What goes of your father!

I hate them. HATE them. I want to slash their bodies with deep, bleeding cuts, sprinkle tabasco sauce on those cuts, then carve them up into slices the size of gum sticks, and sautee those slices in a pan of hot, boiling oil to be fed to Moninder Singh Pandher and Surendra Koli. I want to dress them up in Pak army attire, hang them from the ceiling dangling upside down, and let Sunny Deol loose upon them. I want to give them a free tour of the Michael Jackson mansion, ending with them spending a night with Michael himself. I want to reward them with a life-long free and compulsory entry to all Himesh Reshammiya concerts. I want to pack them off to Transylvania and shut them up in an attic with Count Dracula and his blood-thirsty brides. Such is my hatred for them- unmitigated, absolute and unrelenting.

I cannot recall how and where it started. It must be having its roots in my childhood, when 'servers' at weddings used to put just one piece- O N E teeny-weeny itsy-bitsy meeny-miny P I E C E- of chicken on my plate, and wait for me to move on, while I stood there, a meek kid, with my eyes imploring them to be awash with the milk of human kindness, rather, the gravy of human kindness, and load my plate with another fleshy leg piece. The abhorrence scaled greater heights with more of those servers finding divine pleasure in depriving me of more of God's wondrous creations at feasts:

• steaming gulab jamuns ["yes yes, just two; no no, no chashni (sweet syrup)..."],
• crunchy shahi tukdas (bread soaked in flavored milk) ["one only... come later"],
• maquti ["no extras..."].

And so on and so forth, I have been repeatedly made to crave, pine, and lust for the sundry variegated delights at ceremonial feasts by satanic, sadistic servers.

I spent two months in Coimbatore in the summer of 2003, undergoing TCS induction training. For 2 months, we survived on a diet of tamarind rice, curd rice, lemon rice, sambar rice, steamed rice, rice rice... and still more rice, as we slogged 18 hour work-days. Several people have confided in me that TCS provided consultancy to the US Army for setting up the Abu Gharib prison and torture base using its own Induction module as the starting point which it toned down to suit the specifications provided by the US Army. At the end of the Crucifixion, sorry, 'induction', at the "Graduation Ceremony", my jaw dropped to the floor as we entered the dining area. Chilly Chicken, Singapore Noodles, Chicken Butter Masala, Biryani, Paneer Bhurji and many other heavenly sights and smells stared at us from simmering containers. I wondered whether the thrifty tamBrahm Ramadorai and the parsimonious Parsi Ratan had had to undergo a heart transplant which resulted in us being served this ambrosia. We (me, and two equally demure friends of mine, mademoiselle Jyoti and monsieur Zafar) were the first in the queue, and we had to poke the sluggish servers with our plates to make them get about their business. Throughout the evening, their impudence drove me mad. They did their best to kill me by boring holes in my back as I walked back after another serving. They evaded, they grunted, they smirked. And they did that not once, not twice, not thrice, but during all the four helpings that I had. I wanted to scream at them, "Is this the way to treat a gentleman?" But being the good-natured pansy and pushover that I am, I suffered in submissive silence. The most spiteful snide remark was saved for the last, as I proceeded for my third plate of vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce. As I asked the server to cut a thicker-than-usual slice for me, he looked up at me, parting his lips to reveal the most demonic and darned set of dentures I have ever laid eyes upon, and hissed, "Your favorite flavor, Sir?" The query pierced my soul and cut me up irreparably forever. VANILLA? MY FAVORITE FLAVOR? HOW CAN PLAIN-JANE MUNDANE INANE VANILLA BE MY FAVORITE FLAVOR? Me, the King of Ferro Rocher and Choco Chip and Almond Fudge and Nirula's Nutty Buddies, being accused of favoring VANILLA! I fought back the tears welling up in my eyes, bit my lower lip, collected the plate he had proffered to me and walked back to my seat with a heavy tread, vowing not to go back for a fourth helping. (I went for it only after another guy had replaced the rude roach.)

That was 2003, and this is 2009. India has won a world cup. Sonia Gandhi has been canonized. Adnan Sami became gaunt. So did Lehman Brothers. A negro became the President of USA. Rahman got an Oscar. I got rid of my dandruff. But nothing has changed on the I-hate-servers front. I was in ITC (The Maratha), Mumbai, last week for a Sangeet party. The menu was delectable, and I was salivating in anticipation of what lay ahead for close to 2 hours before the start of main course. The servers moving around serving prawns, meatballs, kababs, chilli paneer- the works - warmed the cockles of my heart. But as soon as I picked the plate to start with the main course, I could feel the hair standing on the nape of my neck. I went for the continental and world fare first. I beheld a basket of chicken shawarmas (a middle-eastern wrap filled with meat shavings) on the first table, and was drawn towards them. I asked for one of them, and a dopey-eyed guy thrust one in a plate towards me. I asked him next for hummus (a dip or spread) to go along with the shawarma, and my ears reverberated with his shocking reply: "It is there inside the shawarma." INSIDE THE SHAWARMA??? WAS HE PEDDLING A SHAWARMA CART ON A BAGHDAD STREET??? DIDN'T HE KNOW THAT IN INDIA, THE 'EXTRAS' ARE FAR MORE COVETED THAN THE MAIN DISH. THAT WE LIKE TO INUNDATE OUR ROLLS WITH TOMAYTO KAYTCHUP?? AND MAKE OUR NOODLES TURN BROWN WITH CHILLY SAUCE?? AND SLOSH UP OUR BURGERS BY SQUIRTING SAUCES IN BETWEEN THE TWO BUNS TILL THEY DRIP FROM THE PERIPHERIES AND WET OUR FINGERS?? HOW DARE HE TELL ME THAT THE HUMMUS WAS INSIDE THE SHAWARMA! THE FRIENDLY SHAWARMA GUY AT TANGO'S CORNER AT MALAD NEVER TELLS ME THAT.... HE GIVES ME AN EXTRA SPREAD OF HUMMUS AND TOMATO/CUCUMBER FILLING WITH EVERY SHAWARMA. WHAT DID THIS SERVER THINK HE WAS? THE MONARCH OF BAHRAIN, TELLING ME HOW TO HAVE MY SHAWARMA!! I did not want to spoil my appetite, so I moved on without damning him to the firepits of hell. After stashing away a chicken and tomato pancake on my plate, I was drawn towards another mesmerizing sight- a whole steamed thin crust salami. The guy carving and serving the salami gave me a vapid look and then dropped a salami skin covering measuring 1 cm by 1.5 cm onto my plate. Was I supposed to place it under a microscope, and attempt to unravel the genetic secrets of the piscean populace? I gave him a look filled with such iniquitous scorn that he hastily carved out another meaty portion and deposited it upon my plate. After battling this hostile army of conniving assailants for more than an hour, I reached the desserts section, and my heart sank. NO CHOCLOATE PASTRIES!?! Pineapple, fresh fruit, strawberry, and blueberry pastries only. Strawberry, and blueberry... TOGETHER??? Why was gooseberry left out? And so unkind of them to have not invited mulberry! How racist of them to have sidelined blackberry! And if they were so serious about this berry berry business, who would have complained if Halle Berry was tagged along as well on a platter! Monsters like me would really have had a ball. If there hadn't been badam halwa, and khubani ka meetha, and 3 flavors of ice cream present alongside this prejudiced palate of pastries, I would have had a breakdown.

I am to attend two feasts tomorrow, on the same day. I am sweating in anticipation of what lies in store for me. In case I survive the double whammy, I shall add to this tragic account. In the meanwhile, all I want to ask the slimy servers is: WHAT GOES OF YOUR FATHER if you just gimme what I want!