I’m having what better be the best damn egg of my life. Cost me like 8,000 Rupees. There are a lot of elements to cooking an egg – you’d be surprised. You need a cooker for one (inherited). You need a pan. You need eggs, bread, butter, and salt (easy to forget the salt). I also got tomatoes and karapincha cause they cost like Rs 90 on the street. Then, of course, you need gas. I got a cylinder from my grandparents, as old as Cain, rusty but able. Get up in the morning, have a glance around my pecabble kitchen and hit the gas for my first meal. Click. Click. Click. Look down, then around. The gas cylinder is totally gone. Look over at the door, and the wood barricade is gone too. Hora. Someone has broken in and thieved my gas cylinder. It’s like 2 o’clock and I’m determined to have this egg. Go out, buy a cylinder at Laufgs and on the way back turn past a strange sight. Dude on a bicycle with a gas cylinder. Couldn’t be.
But I’m pretty sure it was. In that moment I could’ve decided to confront him but – out of puss or aesthetics – I didn’t. For one thing, I had a nicer gas cylinder in the trunk, albeit about 6,000 less in my pocket. For another, I thought it was a coincidence, that he couldn’t be so dumb as to hawk it in my neighborhood. And one more thing. That gas cylinder is verra old. When it’s disconnected from the stove it leaks like a faucet and I’m kinda scared of it. Ever since he disconnected the thing it’s surely been releasing whatever gas it had. Hope he hasn’t kept it in his house, and hope he doesn’t smoke.
Meh. I connect the new cylinder. Secure the kitchen door for real and make an egg. Karapincha is a nice touch, and hunger is a good chef. Such is life.
In another incident, however, I was glad I hadn’t secured the place too tight. What for my own good.
It’s another (earlier) day, and I’m standing on the balcony in the morning sun. Thinking about security, and freedom. In my opinion it’s always important to be able to break into your own house. So I’m looking down, thinking about the angles. Plot two routes, one of which I looked too fat for. Then like clockwork, two johnnies knock on the door seeking donations for some cricket tournament. I left my wallet at a friends house yesterday so I’m of no use on this account, nor especially inclined. As I’m at the gate I hear – with a twitch – the door slam behind me. I have no keys and no wallet. Luckily I’m wearing a decent amount of clothing. Loiter around pretending to sweep the garage until the dudes leave the street, then try the easier route, the one I assumed beyond my girth. It is. I can get my head and shoulders through, but get pretty firmly wedged at the waist. Take off my belt and inhale but just manage to wedge my delicates in there. Cut my losses and dismount. Getting down is always more difficult, but luckily my weight is such that I can hang by a few fingers till a toe catches hold. There’s another trickier climb on more unstable roof but I get up and scamper across without skinning my elbows too bad. Only the perfunctory lock is on the door upstairs and I can jimmy it with some minor violence and a pliant stick. Amazing the troubles we take to return to the status quo.