Tags:
Journalism of Courage
I8217;m sorry if this sounds like I don8217;t have a romantic bone in my body, but as Karva Chauth 8212; the day of the chick-fast 8212; progressed, it really began getting on my nerves.
It didn8217;t start off like that. When sis-in-law called to borrow the car and the driver 8212; she wanted to be mehendi-fied, and can8217;t be driving with the stuff on her hands you see 8212; I was amused in an affectionate sort of way. Oh, The Big Fast, I thought. Cute. I didn8217;t even mind. Okay I minded only a teeny-weeny bit. But I minded some more when the car came back a good two hours late 8212; the way it was described to me, the parlour had a queue that one sees only outside the US visa office.
Lovely, so far. Except that it began to go too far at some point. Lunch with my colleague, who generally tucks in a healthy meal, consisted of her sucking noisily on her Frooti straw while saying delightedly how she was absolutely starving she was observing, apparently, a modern-day liquid fast. I eyed my potatoes and salad guiltily. The work call to the socialite had me feeling just as guilty. 8220;Darrling,8221; she purred, 8220;Mind if I call you back tomorrow? I have mehendi on my hands and can8217;t hold the phone.8221; I felt like I had violated the law of love, no less. Then came the call from an otherwise reliable colleague asking if I would delay the deadline on a story. I was just about to launch into my deadline-is-God spiel when she said, 8220;You know, I have to organise the Karva Chauth puja at home.8221;
I gave up. That was when I dialled for a pizza just to take my revenge on all those starving people around me.
