Shorts

The biggest mixing bowl in the top most shelf; the ingredients next to it; the oven powered by the electric company and the clean granite kitchen top. None of them knew that within a quarter of the next triplet hours, they were going to be the messiest battleground of my culinary disaster.

I think I might have to beg to be a little different. It can’t be a disaster after all. Well at the end, I was able to figure out, how wonderful some things are.

So it started with each ingredient getting added themselves into the bowl, actually missing the target of the kitchen top and by mistake making it into the bowl. Nonetheless, they made it. As they say, alls well that ends well. The only concern was, it was just the beginning.

Figuring out the right movement of the beater was a skill in itself. Clockwise, counter clockwise, ups, downs, tumbles, wobbles, and all the directions that I don’t even know exist in the dictionary. As always, for one mixing two beaters had to sacrifice their existence.

Once the white, pure, soulful and sweet smelling batter was ready, it was time to excite the baker to get red hot. I think I calculated a little wrong; the baker was an electron powered one; which needs not even a single click to be hot and ready to burn.

In goes the batter into the baking pan, and the pan into the baker and the baker into sublime tranquillity.

My mobile has powerful software developed for the purposes exactly opposite to what I use it for. Set the timer to go off when the three quarters of the hour finish themselves.

Well, that was the silence of the hurricane yet to strike the beautiful coast of my homely beach!

My chemistry teacher had once warned me, not to over heat sugar else it burns into charcoal. Not to excite the heat to the extent that the soft spots cannot handle it.

But who cared? I didn’t. Neither then, nor now

Within one quarter of the hour, beautiful fragrance of the burning sugars filled the room. Within another, smoked the very space

At first, it seemed to be a simple fog. Later when the shock of the overhead smoke detector paralysed me, I realised that the power it had to summon the red dressed men and drench the whole place just to find that the culprit was the chemistry teacher who couldn’t imbibe sense into her students.

As expected, instead of the golden, crispy, edgy piece of white cake it was the black, coaly, harsh piece of, I don’t even know what the chef of the recipe would have called it.

Then started the actual war! Steps that need to be taken when we underestimate the prowess of the enemy; when we over estimate our skills of converting the typed words into sweet dumplings; when we don’t even care to estimate the reach of the so called saviours from the Smoke(d) Angel.

All fans, all windows, all exhausts and all newspapers gone into just one purpose, keep the sirens at bay. But alas on it goes. Just at the right moment. Just at the end of the three quarters. Long Live Nokia

Once the initial outrage was dampened, it was turn to look into the contents under the burnt top.

One thing I forgot was that, though sugars burn, they also form a protective layer to save the other things from blackening.

Once the layer was ruthlessly cut and thrown and disposed off the gargling wash basin; the golden, fluffy, edgy, cutie and some other words from the romantic part of the same dictionary evolved out.

So soft, sweet and that 4 lettered word of caution; it was brilliant

It pained to cut it out from the unyielding pan. And the cake that should have been a 9 by 9 piece was nothing more than 2 pieces of the size 8 by 4. The better part though, instead of one cake, I now have two.

I tried to see what could be my best option at this hour. How can I cover up the disaster looking face so that the test subject I had readied would not be able to find out?

Then it dawned about the two cans of spray I had got as a free add-on – the Red and Blue icing machines that can give my disaster a look of Madonna.

No looking back, just pouring on, on to the cake top to make it look as if it was made just out of the glaring recipe printout.

As nothing can be copied or reproduced, the icing wasn’t a victory as well.

But as I always held, who cares! After all, what matters is, it’s a cake, with the icing, with the colours, with the eater, with the test subject and the Universe mute enough to accept it. So, nothing to say when nothing is asked

That reminds me, the baking pan still awaits my hands on its rickety, rugged and rough curves to get it back into its smooth shape.

But the legacy lives on. The legacy of making the black into the white, filled with the speech of the first Black Presidential candidate into the fluffy grounds, added with the colours of the very country and topped with the cover up of the very existence.

A cake is born, that not only baked but also baked its baker and the bake maker!

With a strong gust of chilly winds came a white blanket of snow covering me with its weight. Staying still underneath was the only option lest I might drown into the ocean of whiteness. Far above the hill were the church chimes ringing. With the rushing winds in my direction the sounds raised. Intensity was building up, strenuous grew my ears and weight drowned me with it. I couldn’t bear it anymore, I couldn’t deny it anymore and with courage I stood up – switched off the fan, shut down the alarm and threw off the comforter.

It isn’t dawn yet, but that’s how it should be, I am on time. Freshening up for the refreshing day was necessary; which followed by the call of prayers. But as always, with nothing more to do after that and the cosy little world of dreams pulling me in I resigned into the sweetness of darkness into a multitude of light remembering that waking up at 9 was essential.

It isn’t uncommon for the mind to slip, heart to sink and body to slink into the arms of life dreaming what isn’t there and living what isn’t true. Even when the church belled the chimes, nothing moved. But yes something made me realise, I am way past the past 9 O Clock commitment.

Then what, that which I always do; a sweet message to the organizers to wait for me even if its eternity. Walking wasn’t my cup of coffee any day. Chills always chilled my legs. But I knew today it wasn’t even 40 Fahrenheit to say its cold. It was the excitement of what I would be doing in a couple of triple hours which made me numb all over and had to have the honk of the tailgating car to tell me I am almost there just a 12 feet of asphalt apart to join the crowds going for the ski trip that would, at the end of the day, convert into a skit rip.

Driving was fun. Sitting two rows behind the driver was funnier. French, Arabic, Hindi and garnished with English was the breakfast. Camelback Resort was 2 hours away but the driver took 3 hours. It was worth it though for the curves and cuts and cuffs of the roads which showed that the driver was in fact an acclaimed hill climber with a very bad taste of music.

Finding a place to rest the tired tires led to know each other better, who knew those I didn’t know before dawn would be the best known after dusk. Fully covered as I am always, having two rovering balls in their sockets I found my way down, well I agree I was led my way down. After a winding trail of slush and dirt and splash finally we reached the ending of the queue which had a never ending beginning. But we were saved, much to the respite of the Sweet Cute Organizing Lady so we don’t have to wait for the queues to end but reach a place which ends the queue.

There I met with the ones yet unknown – a Boston without a ‘T’; a Lay On without a space between Lay and On; a Praised without much to praise and a Similar Name with no similarity. Well that’s how strangers meet in a strange land. Not knowing who each other is; yet knowing fully what each other will be.

The queues were the call of the day – to pay-n-pick the French fries; to siphon off ketchup; to sign the death forms; to wear shackling shoes; to see the weird dance from Boston; and finally to pick up the blades of glory. Well not exactly glory but why the world at large should know it isn’t!

Walking was fun – white all over with faces as pink as always. Not the blushing pink but the shying tinge. The moment the blades came underneath my feet I was over my palms learning the first lesson how not to stand up even when a cool guy from the Canadian Plains offers a hand. Lest he realised I was heavier than he thought. No wonder I was told to stand up by removing my blades. Anyway, I learnt a lesson, with the blades to glory shackling your fallen legs, there is no glory attached with it anymore. But come to think of it, it was just the beginning of the turmoil of falls.

My next fall wasn’t far away, well not exactly near too as it came after I was carried to a height of 40 feet. I lost count of the jumping numbers in the process of finding words to remember Almighty. But He said, He will never help me until I help myself by jumping off my seat.

Falling was the call of the day. Every member of the organizing committee tried to help me – the Driver who is also a good skier, the Canadian with his diving skills and the Soft Spoken Lady of the helm. As destined, all advices were falling on my numb ears and I was on the numbing ice.

Thrice was fun, fourth was ok, fifth was worse and sixth fall was the grand finale. Blades were on my shoulder and I was walking down the white floor.

I was saved of the grace when I knew that I walked, someone else had swept the floor clean with her prowess. Nonetheless the moments after that were lovely. Watching the dancing sun, fearing similarity and laughing at the praised added to the much respite needed to drown the fun.

Cafeteria was never so much fun. Knowing the hitherto unknown, understanding what was unsaid, saying what shouldn’t be uttered, kicking something which shouldn’t be publicly kicked and laughing out loud when smiling in was the norm.

Fun was the peace, love was the show, gentle was the shower and cool was the hospitality. But I wasn’t yet satisfied of my anger of being left alone in the whole wide world by the Frenchmen who promised will be part of my misery. But it only took some promises and hot chocolates to douse it off. Back I was to the van which was to carry us onto the road back to that world of darkness which always promises that which can never be promised.

The only problem, the driver was the same tasteless music freak. Anyway, after all, the Driver was the boss on the floor. With another 3 hours lights were in sight to be switched off soon and I drowning into the slumbers so that my paining arms be cooled and my aching thighs be calmed.

Though I had decided that it was to be my first and, by the end of the day, my last; I think I can anytime rethink my decisions. It’s not very clear out in front but may be after 366 days, I may suddenly be woken up by the gust of wind, the blanket of white and the sounds of chimes to convert this year’s skit rip into a proper ski trip.