Ewww!! Awful! Substantially awful! What was divine until four days ago today is downright dangerous and puke worthy. I’m just not doing it. She may choose to divorce me. But my manly ego doesn’t allow me to get the filth fixed. Nature has its own ways. The problem will find its soul mate solution. I refuse to be the mediator. 

Who am I? An undertaker to take the dead to the grave? She might believe so, given my strong musculature. Aah! That woman, how she fell for my good heart and drool worthy body. Lost herself to my rakish, rogue manners. ‘Not boyish, you are manly’, she once blushed. And now? She wants me to desert my masculinity and do such a creepy thing. Never! I’m going to stand strong on my dictum, ‘I’m a man. I can’t do it.’ I’m sure, to which she will coolly say, ‘Honey, we can’t do anything about you being a man now. Try speaking to your parents if times can be reversed.’

Hah! Smart woman! No matter what, I have to get rid of the thing before she is back. If at all she gets a whiff of the apocalypse, my existence will be jeopardized. ‘You spoilt kindergarten brat! How come your memory goes for jolly jogs on returning home? For our marriage’s sake, try remembering mundane things.’

The tirade will start with no expiry date. Banging, clanging, shrills, and cries will fill the air. Air that would have been already stuffed with the odor of my misgivings. ‘Set an alarm. Ask a friend to call you. Tell Rajat Sharma to announce on national television. Do whatever it takes to remind you of your back-home rituals.’

She can argue in Rajat’s court and accuse him of the crime I have committed. For four days, after the office, I dozed off watching Aap ki adalat, because she was vacationing with her parents. I forgot the inevitable and my karma sat in the black bag, quiet as a mouse, making no squeak of its presence. In a lesser known corner of the knapsack, fate built its home. Now, without a commotion, I can’t get it out.

Nothing doing. I must prove I’m a man and only a man can face karma in its face. Let me find my gloves and headgear. Deep breathe. 

Hey, idiot, don’t deep breathe near the bag. 

There goes my headgear, a clipper on my nose. No quit the clipper, quite suffocating. Gloves on my hand. I’m equipped. Let me say a brief prayer, ‘Itni shakti hume dena…’ Real men pray and seek blessings before an arduous task. In fact, real men don’t run away from problems. 

Left after right. One leg in front of the other. Unlocking the zip, Bhagwan, hai kaha re tu…the odor is unbearable. I can understand her wrath now. My offense is unpardonable. There sits the source of my trouble- the four-day-old lunch box. rajma chawal romancing the fungus. With time, people change their taste. So has the rajma come to like the creepy fungus than the chawal. I bring out the box and dart to the dustbin. And later, rush with the dustbin to the nearest municipal garbage cart. 

You can’t keep running away forever from the disposal of a four-day-old forgotten lunch box. Accept it.