A Story for Children

There was once a little girl who lived by herself in the city. She lived in a strange, lopsided house, which made you want to crane your neck sideways to correct its defects. During working hours, the little girl was a successful businesswoman, but after work, she was the most meticulous collector of alcohol memorabilia as a little girl could be.

The interesting part was that she never drank a drop of alcohol herself. Oh, no, not she. She simply loved collecting her beloved bottles and stacking them on the shelf so that the sun rays passing through would soften the whole house in an amber tone in the mornings. On weekends, she would sit in her rocking chair and watch her clothes dry in the sun, content, while liquid amber sunshine washed over her. Unfortunately, this meant that the bottles themselves were always drunk, bring full of alcohol all the time. They tended to quarrel a lot among one another and delve into deep philosophical conversations, talking the most horrid nonsense you've ever heard.

One evening, the little girl went to the nearby alcohol store to see if there was an alcohol antique she could buy. The store keeper was joyous to see her. He considered the little girl a valuable, if scandalous, customer.

'Why, hello little girl! What will you have today?'

The little girl surveyed her options, a little disappointed. She realized that her collection was quite extensive, and it was becoming harder and harder to find a fascinating bottle of alcohol.

The store keeper saw the chagrin on her face and thought hard. He then quickly ran in and brought out a queerly striking bottle of alcohol, shaped like a happy Buddha. It seemed to be carved out of translucent orange stone, with the features beautifully defined. The little girl could not take her eyes off it.

The store keeper smiled benevolently and named a price thrice the cost of the cheap Korean packaged arrack he had received as a gift the same morning. The little girl bought it, thrilled, unable to believe her luck at having obtained what was clearly a rare piece of alcohol art.

She took the happy Buddha home, and placed it among the rest of the bottles, in the center. The others were immediately suspicious of a new comer who resembled the unfortunate union between a family member and a pot.

The happy Buddha smiled at them happily. 'Hello there, pleased to meet you,' he greeted them politely. He did not seem to be inebriated.

To be continued...

How to Avoid Cancer
or
Frog Fiction

We were at the tail end of the queue in a grocery store within an overcrowded Bangalore mall. It was Sunday and she had offered to 'teach' me how to make good pasta. The severe dearth of female company for several months had made me accept the offer and renounce my curd rice-pickle for that evening.

A couple from the northern part of the country made amorous hindi cooings with semi make -out moves, in front of our trolley. The man at the adjacent counter subjected the billing assistant to complex mathematical calculations involving his sodexho coupons.

"So", she said, " you love rains because it brings out the frogs..."

"The rains in green fields, hostel campuses and the rains at home...not the ones here in Bangalore..." I was busy watching the coo couple in front of us. Their turn at the billing counter had come, which gave temporary relief to the groping.

Our turn at the counter arrived.
"You forgot the olive oil!"
"No, I didn't. It's expensive..." I tried to explain
"You can't make good pesto without olive oil"
"What's pesto?"
She looked irritated by my ignorance.
"Go get the olive oil..." she whined

I ran across the queues and the aisles and plonked a small bottle worth 150 rupees at the counter. She looked pleased.
The bill exceeded 500 rupees. Hidden costs.

We were walking home.
"I love the way they hop," I said
She raised one eyebrow in incomprehension.
"Frogs..."
"Oh!"
It was a topic which had ended at the queue, I realized. I felt quite silly and remained silent.
"Go on..." she gave her indulgent smile.
I felt encouraged. I put on my "lecture time" voice.
"There are so many creatures that walk, run, go on all fours, fly...but these are the only guys who do that cool hop thing"
"Okayyy..." she drawled
"And also when we dissected frogs at school in biology classes..."
"You guys used to cut up frogs at school?" she winced
"Didn't you?"
"I took up accounts just because I hated this dissection stuff..."
"Anyways...we had to nail the drugged up frog to this small wooden board and every time I did it I felt like I was crucifying a saint, a prophet..."
"Perhaps the only guy who associates the frog with religion...and I am cooking pasta for him!"
I gave a grateful smile.

She made pasta in some white-green sauce which tasted terrific. She ordered me to help out with a few culinary procedures, but when I goofed up on the first few simpler orders she let me watch her do the cooking as the honored spectator. She was graceful and quick and efficient.

"So do you like the pasta, frog-worshiper?" she asked
"Gastric orgasms shake my body and soul!" This was an old "funny line" of mine.
She seemed to like it.

When the pasta was over and we sat in awkward silence, I continued " Sometimes, I think, I am this frog prince in reverse"
I was feeling particularly good about the evening and she was a pretty girl. Also we were having my reserve Jacob's Creek.

"There are these frogs in fairy tales which turn into princes when kissed...while I am a frog that somehow has turned into a man and will turn back into a frog sometime. Hence the fascination with my kin"

I realized I was drunk. I should be trying to get a kiss out of this entire deal, I thought, not talking rot about frogs.

She smiled and went "awwwww".

“Maybe you need a kiss to turn into a frog!"

"Yeah from my true love, where ever she may be"

She looked at her watch. She told me it was getting late and she better be leaving. I thanked her for the pasta and opened the gate for her and waved goodbye.

She hadn't bothered to wash the dishes. I got out my dish washing soap and turned on the tap at the kitchen.