Saturday, August 28, 2010

The Curious Case Of Cabbage Kuppu, Esq.

Till the age of 78 by which time he was in no condition to protest when the nurse at the cancer ward shoved spoon after spoonful of ragi soup into his feeble mouth, Kuppuchaamy had subsisted on nothing but cabbage. Morning, noon, evening and night, all he'd ingested - be it in solid, liquid or gaseous state - was cabbage.

In the beginning, when Kuppuchaamy's 13-year old mother died unable to bear the pain of birthing him, and when he was gently placed in a garbage bin and warmly bundled up in a couple of inky fresh sheets of the morning's Dhina Thanthi by a mildly remorseful newspaperboy who, having been magnetically drawn to the screams emanating from the decaying hut built of cardboard strung together with thin electrical cord, couldn't for a moment imagine having to give up his youth to care for a dead stranger's baby, the hungry infant found himself thrashing around in a rotting swill of cabbage soup garnished with a softly widening tendril of hastily masticated wine-red pan masala. The mechanism of Survival can run on the strangest of fuels, and, on that sweaty April morning, Kuppuchaamy's little engine learned to beautifully adapt itself to the strange chemistry of cabbage, that most unjustly neglected of nature's lifegivers. If it was a harsh lesson in growing up, then Kuppuchaamy did not show it, and, just a few sips into that evil-smelling brew that would ordinarily nauseate any average human raised within the careful parameters of an unforgivingly civilized society, without ever realising how incredible the change taking place within him truly was, 3-hour-old Kuppuchaamy hardened, grew a sudden patch of pubic hair, and became a man. Over the years, many people took exception to Kuppuchaamy's unwavering predilection for all forms, preparations and mutations of cabbage on, most often and rather unfairly, aesthetic grounds. But that just couldn't be helped. And the fact remained, much to the consternation of the bewildered and increasingly defensive medical community, that Kuppuchaamy's health stubbornly persisted in the peak, and, indeed, most enviable, of conditions.

It was on his 50th birthday, however, having lived a gloriously eventful life in which he'd disdainfully fought his way up the rungs of Chennai's uncivil society and established himself as a great politician not to be easily trifled with, that Kuppuchaamy came face to face with the first real challenge to his powers of tolerance as well as his miraculous physical constitution. On that golden birthday - just two days into his rather late and fascinatingly garish wedding with Leelavati, the eldest and most beautiful daughter of the Mega-Super-Shining-Action-Thunder-Star Dishoom Ravi - his new wife insisted that he eat the noodle samosa that she lovingly pushed up against his firmly pursed lips with her own mehendi-covered right hand. His problem was simple, and we who are intimate with Kuppuchaamy's curious history can eminently sympathize - the samosa was much too, entirely, uncomfortably, cabbageless. He was not at all kindly disposed towards such a dramatic departure from habit, and he made his feelings plainly evident. But a great frown already sullied Leelavati's pretty face, as she had by now taken his refusal, not unreasonably, as a personal insult.

Forced for the first time in his cabbagey life to decide between his hard-set patterns and the love of a sexy young woman from a wealthy and powerful family, Kuppuchaamy started profusely sweating. Before he could formulate a quick plan of action in his tension-clouded mind, though, Fate had decided to take control of the situation in its own patently undiplomatic style: lo and behold, in perfect sync with the formation of two large pools of warm sweat around Kuppuchaamy's nylon-covered armpits, a soft crease started appearing along the edges of Leelavati's sensitive little nose. And a major decision spontaneously came to exist, beginning with a tentative query from the agitated Kollywood princess: "Yenna oru maadhiri cabbagu naathama varudhu?" As Kuppuchaamy looked on incredulously, the samosa dropped out of Leelavati's trembling hand; she sniffed once more at the desperate air, and fell to the ground in an unnecessarily cinematic swoon. In a fit of inspired confusion, Kuppuchaamy spun on his feet and sprinted to the salad bar, not bothering to even re-tie the part of his dhothi that was lugubriously starting to slide down his left thigh. There, at the opulent buffet table, he stuck a defiant fist into a large bowl of chopped cabbage.

He never, ever, turned back.

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