bhindi

'made bhindi bhaji,' i say.
'what?!' they say.
'you asked what i was doing,' 
'oh...have you heard?' they say.
'yes, sorry to hear...'
'are you okay?'
'should i not be?'
'no...no..i mean...you're alone...'
'...'
'you're okay, na?'
'...'

a dozen awkward phone calls later,
i activate the silent mode.

i truly dread them, these
calls from my contact list,
(clever of you to notice i did not say 'friends'),
when some celebrity dies by suicide.

i want to tell them,
i tried it and failed,
but that would mean
people showing up
unannounced,
full of concern.
don't. want. that.

i want to tell them
bhindi is my safe word
food that comforts
and they only have to worry
if i tell them it's a good time
to buy fab india whites.

they're horrified of course,
'you're so funny, m'

it's never funny, remember that
and it's not easy,
living with the monster 
that eats you from the inside,

but i laugh with them,
promise to meet them for coffee.
when their conscience is lighter,
and they're about to say, 'byeee'
i say, 'but damn, he stole my thunder'