A sunday

I am not chronicling a dramatic outburst of an ordinary citizen like they did in the movie - A wednesday. But my story of this sunday is by no means less consequential and in fact, is one that any bored and forced bachelor would go through.

It was about 5 pm and the crowd-delivered loads of semi drying faecal matter would decide to emit organic fragrance across our apartment complex and by the time I tuned my nose to sense the early wave it was already late. I quickly shut down the windows (IT Folks: Windows also means a non-software contraption that you find in your homes, if you relate to surroundings anymore) and was debating (alone) if I need to cook or eat out. It was easy to leave the house to suffer alone in the stench, while I could taste food in a better environ.

Driving several kilometers to find a nice restaturant is environmentally insensitive decision and also considering the racial slurs that waiters throw on single visitors that try to occupy four-chaired dining tables, I decided that a snack in a kay-yendhi bahvan (street food) would be better.

After a few not-so parlimentary opinions openly voiced about dys-functional apartment secaratary and his approach of idiocity as apartment governance policy, I drove to the nearby market, half-salivating for the corn-filled soup. Alas, it was not be. The guy wasn't there.So I had to settle for Anandha bhavan.

After elbowing my way to the counter which is manned by a stare emitting male species, I quickly muttered "Our bonda, Oru sev puri" before that species turned its head down without acknowledging my plea. Before I could fathom the insult, it handed over 3 pieces of papers which had started to float in the air before I could collect them.

Elbowing my way again to another counter where they mix 4 drops of sweat every 2 minutes with pre-made chaat and other snacks, I again pleaded for attention. It was quiet a satisfaction having completed my endeavor to not just handover the sev puri bill but also to stake my preference to not have sweet in it (sweat is not optional). One sweaty bihari male ordered me to get out (apparently it meant that bonda shall be collected outside).

Negotiating my way across rice eating over-sized middle aged tamil men and their equally blessed accompaniments, I presented myself to the bonda counter. They were frying both bonda and flies (the latter using Pest-o-Flash and they generally try not to serve it). I did prevail when the bonda fri..err reluctantly agreed to give me one more serving of chutney.

After a balancing act of two plates in two hands, I roamed around the tables several times (after facing hostile single women who felt that my presence across the table will mysteriously make them pregnant) and finally found a table with just one fellow battered male bachelor.

At this point, the taste of the snacks dint matter. I just had to finish them before another high-carb laden machine could crush me under her weight.

Organic faecal stink is no better alternative but isnt emotionally abusive after all!