Dosha

Dosha

2 mins
9.5K


Dosha—the word makes my mouth water and makes people around me, cringe.

I order it the most when I go out to eat. Wait, scratch that. If it is there as an option on the menu card, it will be there on my plate. My ex-wife initially found my love for Dosha ‘adorable’ but eventually tried very hard to not let me notice the nausea that overtook her every time I ordered it. I was not offended though, it made me laugh.

But there is something about the round, fluffy pancake that I find irresistible. Perhaps it is the idea of life itself having come a full circle, and, on a plate!

In fact I love everything circular. No, I must be honest, I only love things circular. Doughnuts, cakes, cookies, coasters, clocks, you name it. All it has got to be is round, and I love it—including myself!

And that’s why I’ve had to be admitted to this hospital. The doctors have put me on a diet and exercise plan. 

“Cedric, you're to eat carrot and cucumber sticks from now on,” they said. Nonsense. How can I? I manage to sneak in my favourites through my cook: gulab jamuns, roshogullas, chocolates (only the round variety of course).

As a child, I ate only chapattis. The only fruit I’d allow down my throat was orange and occasionally, musk melon. My mother often warned me. “Cedric, you’re going to suffer deficiencies.” I have eight different kinds of vitamin deficiencies as I speak but I cannot help it. The doctors are perplexed as to why the balance won’t tilt in their favour but as I said, I cannot help it! I cannot allow myself to lose shape.

My cook is my only visitor and confidante. He tells me that I have what he has gathered is called an ‘OCD’ (I was fascinated by the letter ‘O’ as a toddler, as a teenager I’d aim for either cent percent or nothing). He says it is a deplorable Dosha, a problem which he will consult his village priest about but I tell him I don’t want to change it. How can an obsessive-compulsive wish to change his own obsession?

My cook informs me of whispers being exchanged between the doctors. I’ve heard them waft along the disinfectant infused air too—I may die, soon.

The thought plagues me.

God! Will they bury me in a regular coffin?


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Dosha

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