Monthly dread
Little independent globules of fat floating in body, finding each other. Fusing. Bobbing happily towards top-left corner of body.
Flashes of being rushed in horizontal position to George Cloony in green pajamas (or McDreamy in blue). Oh joy. But Red Cross nurse rams metallic shock things into chest (mine), barking panicky orders in mallu-accented Greek to note-taking minions.
White flash.
Suresh Oberoi in white-lab-coat touches my father’s shoulder. Looks down. Takes off rimless spectacles.
So do something about it
A great bright morning. Early. Aunties walk, trying to unhinge their arms from their torsos. Uncles laugh loudly in groups at parks. Girls jog in matching trackpants*, boys lift impressive weights. Ah, the fitness loving world. Beautiful, determined, guilty.
Not today.
We wear our helmets. Breathe in the clean air. Head to Nizamuddin’s little lanes. Crowded even at dawn. A hysterical beggar demands her biscuit breakfast. A muslim family runs en masse towards a shrieking car alarm. (“Damn goats!”)
In the passageway to the dargah are little holes in the wall. Against the still-clearing morning fog, tea brews, paratha sizzles, nihari simmers. Nihari of the thigh meat, and myriad secret masalas. Of the old Delhi Muslim. Nihari, of the fresh, cool morning. With naan, of course.
Oil gliding, only half-touching over the brown broth. A piece of oh-so-tender beef anchors the bunch of ginger slits in the middle of the bowl. A tall glass of sugary tea on the side.
Fat globules are welcome.
*Why do fitness clothes seem like they're only made for already fit people? Wonder if I can ever find a loose pair of trackpants. You think the fitness people know "loose"?
Also please to watch this ambience-full video of The Search for Nihari in Karachi. Courtesy YouTube.
