Dabara Tumbler

Pazhaiyedu For Win

6. Pazhaiyedu For Win

A/N: Hi guys, thanks for following this story into its 6th part—after the writing hiatus I'd gone into (in English, though; been penning some decent writing in Tamizh, and very elated about it), I feel happy in a silly way to have crossed the fifth chapter. Lol.

About the note in the beginning of the chapter—I'd like to learn what do you guys think about the story, so far.

I have a short story, about this story to tell you all. I had this story outlined when I was in third year of Med School—now, I am just couple of months away from stepping into my internship. Yep, it took me this long to actually start writing this story, due to other on-going stories and a truck load of self-doubt if I could pull this off with decent humour and all that, which I am still not sure of.

I am really trying to make sure that the dialogues, their inanity are naturally flowing and not artificial. And it'd be of huge goodwill if you let me know what you actually think about it in the comments. A big tight hug and thaaaaanks :)

End of the rant.

Meaning of the title: Pazhaiyedu/ Pazhaiaya Saadham/ Pazhaiya soru is traditional cooked rice soaked in water overnight and eaten the next day for breakfast. It can also be drained and eaten with plain yoghurt, and raw onions or green chillies for sides. It is one of the healthy and filling breakfasts. And ofcourse, there's no food wastage in case of leftovers.

***

Water wastage figure in Chennai is about twenty percent.

We have to act now to save the future. Change can begin with small measures such as turning off the tap while brushing your teeth, fixing leaks, using low discharge toilets and faucets, running dish and laundry cleaners on full load.

But if you ask Raghav, he'd simply say, desist yourself from taking showers everyday.

Showers are typically the third largest water use after toilets and clothe washers—google had said. And ever since he had learnt the fact, he'd decided he would do his contribution to saving the environment by not taking daily, long showers.

It was his least favorite errand of the day—initially, he just needed an excuse to not take showers daily—but then he had actually started bathing with a bucket and mug, everyday, because living in Madras and practically, meandering the city in bike all day would make him clammy with sweat which he did not want.

If someone told Raghav, they'd actually shower and not bathe, he'd not mind drenching them with his facts and send them home with a bucket and mug.

It was ten-forty-five on a tuesday morning and a just-bathed-Raghav plodded across his room from the bathroom, wearing nothing but a malachite green khadi towel, draped around his waist—smelling clean and good.

Dera was reposing his stretched body in the mat that Raghav had rolled out for him, putting up a damned ghastly face, his grey eyes visibly delinquent and lowered.

And Raghav was the one to be damned, when he figured out his leaves of script—some of them clipped out of the writing pad, and some of them ripped into cords with drool blotting them, severed around and disjected—with a look of ruefulness in the very angular face lying before him.

Dera had not pulled strings to fret Raghav in the couple of days, he'd been here.

Today was the time in his schedule to do that.