TO: ME BEAR
Pardon the late reply. It’s been what, one week? I was terribly busy with (i) Xiaoyun, (ii) struggling with my homework and (iii) my law club management committee commitments. Yes. Busy little man I am. I apologize again that you didn’t get this from downstairs. I don’t really want to lose the book. Since you’re a Gaiman fan, I suppose you’ve read American Gods. I also suppose that you’ll be wanting to read Anasi Boys. Don’t let that pesky Anuja know you’ve got it from me. She’ll kill me. Heh. The book you loaned me was something I read many years ago in secondary school. I think there were 4 total in the entire series. Nonetheless I shall hold onto it as my significant other wants to read it. I hope you don’t mind.
And now, something that you’ve been waiting for...
A(N INDIAN) LOVE STORY
Once upon a time, in the southern province of China, there lived a little Indian boy called Muthu. What he was doing in China was pretty much beyond me, but I suspect that he was smuggled there as a slave to sell prata to the unsuspecting Chinese public.
Muthu was a loyal slave. He served his master, Mr Lekongsimi very well. Mr Lek was a Thai business man whom saw potential in the prata business in China and employed (bought) a few slaves over to work in his shop. It might possibly be considered a sweat shop because working in the shop does make one sweat an enormous lot but it really isn’t relevant to the story.
Muthu had been working in the shop since he was 10. He didn’t do much of the actual prata-ing as it was left to the senior slaves. What he did primarily was to clean and collect the RMB. There were not many Indians in China and frankly all the Indians he ever saw were his fellow slaves. It made for very warped sexual preferences. But luckily for Muthu, he was firm in his belief that he would eventually find a pretty Indian girl and they will get married in the Taj Mahal and set up a nice home in some rural village where he would raise a football (soccer to the locals) team of children. Perhaps +1 for good measure. That would be nice.
One faithful day when he turned 15, a visit by a princess from India to his province aroused his interest. It was highly unusual for a princess to visit such a faraway country such as China. Much less the southern province of it as it was geographically very far away. However, this was no social trip. This princess was rather famous. Princess Jasmine as they called her. After her scandal with Aladdin, her father refused to give her any more pocket money. She ended up doing product endorsements for various companies. This particular visit was to promote Pizza Hut in China. Amazingly, they have several branches in the main cities like Beijing and Shanghai, but this was the first time they were branching out to the rural provinces.
Princess Jasmine had a very easy job. She just has to come down to China, smile, and look pretty. It was standard work and a pretty high paying job. But it was boring. Not to mention the various leers she got from the PRCs just because her skin color was different and they thought of her as ‘exotic’. Princess Jasmine couldn’t stand the Chinese. Truth be told, she was racist. She hated yellow skin. But yet. She has insofar failed to find anyone attractive back in India except for Aladdin. Unfortunately for her, he didn’t really keep his promise due to his commitments with genie due to their signing on for a 200 episode long cartoon series with Disney. Months and years of neglect led to an amicable separation. She longed for the boyish charm of a little Indian boy any day.
And that’s when she saw him. As she absentmindedly cut the ribbon for the opening of Pizza Hut – Jiangxi, she saw a little Indian boy staring back at her from across the road. It was a funny shop he was working in. They were throwing pieces of flour up in the air and twirling them around... it all looked too pizza-rish. This smells like an impending lawsuit – she thought. It didn’t really matter to her though. She’s just a front, a representative... of some fake tradition that the Indian shareholders of Pizza Hut are trying to bring into China. “Pizza comes from India!” the banner slung across the huge doors of the store proclaimed. She ignored that. She could only see the little Indian boy. He somehow reminded her of a time past when she was more carefree. More... girlish? She smiled in his general direction. And he fainted.
In the prata shop, Muthu was flabbergasted at this Indian goddess perched on a podium no more than 100m away from where he was. Was she real? His heart was thumping. Was this happening? Has Durga finally answered his prayers? Muthu never had the chance to see any Indian girls much. As such, he did what every respectable full blooded male would do when confronted with such an object of desire. His blood rushed away from his head. Not used to being light-headed, he did the only biologically abled thinig he could do. He fainted. Crash. Down went Muthu onto the cheap tarmac floor along with some spare change and RMB.
Mr Lek was frantically trying to revive Muthu when Princess Jasmine came over to the shop. Despite their differences in hierarchy she offered him a helping hand. Muthu was amazed when he awoke to see Princess Jasmine bent low over him. He was even more amazed that this Goddess, castes apart, would actually extend her hand in aid, in friendship. “Me... Muthu... you... who...?” He managed to stutter it out audibly. Princess Jasmine laughed “You can call me Jasmine”. Seeing that he was well, they exchanged pleasantries and she left. All that Muthu had was an address. It wasn’t even a good address. It was a bloody PO Box. Oh well. It’s better than nothing.
Time passed. Muthu gradually gained the trust of Mr Lek and took over the entire business from Mr Lek, whom due to unforeseen circumstances regarding tax fraud had to relocate to another province. The other slaves weren’t happy as Muthu was afterall the youngest there, but he increased their pay, made them partners and got them Chinese slaves. Under such conditions, it can’t really be that bad right? As life got better for Muthu, he never failed to write to Jasmine. Oh his sweet beloved Jasmine. If only she could see him now. The shop has been renamed into Muthu’s Roti Prata and has outperformed Pizza Hut by leaps and bounds. Primarily because of the lower cost of prata as opposed to pizza, and the flexibility of the cuisine. Murtabak anyone? Muthu was rich and successful. But he was still lonely. He corresponded to Jasmine every week, but she hasn’t replied to him for like what... 5 years? He was now 20, a strapping young man, but not attracted to any of the PRCs readily available. He just didn’t fancy the idea of dipping his nuggets in mustard. Though Muthu has spent half his life away from India, he was still fiercely loyal and would die for India any day. This was however not required because every day, people do die in India due to silly reasons like overcrowded trams, buses and boats. People get trampled when they go marketing. Hence there was no real reason for Muthu’s sacrifice. The basic gist is that he would very much like an Indian wife. Jasmine would do just fine. If only she replied.
Jasmine on the other hand was wondering why hasn’t Muthu written yet. It’s been so bloody long that frankly after the first year of waiting, she had given up and looked for darker pastures. It was just that Muthu’s image kept popping up in her head that she frequently found herself thinking of what might have been. It wasn’t her fault right? She did give him an address. Didn’t she?
Truth be told, Jasmine screwed up. She gave him the wrong PO Box number. E413 instead of E415. As such, all the mails got directed to this Chinese(!) foreign investor called Haoren. Haoren was just being nice in returning the mail back to the sender. But unknown to him, the PRC postman on Muthu’s side was just too lazy to cycle all the way to Muthu’s town to return a bloody piece of mail. He decided that throwing it away would be wiser. And that’s what he did. Not one piece of mail was received by Jasmine. And she grew sadder and sadder everyday.
The King called a meeting with his general advisors on how to make his daughter happier. She herself of course knew what was bothering her, but just felt it was too silly to convene a general meeting to discuss this. Hence when the King asked her what was bothering her, she flipped through a mail-order catalog and replied with the first word she saw. Rambutan.
“Rambutan?” the King exclaimed.
“Yes. Rambutan.”
“Why... are Rambutans bothering you?”
“Not... available... not fresh...”
“It shall be done.”
It is common knowledge that rambutans aren’t generally available in India. I might be wrong on this, but please, don’t correct me. It’s my story. The King then sent out a notice to let all the sweetest and freshest rambutan holders come with their hairy rambutans and make her daughter happy. Whomever could please her with his rambutans would gain her hand in marriage. You might ask what was Jasmine’s say in this. She didn’t bother to correct him. She humored him by playing along. Afterall, free food. No need to work. Got people por you. Why not?
Last we left Muthu he was in a pretty good financial situation. So good in fact that he managed to procure an air ticket to India. He told his fellow partners that he was going back to his roots. They started fighting for his share of the business the moment he stepped out of the door. On the way to the airport, he passed by a rambutan stall. Muthu loved rambutans. It was just a silly craving, but he suddenly felt that he had to buy a whole caseful. It was odd. But he did so. Lugging the case up the plane wasn’t easy considering the ridiculous barangs that PRCs oh so loved to carry. But it was done. Soon, he was in India. Without a name other than Jasmine, and a PO Box address.
He did what every sane man would do. He went to wait for her at her PO Box. He slipped a fresh letter into the mailbox and waited. As luck may have it, he slipped it into the wrong mailbox, which turned out to be the correct mailbox. After waiting for ½ day, he finished ½ his crate of rambutans. He was going to start on a fresh bunch when the royal saikang warrior came to check Princess Jasmine’s mail. Frankly he was getting bored with coming everyday to face an empty mailbox, but work’s work. Imagine his surprise when he saw a crumpled (but fresh!) letter in the mailbox. Addressed to Jasmine.
“Excuse me” Muthu asked, half rising from the crate.
“Yes?” replied the saikang warrior eyeing him curiously.
“Do you own that mailbox?”
“Not really, it’s my missus’”
“Can you bring me to see her?”
“Er... it’s not that simple... unless...”
“Unless?”
The saikang warrior remembered the rambutan thingy and relayed to him “... Unless you have the sweetest and freshest rambutans in India. Then you may meet her.”
Muthu thought to himself. WTF?!... this is getting ridiculous. But heng. I have some rambutans. Quite sweet too. He shall try his luck and see if he could get to meet the woman of his dreams... “I have ½ a crate. Is that enough?”
“It’s not the quantity that matters, it is the quality.”
With that, he brought Muthu back to the palace swiftly. But not before blindfolding him for it is tradition that visitors to the palace are blindfolded because really the palace looks really shitty at some places due to poor maintenance and whatnot. Only the visitors areas are grand. So, yeah. He blindfolded Muthu and led Muthu to the visitor’s area. From there, he requested permission from the King to let Muthu present his rambutans to Princess Jasmine. Muthu did not know he was in a palace. Nor did he know Jasmine was a princess. Hence he found the entire procedure highly odd. Luckily they let him keep his rambutans close to him. He found odd solace in consuming them. He didn’t know why.
Finally after queuing up for ½ hour, it was his turn to present his rambutans to Princess Jasmine. She couldn’t recognize him at first. He couldn’t see her. But he could smell her. Was it her? Was it really her? His senses went into overload again and before he knew it, he got so excited that he... fainted again.
Jasmine eyed this strapping young fruit bearer inquisitively. He had a different aura from the rest. Something familiar. When he fainted, she recognized him immediately. Muthu once again opened his eyes to his Goddess for the second time in his life. “Praise Durga...” He muttered. I guess we all know what happens from hereon. But in case you didn’t know, or can’t guess...
They lived happily ever after.
THE END
Dammit. I so have to do my bloody tutorial now. See la. Tsk tsk tsk. Write to you another week later. Ha ha ha. Enjoy the book!
Zhiyou
E413
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment