THE SWEETNESS

With only one week left before the election, it's time to stop worrying, tell the Hindustani who blind-called me from "Diabetic Center" that he's out of his mind in Cantonese (你係傻嘅 'nei jan hai soh ge') so that he hangs up sadly realizing that his Spam will go nowhere, and think about lunch. Yesterday's lunch was excellent; northern style little pork and pickled vegetable dumplings (豬肉酸菜餃). Apparently my Mandarin, though sucky, is intelligible within context. The counter lady did not speak Cantonese.

In all honesty I haven't a clue how I ended up on Indian Spam call lists. Must have something to do with age. Michael was bally certain I had diabetes, but, because I did not speak a word of English, we did not have a chance to discuss it. I am convinced that if I actually had diabetes I would have found out ages before some ethically crippled conman from Secunderabad or Gandkipoojahpore called me.

He would have better luck talking to his office mates. Most Indians, with their taste for overly sweet laddoos and sugar-laden ghee bombs are well in line for diabetes by age thirty, and the pudgy spoiled brat sons of middle-class families often have it by the time they graduate from grammar school.

Remarkably, none of the Indians I know presently is rotund. Years ago I knew many more Indians, because of employment part-time at a restaurant, and most of them weren't obese either, but they had relatives who needed to take the freight elevator up to the cheesecake factory on the fifth floor. Indian ambulances, as I understand it, are often very cramped.

Don't talk to me about diabetes, tum murke baifkoof. Call your aunties instead.

And stop adding sugar to your masala chai.
It's unbearably sweet already.



No, lunch is not going to be Indian food. I like it, but for some reason I think I'll head over to Chinatown instead. Something over rice at a chachanteng, hot cup of Hong Kong milk tea, then fill up a pipe and have a quiet smoke afterwards.




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