Khichdi of Terrorism.

Come to think of it, terrorism is the most miserable profession in the world. It literally has a dead end. I cannot believe that the God I believe in, is actually the same one terrorists claim their allegiance to or at least to a similar one. How is it possible that this God is not upset at some mortals trying to sabotage his creation? Just for a moment if I could place myself in God's position, I would be extremely upset at the gall of these creatures impinging on the right to life of the human race. Not only this but being hell bent as well on killing people while hoping for a quick entry into heaven! (I am disregarding atheists here because they'll have to come up with better reasons for terrorism-in-the-name-of-God concept). 

By these standards, how dare a few men and women take upon themselves to maim, destroy, and kill  the rest of us. I'd like to see proof of this dictum. The one being claimed by terrorists doesn't hold water. The instructions also happen to be in a strange language which I doubt any of the terrorists are able to read or understand. If the proof is in the pudding, then there is no pudding. In fact this is a case of terrorism being akin to a bowl of Khichdi. In short terrorists ने खुदा की खिचड़ी बना कर रख दी है! (Terrorists have reduced God to Khichdi). Somehow the garbled reasons for terrorism run very close to the Khichdi concept. It then becomes pertinent to state that if terrorists like Khichdi so much, who better to approach about this than the Indians themselves who seem to have perfected this cuisine to a perfect art.

Coming back to the Khichdi bit, whether ill or not, Khichdi is the remedy for all ailments. Have a stomach upset, have Khichdi; caught the flu, eat some Khichdi; feeling blue, make yourself some Khichdi; run out of ideas, whip up a bowl of Khichdi. Maybe God can be found in Khichdi itself. If cooked well, Khichdi can be quite delicious specially when accompanied with yogurt and chatni.  I would say God damn the terrorists but what if the terrorists also call on God at about the same time. That again would be a khichdi of sorts,  don't you think? I am so enamored by this food that I cannot but help recommend a full 4 to 10 years of rigorous study in Khichdi leading to the degree of MoK 'Masters of Khichdi'. This can be achieved from the comfort of their homes or caves or jails or wherever they are or from  universities, some surreptitiously housed in Indian Jails.

Khichdi Expertise will be the newest profession for misguided-terrorist-minded youth. Enroll them in the School of Khichdi and soon the world will have raging bands of bright young Khichdi graduates. Closely following the Khichdi course is a very similar discipline of Bharta, which is highly popular with all the Thanedars who run the show in the dreaded jails in India. Maybe aspiring terrorists can head there. After all, Indian cops are extremely proficient at teaching the minute similarities and differences between Bharta and Khichdi. They may add the 'murga' bit in the initial years of study just to warm up the session of various culinary disciplines. I think this would be a wonderful opportunity for terrorists to emerge from their confusion and venture instead into a world of talent and art.

Notes: Khichdi is an Indian dish cooked and cooked with rice and lentils; Bharta is roasted and mashed egg plant; Thanedar is a constable or police officer; Murga is chicken, and also a popular punishment stance in Indian public schools and jails; chatni is a dip of coriander, green chillies etc.

Ms Harley Davidson, my Husband's first Love.

For many days now I've been hearing this low growl. As I am not particularly a dog lover or even a cat lover, I don't think it's an animal caught in the boards. Perhaps it's the kids just being boys and maybe that sound is mere complaining or maybe just joy - I cannot tell. I finally decide to take matters in my hand, find this damn noise and be done with it. This has been the nth time of my sleep-in-Saturdays being rudely disturbed. I decide to roar downstairs to investigate the sound from the basement where my husband aka Bapi does his browsing and works out. There he also drools over various Ms Harleys. I find him sitting in front of the computer watching clips of Harley Davidson on a loop. I cannot believe it - Bapi is watching one particular Ms Harley start up, rumble, die down, and then like the obsessive compulsive disordered being, do this repeatedly. Argh, it's that sight of Ms Harley that gives meaning to Bapi's existence; it's that sweet rumble; it's that thing that throbs between the legs; it's what Bapi lives and dies for; for all I care it's that big black buffalo that permeates the air.

What is with men and these glorious roaring machines? My husband's current love luckily sleeps in the garage. I've put my foot down, the garage or nothing. If Bapi had his way, Ms Harley would be sleeping with us every day. Pre-marital counseling nowhere in the universe includes husbands' first love - Ms Harley eternal, past-present-future. Woe is me who thinks this was going to be a passing fancy. Heaven forbid that I even remotely considered that this affair would fizzle out with time. Time has only added to the menace. It has in fact grown larger and bigger! After all this affair is unique unlike others which often result in divorce, death, or destruction. Harley love is directly proportionate to size. The bigger the beautiful; the blacker the better. On the other hand, the more I hover around Ms Harley Davidson, the better I too feel for me and my size. Not to be undone by such blatant affirmations of love, I too have found a way to get around this conundrum; love the lover better than the love. 

I thought the first Harley, a mere 1200 cc and weighing a 1000 pounds would suffice. Then way deep into our marriage, having survived the 7 year itch, the Harley mania began to surface again. For the past month, the madness has been in full bloom. Ghosts of Ms Harley are being seen and heard around the house; finances are being re-calculated; trade-ins are being discussed; the sounds of Harley growls are being turned into the morning raga as well as the evening ones. That rumble that I mentioned in the first paragraph, well that is our household's newest mantra sound. It is the Fat Boy Low that Bapi is pining for. Bapi now wants the 5000 pound bike, the kinds that would require a truck to haul them up, if they fell. This is what Bapi wants. This is what is going to make him the complete man that he's always dreamed of being. When he gets his Fat Boy Low, oh boy would he feel the veritable HOG. He would finally hold his head high among those insufferable Harley riders who till now have been sneering at him; sniggering at the sight of him riding one of those Sportsters, the kinds that women ride. This mistress I feel is not going away; if Harley is the sweet Sauten, it can stay ...

Saute' the Sauten.

I get a kick
out of sautens
they work so hard
untangling knots
knots
hardly interesting
as other matters
pending

do justice however
to monitoring pressure
inflating one
deflating another

keep things cooking
simmering at best
spicing it
with a battle at rest

don't care
for the cadence
of pretty
fade-ins
it's the intent
of the maiden
that will
saute' the sauten ...