I'm trying very hard for my interest to remain piqued, through the year now since I decided to write and make my dirty linen shit public. This is a big deal, especially for someone who doesn't shit at all. If you had trouble understanding the aforementioned, then I would like to you to know, I don't shit outside my house. Even when I am stuffed out of my mind.

Here's where real confession begins- I have just finished eating four whole helpings of rajma chawal and I cannot breathe. I cannot sit. I cannot lie. I cannot sleep. I definitely cannot think of anything but pooping. However, the only troubling thought in my head is will it happen now or tomorrow morning. Or maybe tomorrow afternoon, when I'm at work. And, since I don't really shit outside of my house; when there are people waiting outside the cubicles, washrooms, other people's house, hotel rooms, I am now panicking. You get the drift?

(At both my previous workplaces, I'd crapped and felt awful about showing up to work the next day. That's probably the reason I quit those places early on. One of the biggest reasons I am surviving the job that I am, my place is a flat 5-minute walking distance from the market that hosts the office where I work. At 5 pm, every day, I get uptight and uncomfortable. That's the indication of me wanting to poop.)

Very out there- you must know thing about me- I need to poop in my own fucking pot. As I turn old, I understand what being 'constipated' really means; when used as an adjective for the other person is an excellent insult. I digress, but I arrived at understanding it now that I am probably constipated at work. Consequently, this scatological problem has housed my other issues in life.  I find it hard to travel with people, except with an odd one or two individuals (shoutout to Arun and Sinner if you're reading this). To be able to share a space like a hotel room and crap and come out and behave as though nothing happened requires a certain kind of maturity which I unfortunately lack.

Where was I? Right, four helpings of rajma chawal.

I'm physically dead. I'm playing dead. As would you, if your body was starving and suddenly comes in contact with rajma. Delightfully cooked in tomato-ginger-garlic curry base, rajma is love. You know how people use the heart emoji to describe love? I raise a petition, right here (lazily so), to make rajma a replacement to the traditional emoji.

Rajma has miraculous powers to cure heartbreak, anxiety, headache, anger, self-loathing. It's kinda like shrooms, but very passive. You consume a plateful and wait until the next time, only for you get your hands on it again. It has the potential to replace biryani's position (and memes) on the social media, but the left leaning purists will call this a right wing ploy to make sure that doesn't happen. If you think I'm referencing politics too much, you can go suck dead monkey balls. Everything in life is politicized, whether you explicitly say it or not. Rajma, is oh so right wing. It gives you the pleasure that a kilo of pork sausages would. Only, a tad bit healthier than sausages. Which would also mean, if one is killing a pig or two for the sausages, there's no death really involved in procuring rajma. That makes rajma holier than thou. How can something taste so good without anyone's blood attached to it? Unless ofcourse, you're attempting to take some from mine. In which case, then, there will really be a fucking battle the size of Plassey. Go read history and come back.

The last time I felt so strongly about a plate of rajma chawal was when I was out on a date. This dude mentioned how he cannot stand rajma whatsoever. We were in his car at the time, where mentally I made a note about not taking him seriously. I knew he wasn't the one. I remember bringing it up a hundred times to him, in the brief course of the period we dated, and he rebuked me each time. I also remember having awful time dealing with the dude. I eventually called his bullshit things off keeping rajma and companionship as an important marker in my life.

So you wonder, why is it that I'm writing about rajma chawal and internalizing the experience of eating four servings of that for dinner. It's a fair concern for anyone, who's made it this far into the write-up to wonder. I really had nothing to write about. I could have talked about the highlights of the last weekend to this week- Karan Johar in news (for his biography, sexuality, something else which doesn't concern anyone of you), Trump's revised immigration policy, protests march by women, Raees (which btw is worth an effort and a half), how I haven't gone out for a date in a month and some other banal things (my dentist hit on me today- I promise, for another day)- but I don't. For two reasons primarily, a) my senses are on a break, they cannot feel a thing because rajma and b) I don't have anything to write. Not since I consumed rajma.




(Nisha aunty, cause she's a star.)