My belly looks like a Brahmin's

Short of organizing a thread ceremony for me, I think my initiation into the Brahmin way of life is now complete.

I haven’t even caught a whiff of meat since I landed here. I’m surrounded by plant-eaters who would lynch any building resident who dare warm a kheema samosa in the microwave.

With so much variety in my diet – idlis dipped in yoghurt, rice and dal and steamed vegetables, daliya, boiled eggs rolled in rotis – I’m not complaining. I should’ve gone on hunger strike years ago and refused to eat the Purina garbage mom was feeding me.

The woman is now worried after global mentioned that mangoes are seasonal visitors like overseas desis who spend summer vacations in thatha-paati’s house. She scans the horizon looking for rain clouds and justifies her mango excess by saying, “This too shall pass.”

In a city bereft of sidewalks, mom and I have no place to walk off extra calories. Every time I step out of the house, the neighborhood dogs insist on broadcasting my presence to all and sundry, leaving me no privacy to pee in peace.

“You have to carry a stick to scare the strays off,” advised somebody.

Hmmm, maybe the same approach would work on some of the stray men who stand on street corners and outside homes and stare at mom until we pass by.