One of my good friends, also my roommate when we were studying in India, narrated the following true incidents :

There was a woman whom she, my friend, addressed as “Aunty”, known to be a jovial and a happy go lucky soul by nature. Once when the woman had gotten somewhat seriously ill, she had summoned her loving husband by her deathbed and told him that she was going to be no more and that she wished him happiness in life. She asked him to promise her one final wish – that he would remarry and move on. The distraught husband refused at first and showered her words of how much he loved her and that the thought of any other woman was simply unbearable. But she would not give up and tearfully begged him to fulfil her that one final wish. The husband, tearfully too, had finally relented.  They sobbed and hugged and exchanged words of endearments that they would never get to utter again.

Well, if you are wondering where the heck I have been, you will be disappointed to know, that I haven’t been to Rome or Paris yet, and I definitely haven’t been in a gondola with a Greek God either and therefore, have no adventure tales to relate and the most I have travelled to is to my barren mind, going in circles to the point of madness. I go out of the house in the morning and come home to sleep and manage a long, tiring day in between apart from being a mumzilla to my kid. But there are evidences to prove that I am not the only one losing that sanity screw. For instance, after an hour long conversation with my buddy about movies based on cannibalism, he says:

“Kinga, if we could be eaten, your meat would be good for making soup”, he says and then thoughtfully adds “In Bhutanese style dish, you could go well with kakur and thingay!”

And I tell my chubby friend that his could be BBQed and in Bhutanese style, prepared during Chokus and Tshechus to show off to the envying neighbours.

If my mother was present, she would have wept.