I am walking through a supermarket aisle and I sit down — for no reason, of course. It is utterly nauseating how science has let me down, over and over again, and trampled over this kiddo’s dreams. They say that this universe is a big— like a really big gap that’s black with some humongous light-emanating stars at every nook and crook, here and there. And what? Even the Greeks had it better — don’t mind the chaos, nonetheless.
Here’s the thing, I hold every science notion of how stuff works by its ankles, upside down over a cliff and loosen my grip until it slips from my palms and oops! — might as well relish the girly scream. Good riddance.
The universe is a donut. A big, fat, succulent donut straight from the fantasies of every American cop. While humanity is the icing.
So beautiful is this truth and such intoxicating and sensual concoction is this icing — all luscious and colourful with seven billion flavours. I assume that you, who are reading this, are among the icings— Vanilla. The person across the table at the café you are in, maybe she is raspberry. While I, who stands presently in spirit just beside your right elbow with my dog and peek into my own work — I am chocolate.
Now that I have made you a teensy bit aware of my speculations, the insignificancy of the problems of everyday— the barista at Starbucks who didn’t quite hear that you wanted it NOT to be decaf (Who wants to be stuck with a venti decaf?), or that mall cop high on Red Bull and giving you a migraine with his SEAL behaviour, or being stuck in a horrid traffic without an audiobook— I am sorry to say but these are just a part of that intoxicating icing. All these commonplace wound-ups and things that get you furious, are they really worth it? Look at it as a speck of icing dust on a relatively larger speck of icing dust on the largest speck of icing dust of all — you. You are a flavour in yourself. So very important to the flavour of the universe-donut. Hence it is of utmost important— of universal importance, that you retain that flavour.
As, for some reason, I am in a supermarket. After recovering from the trauma of getting bullied by science and his cronies, I am up and going again. I pass the aisle of emotions where I stop for window-shopping, because I really don’t buy into that stuff. The shelves of hate, avarice, envy and lust are so very crowded that I want to stop, drop the jar of peanut butter in my left hand and yell for all I am worth, that it’s not worth it. You guys are spoiling the net flavour of the universe. Just a hint of cinnamon is good, needed even. But stuff goes wrong when it begins to overpower. Go to the shelf of love. That beautiful thing, lined with antiques of age so old that no one even remembers.
And with one glorious sweep of your muscular arm, hoard the entirety of the shelf’s content in your cart. SWOOSH and SWOOSH.
Arm yourself with love, wear love’s armour and helmet, shod your feet with sneakers of love and put on a smile and take over the world, my love.
When I say love, I do not necessarily mean romantic love — no Jack and Rose, or Romeo and Juliet. That’s another shelf altogether, all gooey and cheesy and puffed with pink powder and loads of Chanel no. 5. I mean love for everything that is alive. As well as the air of the mountains and the water in the lakes and that beautiful oak in the backyard. That kind of love. My kinda love.
From behind your right elbow, me and my dog have floated from around your back, to the left and now I give you a gentle nudge— go, my friend, be the flavour you want to be. I never said that these came inbuilt in your default factory settings. If you want, be chocolate or raspberry or vanilla. You can also be one of those originals— chicken waffles and what not. I wouldn’t care, as long the original remains authentic.
But don’t forget love. Never forget love— my kinda or your kinda.
Stuti is a tenth grader from Mumbai who currently likes nothing better than an idle morning hour with a cup of coffee, a little notebook and a quiet little alcove in her favourite cafe. Give her an iced latte and she will sprinkle it with sarcasm with a hint of secret sly remarks which are too inappropriate for public exhibition (Tongue in the cheek; twirling her glasses). She believes that a woman who wears no perfume has no future (Coco Chanel, of course) and is a feminist to every definition of it. Oh, and she is lactose sensitive but likes most ardently, the sound of a latte.