Just like every kid I love my parents cooking. K let me cut the bullshit and say , I love my mother's cooking. I called her a lot to consult , to cook like her and to enjoy the dinner like I used to when I was 17 and ravenous. Life it seems, wanted to laugh at me in my face. I tried every single cooking secret and grandma's recipe but sorry to say it all tasted like bullshit. I yearn for the weird but wonderfully peculiar stuff that only my mom can cook. The mishmash of various greens and a dry dish made of various types of beans, the wonderful different types of rasam and the amazing makeshift gravies. My mouth waters and my eyes tear up.
Let this not sound like a mommy suck up attempt. It just, is the simple desire of the salivating child of a loving mom to taste the food that one has grown up with. Never mind if the child is 29 , drooling and desperate.
Cooking has rubbed off on me but am no bourdain , I would rather be a kwong trying to discover ones roots. The core truth is that u may cook like angel but any guy would still love and prefer his mom's cooking to ur mess. Lv u mom.
Friday, 31 July 2009
Wednesday, 22 July 2009
Blood lust.
Its funny that i havent written for a long time. Funny because so much has happened and I have somehow managed to drown myself in my own self deprecating logic and lethargy and have remained mum. I travelled through the highest road in the world, tasted the salty waters of the pang-gong, drove through zoji-la, tasted then-thuk and pee-shee and lived and never wrote abt it till now. Oh yes by the way I also shot some stupid guy burning a mini-bus.
Not bad eh! Enough action I would say to generate adrenaline by the gallons and also enough conscience to drain every ounce of motivation and satisfaction. If I didnt know better I would definitely say " Dementors at work".
It pinches and pricks when every ray of sunshine and every drop of rain seem to taunt and remind me of the blood I have spilled. Maybe its the guilt I feel or the cold feet I have developed, it frightens me. I never thought I could hurt somebody like that. Not in ignorance and not in haste but in pure fervour and earnest. I enjoyed the pain and the groans. When I realised and awoke from the battle inflated blood lust, I wept. I wept for the life I had taken, I wept for the tears of a mother. I thumped my hollow chest and proclaimed my mowing down of an anti-national and I cried because I had become an anti-human.
Strange thoughts to engulf one who kills by profession is nt it? The fact is we have all forgotten that killing is always by profession and not by choice and we dont enjoy it. All that I fear is that, I may be in a position again to kill and lose the nerve to let loose the ammo. I hope I can go on with my job and I fervently hope the pride and the honour swamps the guilt and the remorse.
I pray for the pride to swell my chest and press the trigger often to do what I know is necessary. I pray for the souls I injure and my own. I pray for the fortitude to do this again and again and again. I pray for the day when remorse is but a word that I hear and not an emotion I combat.
Not bad eh! Enough action I would say to generate adrenaline by the gallons and also enough conscience to drain every ounce of motivation and satisfaction. If I didnt know better I would definitely say " Dementors at work".
It pinches and pricks when every ray of sunshine and every drop of rain seem to taunt and remind me of the blood I have spilled. Maybe its the guilt I feel or the cold feet I have developed, it frightens me. I never thought I could hurt somebody like that. Not in ignorance and not in haste but in pure fervour and earnest. I enjoyed the pain and the groans. When I realised and awoke from the battle inflated blood lust, I wept. I wept for the life I had taken, I wept for the tears of a mother. I thumped my hollow chest and proclaimed my mowing down of an anti-national and I cried because I had become an anti-human.
Strange thoughts to engulf one who kills by profession is nt it? The fact is we have all forgotten that killing is always by profession and not by choice and we dont enjoy it. All that I fear is that, I may be in a position again to kill and lose the nerve to let loose the ammo. I hope I can go on with my job and I fervently hope the pride and the honour swamps the guilt and the remorse.
I pray for the pride to swell my chest and press the trigger often to do what I know is necessary. I pray for the souls I injure and my own. I pray for the fortitude to do this again and again and again. I pray for the day when remorse is but a word that I hear and not an emotion I combat.
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