Chapati Moments: Maya and the Fire of Love

Letchoomi and Maya are having a slight difference of opinion. The girls are at Uncle Veloo's house.
"What's wrong with Kylie Minogue? I think she is a great singer." Letchoomi insists.

"Great singer?? Great singer is someone like Placido Domingo, not some skinny runt with a silicon padded arse. Kylie is the face of Aussie culture at its naffest if at all you can say that Australia has any culture." Maya retorts.

"What about the kangaroos, koala bears and aborigines?" Letchoomi is defiant.
"Granted that kangaroos and koala bears are animals unique to Australia but this does not form part of their culture! As for their aborigines, they've exterminated most of them except for a token few whom they ensure are kept perpetually drunk to prevent them from claiming their rights." says Maya.
"I see its Anti Australia day ..." drawls Sosya as she strolls in to join her friends who are sprawled out in Auntie Roopah's sitting room. "So what has brought on this sudden hostility towards Australia? Could it have something to do with the Italian chef?"
"He has an Aussie wife" mutters Maya into her cuppa Massala tea.
"Ooh .... the bell ringeth... so what does this cow look like?" Letchoomi asks.

"Like any Holstein Friesian. Oh no, more like a Holstein/Jersey cross" says Maya.

"So what would you like us to do? Chop her up and serve her as a vindaloo dish?" asks Sosya trying to be helpful.

"God no! We'd be having vindaloo Fresian/Jersey for the next 5 years!" exclaims Maya.

"I take it she is a trifle rotund?" enquired Sosya.

"She has a sizeable rump and is not terribly prepossessing. Lets just say she has seen better days" says Maya uncharitably.

"Ohoo! The cat is really out to play here ... meowww Maya! Don't forget that you're not exactly unattached yourself." Sosya states the obvious.

"Androo is hardly an impediment." Maya retorts.

"So how is the Fresian cow an impediment?" asks the practical Soysa.

"She's here for a visit and she might stay on. And they are Catholics." Maya explains.

"He is Italian dahling ... of course he is Catholic. What has his religion got to do with anything? I thought the cross he wore, dangling from his neck, resting on his bed of hairy chest clearly advertised his religion to all and sundry. Why is this now a problem?" asked the worldly wise Sosya, the author of 'How to Fuck a Man and Forget him After he Pays'.

Maya remained silent, struggling with her emotions. Letchoomi, the diehard Kylie fan, has a stroke of genius "Ah, I see someone has fallen in love!"

Maya glares at her whilst Sosya pats Letchoomi on the head "Really dahling.... who?" She then turns her Sophia Loren act on Maya "Dahling ... love them and leave them - don't fall in love with them! At least not for free anyway... You are such a pathetic excuse for a mistress. Here is a rich Italian chef and you don't get even a bracelet for your troubles."

Letchoomi chips in "I think she gets free fettucini from him." Maya is indignant "I pay for my own food! I have my own money. I don't need any money from him."

" Dahling...." Sosya drawls in her afffected Hollywood movie star accent "women don't take money from men because they need it - they take money from men because they deserve it. If they need money, they would get a job." Letchoomi and Maya ponder on this pearl of wisdom for a few seconds. Letchoomi in her little girl naivety breaks the contemplative mood with an irreverent remark "At least she gets to taste his Italian salami." Sosya looks exasperated "There is no point tasting something which you don't get to chew on and digest!"

"Ahhh you girls!" Auntie Roopah bursts in "always talking about food - I wonder how you stay so slim when you are so obsessed with food. Why don't you go hang out at your Uncle Veloo's restaurant. There is plenty of food there." Auntie Roopah wants the girls out of the way so that she can be alone with her very own Mandingo - her manservant from Chagos Island.

Enter the Chagossian lad with pail and mop in hand. He is wearing a white tshirt which seems a tad too small for him - stretched to its maximum capacity across his chest and biceps. So tight you could see the outline of his nipples. The tshirt stops short above his waist revealing his taut washboard stomach. The apparel covering his lower half is equally tantalising. He is wearing track bottoms which is disconcertingly too small for him. It rides up and tucks itself snugly into the crack of his bum as he carries out his chores, oblivious to the effect he is having on the four women in the room. The women stare at his deletable taut derriere. "That's the choicest rump I've ever set eyes on ..." whispers Letchoomi to Sosya.

The young lad turns around to ask Auntie Roopah something about the Dettol. The women let out a gasp in unison. The clingy material seems glued onto his lower half, leaving nothing to the imagination. Auntie Roopah felt her throat go dry and dashed out of the room before she passed out. Uncatholic thoughts floating through her mind. She felt as though she has struck a gold mine. The other 3 women remain rooted to their seats, not daring to blink in case they missed something - anything. Sosya hands a hankie over to Letchoomi "You are frothing at the mouth, dahling. Best clean it up before he thinks you have mad cow disease."

"I think those are Androo's old clothes he is wearing" whispers Maya.

"Androo should give all his clothes to this fella. It looks much better on him" Letchoomi whispers, gasping for breath. Sosya asks him where he's from. But no one is looking at his face when he answers. They are mesmerised by the cluster of dark curly wurly hair gathered just above the elastic band holding up his track bottoms. Sweat is trickling down his dark torso, past his belly button, getting trapped in the little cluster of hair but persisting on, disappearing underneath the elastic band ... heading for his crotch ... they imagine. A sigh escapes all 3 of them. Maya's obsession with the Italian is momentarily forgotten as she asks him "Where is Chagos Islands?" "It is near Mauritius" he answers.

Sosya asks him what its like there - is it like, Hawaii? The girls are just shooting questions at him, feigning a sudden interest in geography to prevent him from turning around to continue with his chores. Not that his rear view is less stimulating but full frontal is certainly a sight to behold. Men who have been confronted by a formidable pair of boobs will be able to understand how these 3 women feel at the moment. "Perhaps we can go there for a holiday" Letchoomi says hopefully. If all their men look like this, she's taking the next flight there.

"You cannot go to Chagos Islands for a holiday, the Americans have taken over our homeland. It is now called Diego Garcia. They have set up a military airbase there. Our people have been cruelly ousted from our beloved homeland."

[the American Airbase in Diego Garcia]

"Oh these Americans!" says Letchoomi in a fit of disgust" they are always destroying other people's homeland and ruining their lives..." Sosya and Maya listen with interest at Letchoomi's virginal foray into political discourse until she continues with "just the other week they opened a MacDonald's next to Uncle Veloo's restaurant and the smell of fried beef is making us feel sick ....."

The Chagossian lad nods his head in sympathy though not quite grasping the similarity between being tossed out of one's homeland and having a MacDonald's open up next door to one's restaurant. One can only appreciate her comments if one lived or worked next door to a MacDonald's joint. I have to call it a joint for lack of a better word. It is definitely not a restaurant. In fact, to call any place an "American restaurant" would be an abuse of the word "restaurant". An American joint is more appropriate. It is not difficult to spot an American joint. All the dishes on the menu are served with potato chips or fries, as they call it. They are the only people who get their verbs and nouns mixed up. Google is now a verb.

The girls' choice rump steak is called away by Auntie Roopah who urgently needs him to clean the bathroom upstairs. Sigh.

The girls continue with their earlier discussion on Maya's plight. Maya opens up to her friends on her feelings towards the Italian. What started as intense physical chemistry between them has turned into something much deeper than Maya felt capable of experiencing. What does one do when one realises that one has found one's soulmate and neither has the freedom to indulge in each other's company as and when they please? Fleeting meetings for a sexual tryst is all very exciting if and only if the relationship is purely physical in nature. But when one has fallen deeply in love, the sexual aspects of the relationship takes second place to the simple act of basking in each other's company, enjoying an intimacy which may not even entail sexual activity.

The heart has a mind of its own, independent of one's thought processes. The Sufis say that what you feel in your heart is God's way of communicating with you.

The heart is where man's connection with the Divine lies. When man ignores his soul's desires and he lives solely through his head, his intellect and his physical being, he does not truly live. Because to ignore one's soul is to ignore one's very reason for being. But there are many who live this way. Many who think that intellectual superiority is an achievement. That a life dedicated to intellectual enlightenment is much better than a path dedicated to spiritual elevation. Oh what folly. Humans fall for the trap they set themselves. Whether they bask in intellectual glory or swim in an abundance of spiritual enlightenment, they have fallen into a deep hole filled with self glorification. A hole which they have dug up themselves.

For life, my friends, is quite difficult for most of us, too complex for the complex mind but yet it is so extremely simple it defies reason. Love is the key to everything. I know the word Love has been much abused, maligned beyond recognition, commercialised to the extreme, bandied about by careless utterances of "I love you" by people who have no idea what "to love" means. Only one love is true - that is unconditional love. That is the love that God shows us. There are many who argue that God loves us with conditions:-

* that we are faithful to Him;

*that we pray 5 times a day;

*fast during Ramadan;

*go to Church regularly;

*slaughter cows;

*don't slaughter cows; etc.

Why do we place these human thoughts onto God and attribute human feelings onto Him? Is it because we cannot understand Him, grasp even the concept of God, unless he is similar to us? Human. Should it not be us who should strive to be more like Him? And that is why I say that the closest thing you can experience with the Divine is through unconditional love.

Unconditional love does not mean self sacrificing, abuse-me-all-you-want kind of love. It is a strong love. A brave and courageous love which says:

I love you - as you are. You don't have to love me back. And I love you enough not to let you abuse me.

You are only capable of achieving this kind of love if you love yourself. So that is why we love falling in love. That feeling of euphoria, the breathlessness, the whole magical experience that makes one feel special. But then suddenly you find yourself tortured, all your insecurities raise their ugly heads, surfacing at this inconvenient time, exposing your flaws to your loved one. Will he still love me once he sees me like this? Once he knows me as the person I really am? Warts et al.

Do we show our ugly side just to test the other's love or does it surface in order to allow the love you feel for each other to heal them? It is a mixture of both. The love you feel makes you more confident to allow the "ugly" side of you to surface as you trust the other person to love you no matter what. Unfortunately this is the time and part where it gets too hard for both parties to continue on. The euphoria is gone. There is an element of unpleasantness. Hard issues to deal with. All is not honky dory. It feels like hard work. Those afraid to carry on are afraid of deeper feelings. Its too scary for them. Uncharted territory. Dare they venture into the dark beyond? Where will it lead them? Are they strong enough to survive this journey? Together? Will they still be together at the end of the journey?

Well let me tell you this. Your soul made you fall in love. You, the physical and thinking side of you, enjoy these feelings up to a point. Its like a drug that makes you happy - until... it starts making you miserable and you decide to amputate your feelings like a gangrenous limb and cut the source out of your life. And this is where you fail to listen to your soul... You go on seeking the initial euphoria of falling in love, not understanding that the feeling will not last - it is whimsical and fleeting, its purpose is just to attract you and lead you to real love - the love which will lead you to Divine Being. That, one day you will wake up and realise you cannot even remember the name of the person you so obsessed over when you realise whom your soul was really seaching for. A return to Divine Being.

So do not be fooled by this intoxicating spell of being in love. It is God's way of attracting your attention, lulling you with the ebbs and flow of the tides of Love, then thrashing you against the rocks till your bones have splintered to many thousand pieces and your flesh has smashed to pulp ... and all that remains is your stubborn heart, still beating, lying on the rocks, unrestrained by the complicated web of your thoughts and unshackled from the chains of your intellect.

That, my friends, is how you will feel, at the end of this journey. You, the physical self, would have died, before the hour of your death is due, and all that remains is your soul, shining in its true beauty. By then it does not matter if your are still together with the initial object of your desires, of your love. You understand that what is most important is the Journey. And that you fell in love with Love in the first place.

So our dear Maya, finds herself now, in the first throes of passion, staring at love. Paralysed by her fears. The fear of darkness. And how can you understand light, if your haven't journeyed through darkness? All your preconceived values, morals come into play. Adultery, fornication, how can such a union be blessed? How can something impure lead to the pure? Marriage is sacred - so how can breaking your marital vows lead to Divine Revelation?

You can argue with me till your face turns blue. And I will say to you - the only union that is sacred is your union with God. You belong to no one and no one belongs to you. The only unfaithfulness is your unfaithfulness to God. And your only binding vows are to Him, your Creator. There are no conditions attached to His Love for you. There are no obligations attached to Divine Love. We have created all this to measure our worthiness and yet God measures not our love. God loves us is the only true statement. We love Him may not be a true statement as we may not have the capacity nor have we evolved enough to have the true knowledge and understanding of how to love Him. Those who say they love God have made an untrue and arrogant claim. Only God knows, who truly loves Him. It is in His Mercy that He allows us to experience this state of being. The state of being in love with each other. The state of loving each other.

And so, our Maya is caught in a dilemma many of us have been through. The thrill of falling in love, the anguish of loving a person you cannot have, the pain of acknowledging to yourself that you love this person and the fear that you may never feel this way about another person again ... that one day, because of this fear, you will settle for something less. Something and someone who will not make you feel like you are being thrashed mercilessly by powerful, angry waves of love against jagged rocks. One day you will settle for less. Maybe that is why people call it "settling down". What they mean is that you have settled for less.

And Maya is awakened to this fact. As she speaks to her friends she is realising the folly of her life and her present existence. Blighted by her bad choice of husband. Granted that Androo was her parents' choice but she allowed it to become her choice too by not raising any strong objections. Today she realises that her life is tainted by self deceit - a heinous crime we all commit unto ourselves, and that she must choose between a shattering admission of failure or a lifetime spent in self deceit, staying married for the tawdry sake of keeping up appearances. Our choices are normally made on what is most convenient for us. That is why we prefer to coninue living our desperate lives in self deceit, fearing the unknown, afraid to follow our treacherous heart which refuses to be tamed into quiet submission. We would rather walk around like the living dead than face the ensuing cacophony of making a decision based on the heart. That is why we say "rational thought" and describe feelings of the heart as "irrational". We have conditioned ourselves to trust our intellect over our heart. Following our heart gets us hurt, listening to our thoughts keeps us safe.

So how would you want me to continue with Maya's tale? Maya is a woman .. so... of course, she is irrational and follows her heart! Ahh, another stereotype. But Maya is not like other women. And neither is Sosya. Sosya operates mainly on her survival instincts. Her heart has long been ignored and silenced. The door to her heart locked but the keys may not necessarily have been thrown away. But another day on Sosya.

**Author's note: For those expecting the usual concoction of sex, violence, perversion and political angst, I am sorry to disappoint you. This is the holy month of Ramadan. This is my way of fasting. Note, the first few paragraphs on the Chagossian lad were written before Ramadan. Then I was rudely interrupted by a lot of work and continued the story much later on. By the way, anyone who has read this and think I am encouraging people to commit adultery or to disrespect the sanctity of marriage, has really missed the point. The fact that you have to use your willpower to remain faithful to your life chosen partner shows that you have lost it ie the sacredness of your union. Salaams, Shalom, Peace, Namaste my friends.

Chapati Moments: Flight of the Condi

Uncle Veloo has escaped to his sanctuary - his den. There was a ruckus at home, something about his prodigal son bonking the maid Rajustahoari. He stepped into the hallway and heard his wife screaming hysterically at the maid telling her to leave the house.

Sigh... there goes his Thursday morning blow jobs. Thursday morning is when Auntie Roopah goes to the temple. He didn't realise this enterprising maid was also servicing his son Koomar. Not that he blames Koomar - he's probably getting no action from his cold uppity wife. Serves him right for marrying that cold materialistic Singaporean Chinese sooper bitch against their wishes. What does his son see in that pale, skinny woman with a bony arse and no boobs? Why does she need to walk around the house in that skimpy spaghetti strap top when she has no boobs to show? It puts him off his mutton vindaloo having to look at this emaciated creature at the dinner table. Bob Geldof should use her for his next Live Aid event. She looks like she just stepped out of a Prada advert. Prada is very fond of using jaundiced anorexic looking models to advertise their products. Perhaps you will look like that after you paid so much money for a nylon handbag. They look like Holocaust victims. Now Koomar is caught with a hot blooded earthy sweaty Indian woman who is all tits and arse. "That's my son!" Uncle Veloo thinks to himself. He was beginning to think that Koomar is gay when he brought home that skinny little runt.

Uncle Veloo tries to calm down in front of his Bang Olufsen telly, sprawled out on his favourite vermillion red Ligne Roset couch. Sigh... such bliss. He is not watching his favourite channel CNN. He has discovered a local channel with an offbeat news programme called "Toade News". Today they are interviewing his Goddess - Condoleezza Rice.

Condi: My assistant didn't tell me anything about this interview. I thought I came here for a facial. Why are you hounding me at a spa?

Chief Toade: It's our modus operandi to catch people at their most relaxed.

Condi: Hmm.. good tactic, I must remember that. (She makes a note in her BlackBerry). We usually use torture to get our information but a spa is pretty similar except that it smells nicer. Your crew look a bit green, in fact they look barely human - more like frogs.

Chief Toade: It must be the seaweed mask they applied earlier - on the house.

Condi: Ok, lets start then before my face mask dries up.

Chief Toade: We'd like to ask you about your, or rather the United States', "extraordinary rendition" programme.

Condi: My what?? What about it? Is it any of your business?

Chief Toade: The U.S. has captured and kidnapped over 7000 people across the globe and only 700 are in Guantanamo Bay. Where are the rest of them?

Condi: 700 ... 7000 why argue over semantics? It's just another zero.

Chief Toade: There is a big difference between 700 and 7000. We feel that the 700 in Guantanamo Bay are small fries and unimportant prisoners whom you keep there in their orange overalls to distract the world from asking where the other 6000+ people have disappeared to. Guantanamo Bay is just a decoy. Your more important prisoners are kept in secret prisons across the Middle East and Eastern Europe.

Condi: Hmm.. you are not such a dumb blonde as I first thought. They are "detainees" not "prisoners".

Chief Toade: Your prisoners who have disappeared are sent to the CIA's secret prisons in countries like Romania and Uzbekistan where they are known to torture these people by boiling them alive.

Condi: I wish you would get your terminology right. They are "detention facilities" not "prisons"! And we do not torture people, we use "enhanced interrogation techniques". We cannot dictate to other countries what they are allowed to cook and eat! If they want to boil them and eat them, what can we do about it?

Chief Toade: We have reports of numerous secret CIA flights leased from Jeppeson, the subsidiary of Boeing, to transport shackled prisoners to these countries known as "black sites" and that you are keeping Abu Zubaydah and Khalid Sheikh Mohammed in a CIA secret prison in Poland where they are brutally tortured. The U.S. is practising Machivellianism with their strategy of cunning, deceitfulness, mercilessness and ruthlessness.

Condi: Listen here Goldilocks, you should know not to enter other people's houses and eat their porridge. Especially not the house of a powerful angry bear. Anyway, we don't use the word "black" anymore - it's politically incorrect.Chief Toade (unperturbed by the underlying threat) : There are rumours that you are having an affair with President Bush and British Prime Minister Blair.

Condi (giggles like a schoolgirl): Really? I've never heard that one before...It's nice to hear that people are saying some nice things about me occasionally. At least the public thinks I have a sex life and that men find me attractive. I don't think you should give up your day job. You're not very good at this chat show thing - flitting from one topic to another without any particular agenda.

Chief Toade: The Council of Europe has evidence that NATO signed an agreement with the U.S. that allowed civilian jets used by the CIA during its so-called extraordinary rendition programme to move across member states' airspace. These planes have landed at airports in Timisoara, Romania and Szymany, Poland - many of them leaving from Kabul in Afghanistan, Dubai in United Arab Emirates and Rabat in Morocco.

Condi: What do I know about flight routes etc? It must be your AirAsia with their "Now every Fuck can Fly for 30 cents" motto. Anyway, what's it to you if we have put a few thousand people, whom we have swept up at random from across the globe, on our frequent flier programme. We are giving them the opportunity to travel free. You guys are so short sighted, you just can't see the big picture. We are bringing democracy to the world.

Chief Toade: How does one "instal" democracy at gunpoint? Doesn't it go against the very basis of democracy? Especially when it is imposed by an outside party, like what you are purporting to do with Iraq.

Condi: As usual you don't get the big picture and are bogged down by semantics. The installation of democracy by whatever means is justified. The end justifies the means. These savages cannot be left to their own devices to rule themselves. They will end up killing each other. So it's better that we kill them instead as we have the firepower to do so. 'If we cannot win the war, we will drag half the world into the abyss with us'.

Chief Toade: I think Adolf Hitler said that - your last sentence. It's strange but I grew up believing that democracy reflects the advancement and maturity of the society and civilisation that practises it. The U.S has succeeded in eroding this widespread belief in the past 10 years with its intrusive foreign policy in the name of democracy. People has lost faith in the U.S. and Britain as benevolent nation and they are beginning to lose faith in the United Nations as an independent body which they can rely on.

Condi: You just fail to understand our approach to civilise the world. It is better to instil great fear in them in order to control and govern them. We kill as many as we can get away with, blame it on the "terrorists" which are basically our own men acting under cover to create a sectarian warfare. Then we establish ourselves there, set up our schools and universities ...et voila... their children will grow up eating MacDonalds, speaking with an American accent, dancing to hip hop music, wearing bling blings and P.Diddy or whatever his name is now will be their icon. They will grow up thinking they are American without us having to grant them as any rights as an American. Look at our success story - Hawaii. Iraqi's should be greeting our soldiers with garlands of flowers. Vietnam was a lost cause - those slit-eyed savages running around in black pyjamas still insisted on eating rice. There was nothing we could do to persuade them otherwise. Even when we spread that Agent Orange in their air, they were still resistant.

Chief Toade: That Agent Orange you sprayed on them caused massive deaths and deformity. At least 3 million people were affected. The U.S. soldiers used the Vietnamese babies and children as target practise.

Condi: Our boys can shoot anything they want to outside our country. Let them have some fun. Those people already look deformed. Nobody can tell the difference from their looks before and after Agent Orange. By the way, you look rather pale. Is there no sunshine in your country? Why don't you get yourself a healthy tan like mine?

Chief Toade: Oh, I thought you were born that colour.

Condi: Of course not! I am not a descendant of a black slave! Which part of me looks black to you?

Chief Toade: I never mentioned the word "black" or "slave" - you did! I'm from the School of Oriental and African Studies. I know not to make politically incorrect statements.

Condi: What kind of off beat school is that? I have never heard of it. Well I am not coloured and neither am I a half breed like that Obama fella - pretending to be more white than the whites. I hate these born again Christians.

Chief Toade: Why is it that you are unable to locate, capture and kill Osama bin Laden and Zarqawi given your extensive intelligence network and the fact that you have managed to capture 7000 "terrorists" and made them disappear from the face of the earth - including Osama's driver and the grandson of Osama's kindergarten teacher. In fact you have even kidnapped the 12 year old and 15 year old sons of the person you suspect was involved in the 9/11 attacks. Where are they? If reports are correct, Osama has serious kidney problems and requires regular dialysis treatment. It it true that Osama was receiving dialysis treatment at an American hospital in Pakistan during the week of the 9/11 attacks and he was visited regularly by a known CIA agent?

Condi: 9/11! Why do you people keep flogging that already dead horse. Your information is inaccurate. Osama was in an American hospital in Dubai in July 2001, 2 months before 9/11, recovering from dialysis treatment. He was back in hospital one day before 9/11 - in a military hospital in Rawalpindi, Pakistan, receiving kidney dialysis treatment. Pakistan is our ally and informs us of his movements. 9/11 has served its purpose in scaring our taxpayers to OK our overseas operations. Who gives a fuck about those few people who died at the twin towers? They are collateral damage - just like the one million Iraqis we have killed since we attacked them in 2003. Even before that we have managed to cause the death of 500 000 Iraqi children with our harsh sanctions, just like we are killing the Palestinian children now. And we let the UN take the blame for it. Collective Responsibility, you know. How can they try us for war crimes & genocide when they are a party to it. Heehee.

Chief Toade: Has anyone ever told you that you are EVIL?

Condi: Hmm, not lately but it's nice to receive compliments once in a while. Thank you. I worked hard to get where I am today and not many people are appreciative of my sacrifices. It is nice to be acknowledged publicly like this especially on telly and from someone who is from that backward little country like yours. I am impressed. Malaysia ... where is it again?

Chief Toade: It's in between Thailand and Singapore.

Condi: Oh yes, now I recall. Singapore. We have our naval base there you know. The Israelis also have a base there. We are doing a time sharing concept there as its too small to accommodate 2 bases. Friendly little people those Singaporeans. We are trying to wean them off rice you know. Its succeeding. They have a good leader there - that Minister Lee or what's-his-name the slit-eyed old fart who won't die and let his son run the country. Now that's what democracy is about! Singapore. Actually this has been quite a pleasant discourse. I can see that you understand and appreciate our motives and agenda. My avocado mask is caking up now so we better end this interview. I have a pomegranate body scrub scheduled after this. You are not so dim as I initially thought you were. I can see some light flicker in there. Are you sure you are Malaysian? You don't look like the rice-eating masses.

Chief Toade: I'm of Arab descent.

Condi: OH! So you are connected to Osama bin Laden then!

Chief Toade: I've never met him in my life! I am Malaysian! In fact my granduncle, or greatuncle as some people call it, was our first Prime Minister who won our independence from the British in 1957.

Condi: Aaah, I see... you come from a family of terrorists. They always call themselves "freedom fighters", you know. That's just some hip name for "terrorists".

Chief Toade: There was no bloodshed.Condi: That makes you even more dangerous. Winning independence without any bloodshed. He must have used a lot of cunning and guile. But anyway these British are such wimps. I wouldn't sleep with any of them, you know. They have no staying power. They withdraw at a most inconvenient time. I had a suspicion you were an Al Qaeda member. Now you have confessed and confirmed it. This green-look your crew is sporting is in fact army guerilla camouflage. Huh, you can't fool me. Be prepared for a long package holiday in the dungeons of Romania!

Uncle Veloo's screen went fuzzy for a few seconds, then the words "Siaran Tergendala Sebentar" appeared on the screen. Uncle Veloo lets out a scream of extreme frustration. This is by far the most riveting TV news he has ever seen. His Goddess in the Raw. In this rare exposure. Being candid about her life and her thoughts. And these people are Malaysians! Yeah! Malaysia Boleh! Such strange looking Malaysian though. In fact they are strange looking humans. They look somewhat amphibian. Must be some tribe from East Malaysia. He has never been there but he reckons they might look slightly amphibian. Perhaps with a hint of gills at the side of the cheeks.

Uncle Veloo already had multiple orgasms whilst watching Condi in the raw on telly. I know that they say it's impossible for men to have multiple orgasms but as I said before - anything goes with that Uncle Veloo. Unfortunately, just jerking off is not enough in his height of extreme excitement. He needs to inflict some cruelty on someone. If the price is right, his maid Rajustahoari would allow him to whip her occasionally. She charges by the hour, just like lawyers. Except that where lawyers are concerned, they are the ones inflicting pain on you when you get their bill. And you derive no pleasure at all, of the orgasmic sort, engaging their services.

He rushes home, hoping perhaps his wife might oblige in a spot of flogging. She has been behaving strangely these days. He suspects she has become a part time Christian. Sigh, whatever. As long as she doesn't turn into a Moslem and slaughter cows once a year. They'd be having beef vindaloo, the Gods forbid! He has no qualms indulging in her foray into the Christian world.

He found that Rajustahoari had already left the house and in her place, his wife had engaged the services of a strapping young black lad. She says he is from Chagos Islands. Uncle Veloo blinks in confusion. Where and how did she find a replacement so fast? This boy looks kinda sexy. Uncle Veloo wondered if he would agree to participate in an afternoon of sado masochism. Perhaps he could be made to bugger his wife in front of him. Uncle Veloo's happiness is restored. The possibilities are endless now. But where the bloody fuck is Chagos Islands?

Chapati Moments: Auntie Roopah and the Temple of Doom

It is now time to tell you a bit about Auntie Roopah. Though I find her quite a loathsome and pathetic creature, some of you might feel that she deserves our pity. I was hard pressed to find a photo of her. This is the best I can do. Androo's drawing of his mother when he was 4 years old. And this was drawn before he caught his father in the act of riding his mother like Zorro. Auntie Roopah is the daughter of an immigrant labourer - something our Cabinet Minister would call a "buruh kasar" (rough labourer/menial worker). You can read more on the Cabinet Minister's faux pas here (just click).

You don't really need me to tell you this about Auntie Roopah. You would have deduced it yourself if you had met her. She met Uncle Veloo when he was a nobody kitchen boy at an Indian restaurant where she worked as a washer woman. They were attracted to each other almost instantly - drawn and bound by their debased nature. These two debased creatures clawed their way up society through 10% hard work and 90% through their conniving ways. Having accumulated the restaurant and expanding it into a chain, they sought to reinvent themselves as people from an established and privileged background. But their coarse manner, garish mansion which they named "Castle Veloo" (not realising it sounds more like a pub than a residence) and peasant-like features fool no one. They have made sure all their sons are well educated and married off to well established families as though this in itself would erase their humble beginnings. All Uncle Veloo and his wife need to complete this picture is an honorary PhD bestowed upon them by some dubious university in India to make them feel legit.

And like most nouveau riche, who lacked the proper upbringing, they quickly forget their roots, talking down on their own kind who are less fortunate and treating their staff like slaves. Flashing their luxury car which they need to upgrade every year, Rolex watches, distasteful jewellery and overbright sarees at social events which they had to pay an arm and a leg to get an invitation. The only way they can get their faces featured in Tatler or Le Prestige is to take out a full page advertisement in these magazines. By now Auntie Roopah has already concocted some farfetched story that she is the granddaughter of some maharajah of an unheard of province in India and is ready to call herself Princess Roopah should Tatler choose to do a feature on her.

Yes, I know I have rambled on for 3 paragraphs now and have yet to describe her looks. At best, she is the closest thing one could describe as "the missing link". Yes, Darwin's missing link between ape and man. She has thick jet black coarse frizzy hair, a flared nose, thickish dark lips, a strong set of molars, bushy eyebrows forming a unibrow as they meet at the center, more than a hint of moustache above her upper lip, a big mole (which looks more like a wart) protruding at the left corner of her upper lip. There are at least 3 stubborn hairs springing out of this mole, taunting you as you watch her speak, driving you insane, provoking you to attack her with a tweezer.

Her arms and legs are covered with coarse hair. She is quite stout. Stout and squat. Her underarm hair is allowed to grow wild unchecked - quite an unpleasant sight when she wears those sleeveless saree blouses. Even the Italians and the French would find this sight quite revolting particularly if they catch a whiff of the pungent aroma drifting from this untrimmed undergrowth. Years of eating blue cheese would not have prepared the French for this assault on their seasoned nostrils. But you would not be surprised at all if I told you that Uncle Veloo loves to bury his nose deep into Auntie Roopah's underarm. The pungent aroma heightens his sexual senses. Anything goes with that Uncle Veloo.

Under the advice of an image consultant whom they engaged before their son Androo's wedding, Auntie Roopah had her hair straightened (rebonding they call it) and styled into a short bob. It looks like she is wearing an ill fitting wig though there is some slight improvement to her previous washer woman look. Uncle Veloo, under the advice of the same consultant, now sports a very short fringe across his forehead. One would think that there is going to be a remake of Spartacus soon, looking at them or another remake of Planet of the Apes.

Securing Maya for her daughter in law was a major feather in Auntie Roopah's cap. Maya is from a prominent well established family who made their millions selling plastic flowers to the Government. Only recently, Maya's ingenuous father secured a contract to design and build 170 pintu gerbangs all over the country. Pintu means door and gerbang I don't know how to translate. Its some kind of commemorative arch. A pintu gerbang is an objet d'art. A structure of great necessity to this country and its citizens. It gives people a sense of belonging and pride of the area they live in. It keeps people from getting lost and not knowing where they are. Just when you think you have been driving for hours and don't know where you are, a pintu gerbang looms up ahead of you with the words "Selamat Datang ke Sabak Bernam" (Welcome to Sabak Bernam).
A mere signboard at the side of the road is not good enough for Malaysians. They like to do things in a big way. They need a structure hovering over the road to welcome them to somewhere every 5 miles. And each State try to outdo the other in terms of design and uniqueness of their pintu gerbangs. Some may cost many millions to build. Certain States splurge out on canons strategically placed at each side of the pintu gerbang. Nothing like having canons pointing at you as you drive into a certain State to make you feel welcome. Like those canons perched outside the majestic colonial government building on top of a hill in Johor Bahru, pointing towards the teeny weeny island of Singapore, reassuring them that we are friendly neighbours. We should test fire these canons to see if they are still working. Then we can also gauge how many times we need to fire to sink Singapore.

Ok, ok, I digress from our jungle bunny Auntie Roopah. Auntie Roopah has a particular fondness for pintu gerbangs. When they were dating, Uncle Veloo and her used to meet at their nearest pintu gerbang. If anyone were to pen their love story (yuks!), it would surely be called "Cinta Pintu Gerbang". Cinta means love. Pintu Gerbang I have already explained at great length. See picture above.

Auntie Roopah is at the temple this morning. Once a week she goes there in the early hours of the morning to sweep the floor. You may think this is a very odd activity for someone who is trying to erase her background. But Auntie Roopah believes that by performing this service, the Gods will smile kindly upon her as they have already done through these years, raising her status in society from a miserable washer woman to a grasping rich wife. Little does she know that the Gods are planning to have her reborn as a fat hairy pig or wild boar in her next incarnation befitting her behaviour in this life.

Why do people not realise that God doesn't give a fuck whether the temple floor is clean or not??? For as long as your heart is unclean and you treat your fellow beings shoddily, you will surely incur God's contempt no matter how many floors you clean even if you choose to lick the floor clean out of your devotion. But still she continues to labour on, sweeping the floor each week, like the long suffering wife who diligently mops the kitchen floor everyday so that her husband will think himself lucky to have such an excellent homemaker - when in truth, he would rather she spend those early hours in the morning sitting on his face instead of seeing his face reflected off the spotless kitchen floor.

Unbeknownst to Uncle Veloo, Auntie Roopah also goes to church on Sundays. I can't rightly say that she is pretending to be a Christian. Auntie Roopah's concept of religion is a little different from ours. She doesn't see anything wrong in having several religions - what's wrong with adding one more God in your prayers? she thinks to herself. She quite enjoys herself at church. Here she is allowed to belt out hymns off key at the top of her lungs and nobody dares complain. She would have liked to go to the mosque too and be a Muslim except that she finds it difficult to pray to a God when she has no idea what he looks like. There isn't even a picture of their prophet let alone a statue of their God! The idea of praying to an unseen God is something she cannot quite grasp. On top of that these Muslims are a fussy lot - they don't like you stepping in & out of their religion like a yoyo. You could end up in jail. And these religious officers will be coming to your house checking if your husband and family are Muslims. No, no... she would rather not go there. There might be a tussle over her dead body when she dies like that mountain climber wots-his-name.

What compelled her to go to church initially was seeing the photo of the Pope's private secretary, Monsignor Georg Gaenswein. Oh what a dish! she thought to herself, salivating at the thought of confessing her sins to him. Swoon! She was the first person trying to get into the local Catholic Church that Sunday. She sat at the front row, only to be disappointed that the priest is another Indian like herself, whose face is as black as the kuali (frying pan) she uses to fry onions. Where are the Italian priests??? Such misrepresentation!

Nevertheless she persevered with going to church. She thinks the people there are refined and she can hobnob with the upper echelons of society. We should not condemn Auntie Roopah for what many people are guilty of doing in this country no matter what religion they profess. Friday prayers for the Muslims have now become a major networking exercise. People check where the Prime Minister, Cabinet Ministers and corporate bigwigs are praying before deciding which mosque they should go to. Partners of law firms study where their target clients pray and which restaurant they eat at after prayers. Then lo and behold! These partners are conveniently praying next to their target clients and later, eating at the same restaurant. Come next month, they are all chummy and going to Mecca together to perform their Umrah or Hajj with these clients. Annual trips to Mecca with clients, the Prime Minister, Cabinet Ministers have become the norm for those who want to get ahead in life. These corporate personalities and politicians will be travelling with their large entourage & posse of hangers on and sycophants. This is their ideal opportunity to get up close and personal with these dignitaries and important people. Not to God. In fact, does anyone even remember God anymore? Our Prime Minister stays up at night to pray hoping that God will reciprocate by running the country for him during the day whilst he sleeps through meetings and functions. Ah, the powers of delegation! The way we behave, you would think that humans created God to serve them instead of the other way round. The minute we hit the prayer mat, out comes our wish list. God please grant me :-

a. ...

b. ....

c. ...etc and the list is endless. "After all, I am doing what you are asking me to do ie praying, so now you must reward me for remembering you for the last 5 minutes of my precious time." Bloody hypocrites - that's what we are when it comes to God. We created God and Satan so that they can take the flak for all the atrocities we inflict on each other. In fact we put the blame on God more than we blame Satan for them!

The Spanish Inquisition - in the name of God.

The Crusades - in the name of God.

A busload of school children in Israel blows up - in the name of God.

President Bush (together with Blair and Howard) invades Iraq and kills thousands of innocent people - in the name of their God - Oil and their religion - democracy.

God doesn't need your prayers - you need them. Stop torturing God with your offkey yowling of what was once a beautiful hymn. Yes you may think that I am the Devil incarnate for saying all this. I am Loocifer. The much maligned devil. Let me show you the faces of true evil walking this earth:-

Oh yes, where was I? Auntie Roopah comes home from the temple, opens the front door and catches her maid, Rajustahoari, on her priceless persian carpet bonking her son Koomar ....

To be continued.

Chapati Moments: Androo & Maya

Androo reaches out for his soap. As he blinks the shampoo foam off his eyes, he looks at his soap before using it. He sighs in exasperation. Somebody has been using his soap again. Those are not his pubes, deeply encrusted into his green Palmolive soap. How many times does he have to tell his housemates not to use his soap?? Looks like he will have to forgo the luxury of using soap from now on and convert to shower gel. He shudders - as a Catholic might shudder at the thought of becoming a Protestant. It's just too pleb to use shower gel, he thinks to himself, under some misguided notion that he is some sort of patrician.

He flings the soap away in a tantrum and uses his hair shampoo instead to wash his body. He cringes at the thought of doing something he considers even remotely plebby. He must look for alternative accommodation. Just yesterday one of his housemates left some horrid skid marks in the toilet bowl and didn't have the decency to clean it up. He misses his mother's clean pristine house. You would never find skid marks in any of her bathroom toilets! He misses his father's mutton vindaloo. What he does not miss though is his wife Maya. This is the main reason he continues studying, adding one degree after another. To avoid spending time at home with Maya.

There is nothing wrong with Maya. In fact, she is very pleasing to the eye. Maya comes from a very well to do family. Her father made his money in the early 80's from securing the contract to supply plastic flowers to Government offices during the time plastic flowers were in vogue. Later, he artfully reinvented himself as some sort of indoor landscape artist, convincing the Government that they needed a "garden atmosphere" within their office premises. The rest, as we say, is history. If you walk into any Government building these days, you will be greeted by an array of garish multi coloured plastic flowers. Should you be attending any meetings at their boardrooms, you would be forgiven for being distracted by the mini lake gardens at the center of the room. Yes, right smack at the center lies an entire garden of plastic flowers on the carpeted floor. Maya's father has somehow convinced the Government that having a meeting around a mini garden would encourage and facilitate an amicable conclusion to all negotiations. So that's how he made his money. Fortunately for us, his daughter has better taste than him. Unfortunately though for Maya, she was married off to the son of a successful restauranteur. Androo is her husband's name. Skinny, pale and short. Fancies himself as some sort of intellectual and human rights activist. Incredibly finicky, his hair parted perfectly at the center and smoothed down with the aid of brylcream. Yes, the chap with the aversion for skid marks in the loo. He lines the inner bowl of the toilet with lots of loo paper so that the water in it would not splash back at him when his poo torpedoes in. I'm sorry, I was just amusing myself with words containing double Os. Compared with his butt ugly hairy parents, who could easily be mistaken for Big Foot's relatives, he is relatively OK looking with a certain boyish geeky charm. Most people who have met the family, wonder if there had been some mistake at the hospital when Androo was born and like any decent Tamil movie plot, he would later be reunited with his real parents just when he is about to die from gunshot wounds - shot by his long lost twin brother whilst embroiled in a love triangle. So far, nothing of that sort is happening yet and Androo is still studying for his PhD. So for all intents and purposes, we shall have to assume that he really is the son of Uncle Veloo and Aunty Roopah. And the husband of Maya.

Maya, Maya, Maya. Beautiful Maya. Soft, cultured, delicate on the outside. Deep, spiritual, intelligent with a hidden penchant for mischief and mirth on the inside and a passion yet undiscovered and unawakened. None of these qualities are seen or appreciated by the person she married or the family she married into. They only see her status and her parents' wealth.

Fortunately for Maya and unfortunately for the Veloo family, Maya has made friends with Uncle Veloo's incorrigible niece Letchoomi ... yes our luscious Letchoomi ... and her best friend, the sensuous, smouldering Sosya. These 2 provide endless entertainment for our dear Maya who has to live vicariously through them, fantasising that it is her who is having all that fun instead of being stuck in a dull, listless, loveless marriage to a man-boy whom she and her friends call "Mr Missionary".

Maya, Letchoomi and Sosya are in a newly opened Italian restaurant, not too far away from Uncle Veloo's restaurant. The girls have escaped there to have a giggle away from Aunty Roopah's watchful gaze. Sosya is asking Maya if there is any improvement in her husband's love making or is he still stuck at the missionary position for the last 7 months since they got married. Maya sighs, yes, he is still Mr Missionary - making love with the lights off, under the covers of the thick duvet, hardly touching her except in a perfunctory manner. Maya tried to go down on him, as advised by her 2 helpful friends, but he froze in shock and was catatonic for the next 30 minutes. It was useless. She felt useless and unwanted. Like an empty porcelain vase. Beautiful to look at, admired from afar but no one dares to touch the precious porcelain vase for fear it may break. Its place is on a pedestal. It is not entitled to have any feelings, any emotions, any desires - its function is only to be there to be admired. And such is Maya's position. Androo just forces himself to have sex with her in order to fulfil his duty as his parents expect them to produce children. By now Maya has resigned herself to accepting the fact that she is an object to be admired and not desired. That she herself possesses no desires of her own. That she is cold and lacks passion and that's why her husband finds her unappealing. Even her lecherous father in law looks at her only with deference in his eyes and not lust. She has seen the way he looks at Sosya and Letchoomi but ... with her... sigh, is she that cold?

Maya is asking her friends whether perhaps they could help seduce her husband and teach him how to make love properly. This is indeed a desperate request by a wife. And yet how many desperate wives are out there who wish that someone would tutor their husbands on how to be a better lover? And why can't these women teach their husbands how to please them, you may ask. There are many reasons and many taboos on this subject. Firstly, the wife cannot seem more experienced than the husband. Secondly, having to teach him to do something which he should already know is a turn off. Most importantly, he will lose face and that will surely kill the passion, if there is any, between husband and wife. The wife does not want to play the role of a traffic cop (Polis Di Raja Malaysia) directing the husband where to go. The problem with most men is that they "make love" to all women using the same blueprint. What works for one woman, what turns one woman on, should turn all other women on as well. I'm afraid it doesn't work that way chaps. You need to wipe the slate clean and start afresh - like you are touching a woman for the first time and discovering something totally new and wonderful. The key is in the touch. But men are so performance based these days, they focus on size, length of time, stamina etc they equate themselves to a car. How fast and how long can I go? is their main concern. And women add on to this fallacy by faking it all the time - to preserve the relationship, to secure an insecure man. Then there is also the type of women who just lie there like a log, thinking that consent to enter ie coitus is the sole contribution required on their part to the act of making love. So they deserve what they get.

Maya's friends have resorted to spying on her husband without her knowledge to get to the root of the problem. They now reveal to her what they discovered about Mr Missionary. "I'm afraid I've found out what's wrong with your husband" says Sosya, holding Maya's hand, looking at her in concern. Oh dear, Maya thought to herself, he is gay ... Brokeback Mountain. Every woman who is rejected by a man harbours a suspicion that he is gay. Otherwise they will just have to face facts and admit that he is just not that into them. Sosya continues "He likes stick insects." Maya frowns, puzzled. Letchoomi explains "He's a modeliser. He likes tall, very very thin, flat chested women with a boyish figure - so he's just 2 steps away from being gay .... he could be in denial, so he goes for women who resembles young boys."

Sigh, this is too grey for Maya. She likes things in black & white. Either he is gay or not. This is complicated. "How did you find out?" she asks. "He is dating last year's Miss Tofu International." replies Sosya. "I hear she's shortlisted for this year's Miss Soya Bean Universe" Letchoomi chips in helpfully. She can be Miss World Tumeric for all Maya cares. Her husband finds other women more attractive than her. She is shattered. She cannot evoke even an ounce of passion in him and he finds a woman who looks and feels like an ironing board much more desirable. Letchoomi and Sosya sees Maya's crestfallen face "Gosh, we're sorry. We didn't know you would take it so badly. We didn't know you like him that much."
"Well he is my husband"
"Yes we know dear, we attended your wedding. Are you even attracted to him?" Letchoomi asks.
"He is my husband" Maya repeats.
"We've been through this just now. We know he is your husband but do you like him? Are you attracted to him? Does he turn you on?"
Such painful questions which a wife must inevitably answer truthfully to herself. No, no, no... Yet the answers still point back an accusing finger at her - as the reason for the failure. The inability to evoke passion and to feel passion. She thought married couples reach this stage - of having perfunctory sex - after 10 years of marriage. Hers was a non starter to begin with.
What Maya doesn't realise is that Androo had a traumatic experience when he was 5 years old. One night, he was awakened by the sound of his mother howling like an animal in pain. He rushed to his parents room carrying his little blue teddy in one hand. Their door was slightly ajar so little Androo steps in. What he saw that night would remain etched in his memory for the rest of his life. His mother was on the floor, on all fours, starkers (totally nude). There was some kind of leather collar round her thick sweaty neck and a leather leash attached to it. His very hairy father was starkers too, mounting her from behind like a beast from hell, holding the other end of the leash. It was a grisly sight indeed. She was emitting this god awful guttural sound. Androo was transfixed in horror. Not knowing whether his mother needed rescuing. Not knowing whether it really is his mother. Not knowing whether they really are his parents.
So that, my good people, is why he likes to date androgenous women. In fact, he would prefer to date androids if he could find any. His only reason for having sex with these women is to dispel any gay rumours as he is quite a homophobic. Maya is too much a woman. She has lots of curves and is very soft to touch. It puts him off. He dates models so that other men will envy him. Other short men may compensate by driving a red Ferrari and in the old days, they would invade other countries kill Jews en masse to prove their manhood. These days the only shortie allowed to invade other countries and kill people en masse (this time its the Muslims) is President Bush. Androo resorts to dating models to compensate for his perceived lack of physical allure . There are other things he does which we may not quite comprehend. He was brought up a Hindu and was taught that eating beef is a big no no. Yet he purposely goes to a pub and orders roast beef and yorkshire pudding. In doing so he hopes to prove 2 things - that he is anglophile and that he is not bound by what he perceives are archaic rules. That he has the freedom to practise his religion as he sees fit. He doesn't even enjoy eating beef. Androo's Muslim best friend Oosman would order roast suckling pig at a Chinese restaurant and they would both consume it with great gusto - just to show that they are not shackled by useless rules and regulations. They organise a "buka puasa" (breaking of fast) event during Ramadan and only serve wine to the guests. This is their freedom of religion. In their quest to impress their western friends and to be more white than the whites, to convince them that they are "moderates" and "liberals", they have forgotten to respect their own people. Would I as a Muslim enter a Hindu temple with my shoes on? No, out of respect to the Hindus, I would take off my shoes before I enter. Would a Christian walk into a mosque with his shoes on? No, he would take his shoes off first. So why does a Muslim not respect his fellow Muslims during Ramadan? Why serve wine for buka puasa? You are just showing the westerners whom you want to impress so much, your lack of respect for your chosen religion and your people. Would you serve beef to a Hindu? You may think - aah, but that's his choice whether he wants to eat it or not. But your would also realise that it would be offensive to him, so you wouldn't do it - out of respect for him and his religion. But Androo and Oosman do not see it that way. It is their constitutional right to interpret their religion as they choose to. I'm all for that but before you exercise this right, take heed first that you do not ride roughshod over other people's beliefs and feelings. It is just a matter of courtesy. On one side your have the "fundamentalists" (a much maligned term) and the "extremists" wanting to impose their brand of religion and values on other people, on the other side you have Androo, Oosman and his pals promulgating total freedom of choice. Hell, I would like to be given the choice and freedom of bonking up against the frangipani tree at a public park like Charles and Camilla without worrying about a squad of voyeurs from Pejabat Ugama (Religious Department) rushing out from a nearby bush with their video cam to arrest me. I just want that choice but given that choice, I probably won't act on it because I would take into consideration that my actions would shock the delicate sensibilities of the pakcik & makcik (uncle & aunty) & their children having a nasi lemak picnic nearby. Out of respect and courtesy for them, I would not do it. These 2 opposite polars must find some means of meeting each other halfway and respecting each other's rights. In the words of the great master, Jalaludin Rumi - between Moses and Pharoah ... the Red Sea.

Sigh, lets move on back to Maya. A more palatable topic. Maya does not realise the complex and confused nature of her husband. But then, it is not up to her to unravel his dementia when he cannot even admit to himself that he has a problem in order to address it and to heal it. Whilst her friends are talking, she found herself staring at the chef. The Italian chef. He must be in his forties, she thought to herself. She is mesmerised by his strong hands as he chops the vegetables. Her eyes travel to his shoulders - he is built like a rugby player. Finally, as though he felt her eyes on him, he looks up, his brown eyes staring into her brown eyes. Time stood still. Maya forgets to breath. She is spellbound. He is captivated. Letchoomi and Sosya are intrigued - they stand up in unison, excusing themselves in a hurry to go to the bathroom. Maya and the Italian chef's eyes remain locked. He strides towards her, still maintaining eye contact, and says to her "I want to make love to you." Maya's head reels in shock. So many questions she wants to ask him. So many questions she should ask him but all she managed to say was "Now?" The chemistry between them was intense and overpowering. She doesn't know how long they stood there staring at each other. She doesn't know when Letchoomi and Sosya left the restaurant. She has a vague recollection of him locking the door after they left. She remembers him whispering into her ear "Open your mouth" which she instantly obeyed. She remembers him cracking open a raw egg and sliding the cool raw egg into her mouth, telling her not to break the yolk. She remembers him sliding his warm tongue into her mouth and gently pushing the egg yolk into his mouth without breaking it. They continue passing the egg between them in this slow sensous manner, until finally, the yolk breaks into both their mouths, merging them in that beautiful moment. The moment of Maya's awakening.

You may be wondering - did they have sex? Did the breaking of the yolk signify climax? And I am telling you that Maya made love and was made love to for the first time in her life. Yes, there is a difference between sex and making love, between lust and love. How many of us are fortunate enough to experience true love making - with just a caress of the eyes, a finger trailing up your arm, a warm breath behind your ear, a gentle kiss delicately placed on your wrist? Sadly, not many of us can distinguish the difference between lust and love. Between passion and need. It is rare indeed to look across a room and stare into the eyes of a person whom you have never met before and instantly, at that moment, know that this is the man you want, the man you want to be with for the rest of your life, the man who blurs the distinction between lust and love, merging them into an act of sheer and utter bliss. A man who torments you to near madness by giving you unbearable pleasure. Have you ever met such a person in your life? Have you ever been so divinely blessed in your life? Have you ever been so intoxicated?

Chapati Moments: Uncle Veloo's Den of Disrepute

**Caution: this posting should be read only by those above the age of 55 under the supervision of a U.S. military officer.**

Uncle Veloo is in his den of disrepute. His dungeon of depravity. He is the only person allowed to enter his den. It is at the basement of his restaurant.

This is where Uncle Veloo goes to indulge in his deepest, darkest, most depraved fantasies. This is where he goes to commit the act of Oo-nani. Actually the correct spelling is "Onani" but I like to give in to my unnatural preoccupation with double Os. Contrary to popular belief, Onani is not a Japanese folk dance. This seemingly sweet and innocent sounding word is in fact a Malay word describing the act of "whipping the willy" or "slapping the salami". Those of you who still don't get it, let me explain in a non food related and a less delicate manner - this is where Uncle Veloo goes to jerk off. Vous comprenez? If you still don't understand it, please go away and read something else more useful. I recommend "Is there life in Mars" written by Tom Cruise under the auspices of the Church of Scientology.

At the far end of the den lies his pièce de résistance, his ultimate instrument of pleasure - his Bang Olufsen 42" plasma telly with its kick-ass surround sound system.

Uncle Veloo is comfortably ensconced in his favourite Ligne Roset couch in front of his instrument of pleasure. This is where he would stroke Mootoo to the heights of ecstasy, indulging in his most decadent, debauched fantasies whilst watching ... no, no,.. people..., not the latest Indian porn movie "Pappadam Pooshpa and Her Hot Pussy Galore", with music by Akon complete with a rap collaboration with Snoop Dog. Indian porn movies are not quite Uncle Veloo's cuppa Massala tea. Those sort of movies are for woosies. Uncle Veloo goes for the really serious hard core stuff.

In the dark, dank corner of his den, Uncle Veloo wanks off whilst watching ... (brace yourself) ... CNN. To him, it is better than watching any porn movie. There is sooo much depravity in it and people complain about MTV. MTV is nothing compared to CNN. CNN is the real stuff - made for real men like him. Total machismo. The Alpha male. He loves to watch the Americans on CNN fuck the world, advertise it on CNN and get away with it scot free.

He sees the latest American adventure, the invasion of Iraq, as nothing more than a sex expedition by the United States military forces to carry out their most depraved, disgusting, diabolical sexual fantasies. Never has there been a more depraved, degenerate, barbaric, debauched, malevolent creature as the United States military and their Coalition forces, turning Iraq into a veritable Sodom & Gomorrah (no pun intended to the late Saddam). Where else can these diaboliques carry out their most heinous sexual escapades and get away with it without even a rap on the knuckles ... buggering 6 year old boys whilst their mates cheer them on and film the entire sordid despicable episode? How Uncle Veloo wish he could get his hands on those videos. How Uncle Veloo wish that he could join the Americans in their sexpedition in Iraq. He has turned his den into a mini Abu Ghraib. He has folders & folders of pictures of prisoners being tortured by the American soldiers. Naked prisoners smeared with faeces. Oh... these Americans, they really know how to enjoy themselves. Only they know and share his deep passion for the act of domination and submission. Only they know the pleasure derived from subjugating defenseless people. The pleasure of terrorising women and children. Letchoomi thinks that he fantasises about deflowering young virgins - she is way off the mark. That is the very tip of the iceberg. It is about subjugation, dominance and power. One cannot blame Letchoomi for her miscalculations, her exposure is only to MTV. She does not watch CNN and therefore cannot fathom the depths of his perversion. Only members of the U.S. Army and Coalition Forces can understand it. It is beyond you & I. We do not have the capacity to sink to such low levels to comprehend this kind of sickness.

Uncle Veloo is avidly watching CNN to catch a glimpse of his heroes Dick Cheney and George Bush. Dick & Bush - such apt names for the world's ultimate porn stars. "We Fuck the World" is their motto and "Big Guns" their first porn production. Oomigosh... Uncle Veloo sits up, erect in attention on his red Ligne Roset couch, gobstruck - his fantasy dreamgirl is on the screen - all 42" of it - he is almost in tears, emotional at the sight of the woman who has shared all his wet dreams. The sexiest woman alive. He has an entire scrapbook filled with newspaper & magazine cuttings of her. He concentrates intensely as she speaks, following the movement of those luscious full lips, he imagines those sexy lips encircling Mootoo, coaxing him into submission. This woman is his ultimate dream. He imagines her in Halle Berry style tight black PVC catsuit, standing on his naked trembling body in her red six inch pointed stilettos, digging a sharp stiletto into his nipple, sinking into his flesh, drawing blood ... whilst shouting obscenities at him, using a long dressage whip to whip Mootoo as he screams in agony and begs for mercy.

He imagines her crouching over his face, urinating on it, forcing his mouth open with the butt of her whip, the warm yellow liquid splattering on his face, some trickling into his open mouth, the salty warm liquid flowing down his throat - just as the American soldiers urinate on their Iraqi prisoners in Abu Ghraib. Aaah, such joy, he cries out in pain & pleasure. No, it is not Angelina Jolie whose lips he imagines around Mootoo, crouching over his face and pissing on him as the United States are pissing on the rest of the world, it is none other than ... Condoleeza Rice...

Whilst mere mortals jerk off to pictures of Anna Nicole Smith (dead or alive) and Pam Anderson in their Penthouse/Playboy magazines, Uncle Veloo jerks off to pictures of Condoleeza Rice in Jane's Defence and Time Magazine. He loves her cold hard beauty, her harsh sadistic cruelty turns him on. He fantasises her on all fours, doing the bidding of her white masters, Dick & Bush, whilst they urge her on "Take it all in bitch". How he admires them. These are people who have legalised torture in their country and get away with it. These are people who coerce other people to submit to the United Nations and yet they themselves refuse to submit to the jurisdiction of the International Criminal Court and therefore avoid being held accountable for all the atrocities they have committed around the world. These are the people who breach every provision in the Geneva Conventions with impunity. They have managed to seduce Britain and Australia to be their ever-ready and ever-willing perennial butt boys with Blair & John Howard perfecting the art of rimming George Bush. If you don't understand what "rimming" means, please go to Frangipani on Friday nite and politely ask one of their patrons to demonstrate on you. It would be considerate to wash first before you go there.

Yes, yes, yes, aaah... Uncle Veloo loooves CNN. There is so sooo much filth in it corrupting our minds, why worry about MTV messing up our kids' minds? Uncle Veloo lies on his bright red Ligne Roset couch, totally subjugated and humiliated, utterly spent, utterly exhausted, utterly satisfied, still hearing Condoleeza Rice screaming obscenities at him:
"America the Benevolent! We bring freedom & democracy to the World." she screams over & over again to the background music of Boney M's "By the Rivers of Babylon" in her tight black PVC catsuit and her red pointed stilettos.

Are you feeling sick to the gut right now? Has Uncle Veloo's fantasies made you nauseous? Do you think I am facetious, making light of a serious matter? Have I pushed your boundaries of tolerance, of acceptable behaviour, of acceptable writing? Have I made you sick and ashamed to read this piece of smut? Where do you draw the line in your level of tolerance on acceptable behaviour? Have I not convinced you that Uncle Veloo and his family are entitled to their freedom of expression, freedom to exploit their sexual fantasies at whatever cost? No? I have not? Shame on me. I have not managed to do what CNN and the United States government and the likes of Rupert Murdoch have so easily managed to do with their manipulation of the world's minds. The constant filth filtering through your TV screens and your mass media, pushing your boundaries daily to accept the brutality exercised by the United States on a group of defenseless people, pilfering their countries' assets, immersing us in their cesspool of debauchery and we find this acceptable. "Many governments torture clandestinely, but Bush's administration is the only government to claim the power to abuse detainees as a matter of official policy" said Kenneth Roth of the Human Rights Watch in the Financial Times. And we find this acceptable behaviour. Is it acceptable that the United States is shoving their brand of democracy up the world's arse?

Likewise, I am stuffing Chapati Moments down your throats. If I do not succeed in drawing you within, to examine your levels of tolerance and acceptance on what you read and what you watch on telly then I have failed. What is acceptable human behaviour to you? Ask yourselves this. Then switch on the news and realise the obscene lies being thrown at you on a daily basis, fucking up your mind.

Wake up and smell the Massala tea.

Chapati Moments: Uncle Veloo's Vindaloo

Uncle Veloo has a restaurant up Boogaloo Street which serves the best mutton vindaloo in the country. Today, Uncle Veloo has a visitor. His niece Letchoomi.

They are in the kitchen. Letchoomi is learning about the restaurant business, hoping one day that Uncle Veloo will pass on his chain of restaurants to her. Not that Uncle Veloo has no children of his own - he has 6 sons and 1 very precious granddaughter, Anjooli. Letchoomi is undaunted. She has her little ways to get what she wants. She learnt this when she was 14. A luscious 14 year old if ever there was one in our town. Quite the Lolita our Letchoomi was. Her first target was her stepfather whom she calls "Mr Buttons" to her friends - based on the size of his lil' knob. It was so small it looked like a button she swears to her friends at school. Perhaps its deformed she thought when she first saw it. After all, Mr Buttons was based in Iraq when those bloody Americans first attacked Iraq 15 years ago. It must be from drinking the water contaminated with depleted uranium. Poor Mr Buttons... she had to muster as much enthusiasm as she could when she was with him even though she could hardly feel anything. When he left her room, she had to finish the job herself with the school flute. Just as well she was a member of the school orchestra. She has fond memories of the school flute. It was unfortunate that she had to return it to the school when she left the orchestra.

And how did a 14 year old learn the art of seducing men? you may ask. She watched a lot of MTV. All those hot chicks in tight pink hot pants with half their apple butts sticking out whilst gyrating and rubbing themselves up against some black geezer in an all pink velvet suit, his neck weighed down by the chunky bling blings with the obligatory large diamond encrusted dollar sign pendant.

Yes, little luscious Letchoomi shuttled straight from childhood to womanhood, by passing being an average teenager altogether. Now at 18, she is the luscious, lascivious, licentious, lubricious Letchoomi - the curse of the double-O family. Let us now move on from my unhealthy obsession with the "L" word. Uncle Veloo is not quite the libertine but there are spurts of libidinous activity spattered indiscriminately in his otherwise dull vindaloo life. (As you can see, I'm still trying to wean myself off the "L" word).

And now back in the kitchen with Letchoomi, Uncle Veloo is watching Letchoomi intensely, the heat of the afternoon mingled with the mutton vindaloo he consumed for lunch causing a slow burning sensation to seep to his loins. He feels Mootoo stirring in his pants. Mootoo, is the affectionate pet name given to his crown jewels by his wife. "My little Mootoo", she would purr lovingly before she takes him into her mouth claiming he tastes of her favourite mutton vindaloo. Letchoomi does not realise she has a formidable task ahead, wresting Uncle Veloo's affections from his deceptively dull looking wife.

Letchoomi continues kneading the dough, leaning forward, bending over slightly above the dough, pretending to be oblivious to Uncle Veloo's enraptured gaze. She has chosen her attire for the day carefully. A traditional saree. You may think that it is pretty inconvenient to wear a saree when one is planning to spend a day helping out in the kitchen of a busy restaurant. But Letchoomi has studied her prey well. This is a man who fantasises about deflowering a young village vestal virgin. The saree depicts her as a girl with traditional values and yet, it has many advantages. Wear a saree blouse which is a little too tight and tie your saree skirt a little too low below your navel ... et voila, you have the desired effect of portraying innocence & naivety and yet, at the same time, exuding a strong sensual appeal.

Uncle Veloo's eyes follows the drop of sweat trickling down Letchoomi's neck, tracing its way down the cinnamon tinged skin of her bosom and finding its way into the deep cleavage at the center. A sigh escapes Uncle Veloo - how clever a drop of water can be, he thinks to himself. His eyes then dart to a sudden flash of pink. In her vigorous act of kneading, her hot pink bra strap peeks out of the striking lime green tight saree blouse. Letchoomi leans further forward over the dough. Uncle Veloo can now catch a glimpse of the hot pink lace. He feels a sudden stab of irrational jealousy against this offensive material. How can such a delicate inconsequential piece of material be entrusted with such an enviable task? To spend the entire day encasing and cupping the luscious breasts of his Letchoomi. Yes, he had decided at that moment, to make Letchoomi his.

His eyes take note of the damp patch slowly spreading out on the underarm of Letchoomi's tight lime green saree blouse. Uncle Veloo likes a woman with a sweaty armpit. He breathes in deeply, wondering what it would smell like if he buried his nose into that damp patch. He imagines it to be similar to the smell of chopped garlic thrown into a pan of hot ghee as it is just turning brown. Yes, that would be perfect he sighed.

Little Mootoo is little no more. Straining within the confines of Uncle Veloo's used-to-be-white Crocodile briefs which now morphs into a cruel prison - Mootoo's very own Guantanamo Bay. Uncle Veloo's own sharp voice abruptly breaks the silence of the hot lazy afternoon, startling himself from his reverie. He commands Letchoomi to take herself to the room upstairs to change into something more comfortable for kitchen work - claiming that her saree might catch fire from the nearby stove if she was careless.

Letchoomi quickly obeys her uncle's command, hiding a smile. She runs up the stairs flushed with excitement. Playing the game of seduced village vestal virgin is rather exciting. It takes skill to perfect it and our Letchoomi has perfected it to an art for she has played this role many times. She would be the dream actress of any Tamil movie director with her long dark tresses tied in a plait and her charcoal eyes framed by those thick dark lashes.

She unravels her burnt orange saree and was in the midst of unbuttoning her lime green saree blouse when Uncle Veloo burst into the room, driven by his lust, driven by Mootoo who has now taken over his thinking process. He rips off the lime green blouse, hesitates slightly before throwing the garment to the floor. He was half tempted to smother his face into the wet underarm patch of the garment but one must not linger on trifles when one is about to deflower a virgin. He glares at the offending hot pink lace material still guarding her breasts protectively. He barks orders for her to remove them. You may wonder at his lack of finesse in the art of seducing a young virgin. But Uncle Veloo understands only too well that one must take charge like a commander of troops in these situations. To ply her open with gentle words and caresses would put her in a dilemma - forcing her to take responsibility for her actions and thereafter deal with her ensuing guilt and shame that she has succumbed to temptation. It is best to dominate and let her feel that she had no choice in the matter. This is a very dangerous game to play as there is a thin line between this act of domination & submission and rape. Uncle Veloo could sense from the way Letchoomi's pupils were dilated that she was excited, that she welcomed him, that there is consent...

He quickly removes his shirt and pants, leaving his Pagoda singlet and Crocodile briefs, which by the way, he has been wearing for the past 3 days, only turning the briefs inside out when it got too damp yesterday afternoon. He pushes Letchoomi onto the nearby bed and hovers over her, commanding her to look at him as he peels off his Crocodile briefs.

Oh what joy Mootoo felt, released from the filthy confines of his own Guantanamo Bay, no longer a suspected Al Qaeda member. But wait, what is happening to him ?? .... Mootoo screams in horror, the silent scream of one who has no voice of his own to be heard but we can nevertheless hear his awful screams in our thoughts and shudder at its horror. Uncle Veloo has taken the role of Lieutenant Colonel Nathan Sassaman, the evil commander of the U.S. Army Fourth Infantry Divisions 1-8 battalion who is well known for having his Iraqi prisoners wrapped up tightly in barbed wire. The engorged Mootoo is now tightly wrapped in rubber sheath. "Made in Malaysia" says the torn golden foil wrapper thrown carelessly on the floor. Mootoo is screaming for Amnesty International to bombard Uncle Veloo with letters demanding his immediate release. What kind of man conquers his vestal village virgin in protective gear??? he screams at the injustice.

Whilst this battle between Uncle Veloo and Mootoo ensues for a few seconds, Letchoomi reaches down and surreptitiously removes her own protective gear and drops it carefully onto the floor. It is that time of the month for her. You may think this is most unfortunate for her but our Letchoomi has planned this with the precision of a CIA agent embarking on a covert operation. Uncle Veloo will expect to see blood and blood he will see.

Without much ado, Uncle Veloo plunges the still protesting Mootoo into Letchoomi. Letchoomi lets out the desired whimper of fear and pain (all an adept act of pretense on her part). She found difficulty concentrating on her role in the game as she is distracted by Uncle Veloo's frayed Pagoda singlet which has seen better days. (Mootoo is also not quite enjoying his role in his deep sea diving outfit.) There are several holes in the Pagoda singlet where Uncle Veloo's thick unruly chest hair has managed to spring out of, struggling to escape. Imprisoned without a fair trial. These rebellious insurgents who have sprung out of Uncle Veloo's Pagoda singlet are creating havoc on Letchoomi's delicate cinnamon tinged skin, acting like an abrasive loofah, causing her skin to burn. Letchoomi notices that the singlet is mouldy green at his underarms. What kind of wife would let her husband walk around clad in such filth she wondered. Why can't Auntie Roopah wash her husband's undergarments properly or throw them away before they deteriorate to such dismal conditions, cultivating a funghi plantation on their own accord. There is just too much anarchy going on, she thinks to herself, on Uncle Veloo's complicated body - presenting a whole continent by itself, full of rebellious inhabitants.

Indeed, what kind of woman is Auntie Roopah, you wonder. She is the sturdy, strong, dependable type of woman. Strong and reliable. Yes she sounds like an advert for Standard Chartered Bank. She is the kind of person you would send to your borders to defend your country should a skirmish occur with a neighbouring country. You would feel safe with Auntie Roopah guarding your borders. She is the glue which binds the family together. Not the weak, easily distracted Uncle Veloo whose only love is his grand daughter Anjooli and his mutton vindaloo - not particularly in that order of priority.

The whole deflowering process did not last very long. There is no reason to linger. One cannot evoke pleasure from the recently deflowered. It is an act of dominance and submission. Uncle Veloo's "Shock & Awe" treatment specially reserved for vestal village virgins (if he could find any!). Yes, Uncle Veloo watches too much CNN. He should be dragged to the town square and flogged in public. But one suspects that he might enjoy that too much. He rolls off the bed, still in his Pagoda singlet, carrying its own horticultural lifeform, to head for the bathroom. He steps on something warm and moist. He looks down at his right foot. All he could make out is something partly white, mostly covered with blood, its limp white tail visible from the other side of his foot. Uncle Veloo lifts his foot in horror, not wanting to look down at the squashed object as he rushes to the bathroom to wash the blood off his body and his foot.

Back in the kitchen, Uncle Veloo is in the midst of cooking mutton vindaloo. Cooking is the only thing that can calm his nerves. Uncle Veloo is racked with guilt and full of remorse. How is he going to tell little Anjooli that he has stepped on, squashed and killed her pet white mouse, General Noosh???

Meanwhile, in the room upstairs, Letchoomi picks up the squashed bloodied object off the floor by its tail and flushes it down the loo. Her game is up, she thinks to herself. Uncle Veloo has discovered her farce.

Uncle Veloo had stepped on and squashed her earlier discarded .... super tampon...