My
name is Karan. Food was is the great star-crossed love of my life. Ours was
is an epic love story, and I won’t be able to get more than a sentence into it
without disappearing into a puddle of tears hunger. I will not tell you
our love story, because unlike all real love stories, it will live on forever.
As it should. I’ll forever eulogize her, because there is no one else I would
rather have. I can’t talk about our love story, so I will talk about math. There’s
.1 and .12 and .112 and an infinite collection of others. Of course there is a
bigger infinite set of numbers between 0 and 2, or between 0 and a million.
Wait
a second, do you care about these numbers? I don’t, do you? Let’s just cut the
crap, and I’ll tell you my story, that’s all that matters.
I
walked down the street, as mother looked on, waving with a smile on her face. I
grimaced without looking back, and kept trudging on. I was a patient of cancer
hunger, and my condition was so bad that I couldn’t stay hungry for even an
hour. I always had to carry a bag which held my food safely till the moment I was
utterly hungry. Then I would devour the contents of the box, and still my sight
would shift to the other boxes, which I kept with me to satiate further hunger.
I had needed therapy, but it hadn’t prevailed. I had fallen back to this
condition, and now my mother told me there was only one way.
I
was to learn cooking. Too bad, ‘cause I didn’t know my way around the kitchen,
and now I would have to do it myself- for myself and also for others.
“I’d
rather not eat, and die of hunger than cook for myself. But still, I’ll meet
others like me, who love to cook and face this hunger issue. Let’s give a try,”
I said to myself with a fake smile.
I
pushed open the door, and there she was. My eyes picked her out in the crowd,
and there was an electric connection, and I knew it was her; it had to be her;
and I knew we would live forever, ever after. I smiled and walked towards her, as
she lay supine, her smooth skin reflecting the light around.
Brown,
and smooth and sweet she would be after I worked on her and my mouth watered. If
this was what I would be starting with, then I would surely come here. On the
board out front, her name was written artistically, and that was the only
introduction we had. I read, and reread her name, mumbling it softly, and
saying it in my mind, repeatedly.
“Hazel
(nut chocolate), you are mine.”
The
classes began, and I soon learnt that Hazel (nut chocolate) would be the last
thing we would know. It was tiring, and boring, and a waste of time to make
food which smelled bad, tasted bad, and at times even made you sick; but the slab
at the front made me go on and on. But then came the big day.
My
focus and interest in the class was on a new high as my eyes took in what I would
be doing. It was a quest, a journey, an expedition, to get what I had craved
for on day one, and now I would have to cross the bridges and sail the seas to
obtain what I desired.
So
we began. She melted in my hands, and slowly took a completely new shape at the
bottom, hot scalding liquid. It was going all fine, and I knew we would make it
to the end, perfectly with the blessings of the Lord. But then, my expectations
are stars I cannot fathom into constellations. And how much ever I wish for it,
I must know that the world is not a wish granting factory. And it all went
wrong.
She
began burning out, and I realized she was a grenade, all set to destroy all my
dreams, and that I would have to take care of her, help her, and only then it
would all become right. There was no way I would stop here, because I had to
take her across. She was the only one I had, and I was the only one for her, so
it was up to the both of us.
Sensing
the problem, the doctor teacher came to me, and began operating her, as I
looked on and on, my face rapidly mirroring the anguish and anxiety in my
stomach. Sometime later, he told me that all was well, and I could go on with
my well laid plans, so with my soft hands, I took her with me.
“My
dear, I must tell you this now. I am not well, and I will face death if I do
not do this. The doctors have told me I have very little time, and I must go. These
8 days minutes will be the last we spend together, and then soon, I
you will depart.”
As
the bells clanged, I slowly picked her up, and clutched her to my chest.
“I
will miss you my love.”
With
these last words, I slowly kissed her. Bit-by-bit, I was consumed by the need
to do what I had done, the cancer hunger, and she slowly vanished from
my view. There was just a void around me, but I knew she was happy. She had
done what she could for me, and that was all that mattered. (And in the name of
the Lord, I didn’t care if she was happy, at least temporarily.)
Patting
my stomach, I murmured to myself, “The fault is in our uhmm…stomach, dear
Brutus.”
PS:
This is a mild take on the book The Fault In Our Stars by John Green. It is
just a mild take on the book, and I hope it makes you laugh. It is not in any way
meant to hurt the sentiments of the lovers of the book, the movie, the author,
or anyone to be frank. Happy reading!
PPS:
A special thanks to Bhavya Kaushik in
helping me out with his tidbits of knowledge.
