It’s been four days I haven’t had motion. That’s a polite way of saying, a sophisticated way of letting the world know that I have been constipated for long and that is coming in between mine and people’s breath. The doctors ask me to run, I am a marathon runner , the doctors ask me to include fiber in my diet, I am now a home grown cow, the doctors then analyzed my food and asked me to give up the yogurt or try Chobani. I refused. That is all I have left…of him– the yogurt. Fifteen years back, on a sultry afternoon in Bangalore, he left feeling sour, leaving behind a container of freshly made yogurt at my place blurting bitter words like apple cider vinegar. I use to be occasionally constipated then and his yoghurt had eased my discomfort within. Later, things changed. “You are stuck up…both ways. Why can’t you let yourself be, free up, shake yourself a little and let people breathe, people around you are not your property that you own, they have a life too, they are their own person, they need air. I am choking in this relationship. I loved you but I need life too.” All this he said only because I had taken ten Motrin tablets, 250 mg each and ended up in the emergency room vomiting. I got saved. I knew I would. I had done enough research to not die and enough to show my dolor. He had been on work travel for a week to Indonesia and called me up only twice. I had instructed on ‘everyday’. Such antics come naturally to me, like dosa and sambhar, cheese and burger. When I love, I forget the difference between YOU and ME. The person though, does remember and that hurts. This was happening for the 11th time in the three years of our love and he disappeared. The yogurt remained, staring silently …it was a caraphenelia and I continued with the yogurt. He made the world’s most silken, thick and sweet yogurt; saving a bit of the previous batch to create the next one. I am not sure if I got addicted to him or the yogurt. That is not necessary right now. I have been sitting on the cherry commode rubbing my feet against the penny porcelain mosaic tiles, for the past 43 minutes but without much success. I had a bowl of yogurt yesterday night against the doctor’s dictum. I make a mental note- The yoghurt has to go. I make a heart note- Don’t listen to what the mind says.
Getting back to him, once he left, I kept the yogurt with me, using the culture for my next batch. I carried it to Singapore after my transfer and since then it has been a regular part of me, a culinary rite of passage and an emotional one too. My current live –in partner is an easy going person and with age and stage, I have tried to loosen up a bit, to giving space for people to breathe. Quite possible, I am still so hung up on him, it is difficult to choke anyone else. Often, a thought crosses my mind, how does love become toxic and why? It never does to me. At the end, I only wanted his attention, because I gave him all of mine, at the end, I wanted to own him because I let him own not only my body but my soul, my kitchen and my washroom. My American and Eurasian friends over here label this as ‘possessiveness’ urging me to get over the hurt. One of them is a victim of domestic violence. “It would take one million of him
to make even a single me,” she sobbed over her divorce papers with tears and phlegm leaving stains on her brown leather jacket. I reflected on the veracity of the statement. Same pinch…isn’t it?
The other day, the doctor ordered a stool test, then concluded that I have to give up the yogurt, lactose intolerance or some shit like that to get the shit out of me. They say one way would be to throw the yogurt and start afresh. I want to do that. I do not know how to do that. The yogurt is all that I have of him. Running helps in moving the colon muscles and I became a marathon runner though not a sprint one. The insides moves slow, the output is more towards black, hard, small and painful to produce. But it comes once every 4-5 days and I wonder how long can I continue with the yogurt. Will it cause cancer? Colon cancer? Now a days anything can cause cancer. Can love cause cancer? Imagine the doctor coming out of his room, looking cold and distant like professionals do, pretending best to appear attached and concerned. After a diligent and exhaustive diagnosis, he concludes in a somber and doctorly way, “She is suffering from Love carcinoma. I am sorry but this is incurable. I am sorry but we don’t treat this. The happy news is that she has to treat herself.” Hahaha!!! I stare at his head wondering how can get much of a brain in such a small structure.
But why did he leave? The questions remain inside. Probably he didn’t understand me enough, love me enough.
I have a hunch that my partner would soon leave, he finds my constipation a big put off. He too thinks I am stuck up…both ways. That isn’t nice. Are people and kindness an oxymoron? Not that he is much of any value either with his pot belly and breath smelling of chicken tikkas. His love for beaches, beer and Birkenstocks bore me. I choose not to tell him. My work is going great, that is what I totally possess and excel therefore. Possession is the route towards excellence. Possession is the root towards constipation. One of them has to go.
Few more minutes, my stomach feels light, I apply a hemorrhoid cream with 1% hydrocortisone on the swollen self, wash and get ready for work. What about lunch? I look around. Tossing some pineapple, mandarin oranges, grapes, coconut, and marshmallows, I pour him all over. I pour the entire of him and put the container in the dishwasher. It’s over. 15 years in 15 seconds. One last time to be stuck up…both ways.