GOOD NEWS: Commercials advertising fairness creams and underarm deodorants are flooding the television screen.

BAD NEWS: Ominous problems loom abroad as -- among other difficulties -- the move to repatriate black money stashed in Swiss banks went sour, and there doesn’t seem any hope for 1500 Indian students who were admitted to the fake Tri-Valley University, in Pleasanton, California.

GOOD NEWS: They finally brought Israeli drug dealer Yaniv Benain, alias Atala back to Goa and charged him with cheating politicos and cops out of their drug commissions….and Ajmal Kasab is still alive and eating biryani dinners.

In short, it is a year that we will be happy to reminisce about. But before we do, let's swallow our anti-corruption medication and ask ourselves this question.”Should A.R.Rehman compose the Anna Hazare-Ram Lila Maidan-Victory Anthem, or should we call in Lady Gaga?"

From Jantar Mantar, we bring you,the amazing.......

….and on the 5th day of April there was a conflict in New Delhi. And it came to pass that all the Champagne was consumed in the euphoria of winning the Cricket World Cup. And the Congress Mom said unto her Yes Prime Minister, “They have no more grievances.”

But Anna Hazare said unto the multitude,”Hey! I have an oldie, but goodie! What about corruption? And I say unto you, if I fast unto death I will lead you out of the darkness and into the light”

And Anna said unto the gathering,” Build me a stage with a backdrop of the image of the Mahatma imprinted upon it.

And they did so.

And when Anna did lie down on the stage and begin his fast thence did Government sit up and take notice.

And as the crowds gathered, the Government knew not from whence they came. But the Aam Aadmi did. And they applauded loudly in the streets.And the Government became afraid. And they said unto Anna,” How the hell did you do that?” and enquired of him,” Do you do children’s parties?” And Anna said, “No.”

But the Aam Aadmi did press him saying, “Go on! Give us another one!” And he brought forth a carrot and said,”Behold this! For it is the democratic carrot.” And all about him knew that it was so. For it was orange, with a green top.

And he did place a silk handkerchief over the carrot and then removed it, and lo! He held in his hand a white dove.

And all were amazed and said, “This guy is really good. He should turn professional.”

And they brought to him on a stretcher a nation that was dying of corruption. And they cried unto him, “Maestro! This nation is dying of corruption.” And Anna said,” If I had to spend my whole life trying to make a fast buck, I’d probably be dying of corruption too.”

And they were filled with joy, and cried out, “Thy one-liners are as good as thy tricks. Thou art indeed an all-round family entertainer.”

And there came unto him a woman called Kiran Bedi, and others who had seen the Gandhian and believed. And Anna said unto them,”Put on a topi and fast unto death alongside me.”

And three of the satyagrahis fainted and had to be given medication. And there was much wailing and gnashing of teeth. And Anna said, “Oh! Ye! Of little faith!”

And he continued his fast for another day and lo! The Government did relent.

Then the crowds went absolutely bananas. And Anna, Kiran Bedi, Arvind Kejriwal and others took a big bow.

And Anna said unto them,” From now on you shall be known as the First Citizens of the Uncorrupted Kind or F.C.U.K. for that is a good name for a bunch of assistants.”

And the people said, “We’ve never seen anything like this. THIS is great! You must be the Mahatma!”

But the Gandhian said, “No. I am He who comes after.”

And they were so amazed and said,” Then Master how shall we know a true leader?”

And Anna said, “By his name shall you know him. And he may be called Narendra Modi and Nitish Kumar may he also be called.”

“Narendra Modi?” they cried. And Anna said, “Yes, or something like that.” …….Inquilab Zindabaad !.

.....AND NOW FOR SOME COMIC RELIEF.

Big-time national politics is all about its Weirdness Quotient. High-level political races should be between identical slim men and women in identical slim suits and saris. Rational, cool men and women, who know the voting market, who never say the wrong thing, who look good on TV…and above all are incorruptible. Candidates who don't fit this mould -- the blatant hacks, the geeks, the loons, the scamsters, the criminals, the people with bad teeth – should be filtered out at the Panchayat level.

The whole point of Indian politicians speaking is watching them makes asses of themselves. They are all weird. Just like the ones who, on the national level, have picked up the torch dropped, with a typical clumsiness, by Morarji Desai and V.P.(weepy) Singh? The fat candidates. The ugly candidates.The stupid candidates.The candidates who go to formal dinners and pass out in the Mutton Vindaloo. Who set fire to themselves with beedis. The candidates, who, the only time they speak the truth is when they call another politician a liar.

If we are to keep the tradition of participatory democracy going in this country, if we are to revive voter interest, we need less of these weird people running for high office, and more of the rational variety and we need them right now.

And so I say: Heaven help Goa, whose very license plates should read, "GOA: WAKA WAKA LOCA." Because in a state like this, a state whose naturally humid climate has permitted a tremendous diversity of human and canine life to flourish and mutate, we should not be surprised to find that this year, we are being treated to an electoral race between politicians who are clearly not Standard Issue. I've spent some time watching all of them, and I can honestly state that regardless of which one is elected, we will all, as voters, have reason to be vastly amused. For example : Here's a full report on the Panaji CCP elections.

***

We are in Manu.P’s rental campaign SUV, which is stout and bouncy, not unlike Manu himself, and we are going to someplace called "Taleigao." Rumor has it that there is agriculture in Taleigao. Manu is going there to show his concern for it.

In the SUV with Manu P. is the press, including a couple of political reporters from Big Bazaar; out-of- state newspapers that are very interested in this race because

(a) it is considered crucial to the opposition’s hopes of coming to power at the centre and

(b) it is nice and warm in Goa.

The press is not crazy about landing in Taleigao. The press frankly does not care about agriculture except insofar as it is a constituent of feni and results in lunch. The press would rather hear Manu P. talk about his opponent, incumbent Anas M.,( no, the part of the anatomy you refer to is spelt with an “u”, although you might not be too far wrong in your presumptions) and his hot new campaign issue,i.e. BLOCKING ALL THE WATER THAT "FLEW" UNDER THE MANDOVI BRIDGES.

This is an issue that materialized out of the air, literally, in the form of an electoral advertisement suggesting that Manu P. is willing to let the waters overrun and drown Panaji and the state. Manu P. who has long portrayed himself as a friend of nature, the Bondla Reserve, bunny rabbits,Tito’s etc., fought back with a counter-advertisement -- featuring a photograph of Anas M. that makes him look like he lost the Room Freshener Pageant because the police thought he was too vacuous -- in which prominent doctors and ecology nuts say that they favor the drowning and they like Manu P. and think Anas’ ad is basically doggy doo.

But in a way, Manu P. has lost the round, because he had to spend money to make additional ads responding to an issue Anas M. raised in HIS advertisement.

The whole thing sort of reminds you of Coke vs. Pepsi, only with less substance.

Carnival Catastrophies and Other Venalities

Tuesday Night’s Red and Black hobgoblins from the Clube Nacional Revelry are doing the devil’s dance inside my head……my eyes blur open, my tongue is stuck to the carpet, and I can’t feel my toes. Oh! Ok those aren’t my toes! God is punishing me for having fun.

Since the dawn of Som Ras , first the Gods and then man has been plagued by hangovers. Having pondered the problem of my alcoholic stupor for the last four hours I have finally discovered the solution.

The best and most obvious way to avoid a hangover is not to drink at all, but I think we can all agree that that is not an option so let’s move on.

It’s Ash Wednesday and the Lenten Season is upon us and in order to cure your hangover and repent you must therefore attend church services as quickly as possible. So tear your tongue off the floor, and weave your way to your pew. During the service, pray for hydration. When the collection plate is passed, remove ten rupees and use it to buy aspirin.

On the way stop at a vegetable vendor and buy a bunch of lettuce leaves. Do not eat the lettuce, as they contain dangerous quantities of butt-blasting fibre. Instead arrange the leaves on your head. Laughter, they say, is the best medicine. Try to laugh at yourself. Look at you in your salad hat in the mirror. You look hilarious.

Now make yourself a cocktail. Contrary to popular belief drinking alcohol is not counter productive. That’s why you’re there nursing a headache while I sit poised on the brink of discovering the great hangover cure. A Feni Colada is your best option, as cashew nuts contain healing fats and high levels of salts that will replenish your electrolytes. Electrolytes are essential for good health and are not unlike clean underwear in that you can never have too many.

Time now to exercise. Exercise, particularly jogging, generates powerful endorphins, diminishes nausea and weakness and replaces them with higher-qualities of weakness and nausea. While you are jogging think about all the reasons you got so tanked last night. Your life’s pretty sad, isn’t it? Yes. Run faster now.

Now that you’ve worked out you will have developed the emotional clarity to quit your job, divorce your spouse, adopt a pet python and have meaningless sex with a midget. This set of tasks sounds daunting, but keep in mind that it’s difficult to stay hungover when you’re busy applying for a job as a janitor and training a python to uncoil from around your windpipe.

Finally, it’s time for another drink. This should relieve you of your hangover forever, and leave you with a calming sense of dipsomania and melancholia. If you wake up in the morning with another hangover, don’t sweat it. I’ve discovered a cure and will be happy to reveal it to you in due course. Until then take two aspirin you bought with the money you stole from church, and call your physician in the morning. Cheers.

Meanderings

I feel like writing something. I'm not sure what yet. I assumed that as soon as I began to type, it would come to me, but it hasn't yet and now I am just browsing through facebook and stalling for time.

While I am waiting for my mind to catch up with my fingers, I'll tell you about the difference between roads in Mumbai and Goa.

The roads in Mumbai are much the same as most others in the Metros. Especially in the city. Curbs. Asphalt.Polluted.Noisy.Traffic signals with wall-to wall beggars, hawkers or hijras. Sometimes a random street that is poured concrete or one that is all paving blocks. Pedestrian sidewalks where pet animals have left their steaming piles in the early morning smog. Most ordinary.

The special roads in Mumbai are the ones that lead out of town. The ones that lead back into Goa. They are both fun to speed on and oh! the drive.......

In the winter you roll your windows down. If you have one; you can pop the sun roof. If you are Rahul Gandhi, you take the top off your Gypsy.If you are Salman Khan you take off your shirt and flex your man-boobs. And if you are Jaideep Deoshtale you ride your motorcycle.

Take the NH4 to Pune, turn onto Nipani, Amboli and then take a road with a tilted road sign or no road sign at all. It will more than likely immediately start to go up or go down. There is likely to be a field and then a thick wooded area. Watch for the arrows that tell you to prepare for a turn. Most of them are bent in half.

The smell of foliage permeates the car. You cannot help but stick your arm out the window and hold the door with the flat of your palm. The ones with no regrets stand up through the sun roof and make like Leo and Kate in that “Titanic” scene.


Passing Amboli at sunset-if you time it just right, you'll pass a field full of fireflies as they begin to flicker. When your car drops down into where the road goes down into a small valley, you can feel the temperature drop. And the cold is chased away as the road climbs back up again where the heat of the road fights off the chill.

Once you pass Sawantwadi, there is curve after curve that will take you on to bridges that they say can only take one car at a time. Sometimes the signs that tell you to slow down are mere suggestions. Other times those sign have been run over by people who don't take suggestions well. Just be careful. Of course, there is nothing like the feeling of making it though a curve that you thought for a split second you weren't.

When you see another car, honk – it’s considered good manners.

You've probably had your music system on. Turn it off. Take in the sound of the wind. Of the trees passing you by as you pass by them. The hills and twists are short lived as you can't drive too far without bumping back into the NH17 and thence to Goa.

Go ahead and take a lap through Mapusa. And another through the billboard fields of Guirim. Drive past where The Royal Circus tents were pitched during Christmas and New Year. Loop back around and head out to Porvorim and O’Coqueiro –the restaurant where the infamous Charles Sobhraj sat; and once sitting was nabbed. And then cut right onto CHOGM road and drive past Nelsons’ Picnic Restaurant and down into Green Valley and finally home.

Summer is almost here and the Cashew trees are flowering, and those pesky crows up high in their nest are crapping all over the gate.

Aah! Peaceful night, broken only by the chorus of stray dogs yapping and howling at the moon… a Goan Nocturnal Rhapsody.

Sugar Runs My Life

It’s the beginning of a new decade. With all the festivals and weddings that cropped up since I last posted here I have lost count of how many times I've lost the battle with sugar.It's too humiliating.

Poor poor widdle Kenny, he’s having a rough time walking the hills and dales of Porvorim without falling down and shredding his face on the shards of Ice Cream and Chocolate, not to mention wedding cake (the downfall of millions of bachelors worldwide). Sugar is not tobacco, weed, booze, drugs, women, etc. etc. It's me against sweets. What a complete sucker I am.

As you may have gathered, I'm a bit nauseated at my own inability to just do what's healthy for my body. But no! It's tiatr. Save me! I'm on the edge of a cliff, about to jump to my hyperglycaemic death into Creamy Chocolate Fondue Falls.Temptation! The Devil's own work! Argh!
One of my most asinine sugar-high low points of the past few weeks: Death by Chocolate. Me and DC. Never heard of it? It's next to the Fruit Salad on the menu at Dandey’s Grill. Made of chocolate, cream, honey and chocolate flakes, blended together to make this smooth, creamy, sinister, decadent, spreadable, spoonable best treat in the universe. I had two servings. A serving has about 8 teaspoons. I ate each serving in 60 seconds flat. I ordered another. I ate half of it. I saw the error of my ways in the disgusted looks of the others at the table. I knew I couldn't just abandon the other half-portion to the wastebasket or the trash bin outside because I would toss my pride to the monsoon winds and crawl in like a bandicoot and get it out and start up again. So I had it packed and took it home and stored it in the fridge only to slink back at 3 in the morning and lick the bowl clean. What I should have done was poured some hot chilli sauce over it like I had to slay it. Like it was one of those alien snake-creatures; you cut one head off and it just grows another.

There are people in the world with serious problems. My sister-in-laws mother died 2 weeks ago and she asked for a prayer to be said for her at church. A childhood friend has been declared terminal with cancer and one does not know what to say when going to visit. A tourist from Bhopal was beaten up by locals at Baga when he tried to do the usual. yes you guessed it ....molest a Russian woman.Yeah. Imagine that.

So there is no reason at all to whine and whimper and freak out over the fact that I need to stop eating sugary, poison, things that are going to make me sick. And there is no reason to make a big deal of it. Right?

But here's the thing. Take my comforting little habit away from me and there's nothing left between me and, well…. me. If I can't flip my jaw open like a corrupt CWG officials’ wallet and ram a half kilo of sweet stuff down my anxious throat, I will end up in a straitjacket so I have to keep on doing what I’m doing, live the decadent life I’m living, and just deal with it. By the way, if I get any more clichéd in the next 30 seconds, please, someone push the big eject button that will jettison me into the Milky Way. Oh man!. Milky Way !

OK, forget that. I'll sum it up. Ready?

I'm tired of struggling. Fighting the same boring, frustrating, mind numbingly repetitive repetitive repetitive sugar battle, all the time. Give me something new and interesting to fight. Not life-threatening. But maybe a fear of face-booking. Or an obsession with biting my cuticles. Or make me long to trek to the Himalayas in only my underwear.

Give me something. But first let me taste that chocolate strawberry croissant next to the lemon-meringue pie.