Kurkure Tales

Kurkure Tales

The middle-aged woman sat discreetly in a corner of the ornate pavilion put up for the Master’s Aquatic Meet in Chennai. Her dupatta was draped decorously over her head. Her incredibly fit husband, an older man with a washboard abdomen, accompanied her.

She got up after some time. She was incredibly obese. Her face sank into her chest. Her stomach preceded her. Her hips hung down to her knees. She had enormous saddle bags on both thighs, clearly visible through the slit in her kurta.

Breakfast was provided , so she bought four iddlies and two dosais. She also managed to carry two packets of kukure. After attacking all of that for breakfast she tackled the packets of Kurkure and finished them both. She offered me some, but I refused scared of vomiting after the races.

There was a sumptuous lunch, so she purchased chicken biryani, curd rice and sambhar rice along with two packets of chips.

After lunch she whipped out a little black book and started writing in it.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“I am under the care of a dietician. She asked me to write down all that I eat. She needs to calculate calories.”

I looked in the book. Under breakfast she had written “two  iddlies.”

“What about the dosai and the Kurkure?” I asked.

“The dosai was my husband. He didn’t eat it.”

“What about the Kurkure?”

“She only said to record the meal. Kurkure is not a meal. Nor are chips. I can’t help it if my husband did not eat his biriyani . That is HIS meal. Not mine. ”

The dietician probably thinks she is a medical wonder, with incredible lack of weight loss, if she follows the calorie calculation recorded in the book!