A cavernous mouth opens. The left hand belonging to it, clutches onto a plate. The right has somehow, in between rumination and an uneasy stroking of the food that has been served, managed to tear a portion of what was a hugely bloated eyeful and pop it into this yawning hole. The hand stretches to another’s plate, picks up a portion of what seems enticing enough and edges it into the same aperture that has not as yet begun to chew. Now a bowl arrives, and some more excitement ensues. Aha... the accompaniment to the first course! The mouth that has barely shut, re-opens fractionally, to receive a spoonful of some of the new. A confused tongue makes what it can of the mixed, often conflicting flavours and sends messages of great appreciation to the brain.

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In olfactory empathy, an undulating broad nose with etched nostrils, flares towards the nasolabial folds, stuttering down either side of the mouth. Thick skin with hanging cheeks pocked here and there, marks time. Two beady eyes hide behind thick, ochre-rimmed glasses. One of these has finally given up on sight, especially in the dark. It has sighed its way through diabetic fall-outs and unable to cope, has ultimately lost itself.

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Up, in the higher echelons, thick eyebrows overhang, tamed into shape by a long piece of thread that has repeatedly tugged and pulled at wilful strands. A narrow forehead is topped by a short, also thick, crop of straight white hair. Jowls fall onto a loosely thick neck, where obstinate grey hairs poke out in abandon pulling a face at common notions of gender. 

The rest of the landscape is a bloated stomach resting on a chair from which it seeks detachment, only to relieve itself of its ingesta, or to ease itself into a kind of rest. In general, it is oblivious to any other form of activity, especially that pertaining to a responsibility towards its own well-being.

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The mouth also speaks. It smiles. Low guttural sounds escape it first, a half-joke under the breath, followed by a wide grin. Two missing teeth, a few gaps, flashes of metal, tartar and enamel gone haywire glint briefly and disappear. It laughs. Merrily, happily, childlike. It roars in anger. It appreciates, it slanders, it concocts; but most often it wants.

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Before one want is fulfilled, it has already stated the next and the after-next. So, all in all, it is difficult to satisfy or please. Whether with food or things or conditions or events. By the tongue or the mind or the body. All equally desirous. None letting up. Which brings us back to...

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‘Oh, how about some mushrooms tomorrow... breakfast? And love that asparagus! Chinese is of course a favourite. And chocolates and Baked Alaska. How about an old-time cream caramel? And eggs and toast. Why did that restaurant umm...what was its name... Sky Room... close? And spaghetti with tomatoes. Do remember all the cheese, the fondue and raclette and … rice. It has to be from every state of India, cooked in every possible way. That does not mean there shouldn’t be risotto or paella!’

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And, it goes on and on... 

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It wasn’t always like this. She thinks. This embarrassingly active state of unabated gluttony. The propensity for continual consumption had always been the same, the need to have - immediate. An aberration of the brain it is called, this mind-set.

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Yet when he was around - my husband - I wouldn’t dare give in to my urgency. Not like this. I feared him. He loved me. Indulged me. But only to the point of acceptable, everyday ordinary, expected behaviour. The eccentric, the excessive, or anything veering anywhere near about, was unthinkable. Not the way a wife could be. Yet how could I toe the line, give in to everybody else’s wishes while sacrificing my own or at least pretending to? But that is what earns one the brownie points, in this life and for the next! Remember, I am to remain married to him through seven births and seven deaths; those are the vows we took.

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I kept busy. Occupied with him, his parents, our children, idling and using time, meeting with all the familial and social demands of a good homemaker. That also meant inviting and being invited to lunches and teas and dinners, sometimes variety offering the casually thrown-in breakfast too. But though my cravings always ruled the roost, it was easier, then, to divert my mind to the other more active pursuits. That did not mean there were no sneaked-in mouthfuls in the nook behind the kitchen door.

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Actually, it was about tact. Not to say I had any, because this thing in my head had its own ways of working. It generally shut down all voices of reason except that which screamed ‘desire’. Got me into trouble often enough, it did. One look from him made the mouth close, sometimes shut it up. Penalised, it was given no food, was allowed no words, forbidden all action - even a yawn.  

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In those days - there was enough. Now - the jars stand generally bare.

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After him, it is Time that masticates. Slowly, so slowly. At the approved rate of thirty-two deliberations per bite. Seconds, minutes, hours have to be chewed to pulp before they can be swallowed. The nature of time! Proven by Einstein through equations and by me through experience. Reaching the same conclusion. Whereas E’s theory has been reviewed over and over again, mine stands irrefutable.

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Time moves at different speeds - slow when lonely, fast when busy. All relative. With relatives. With friends. With acquaintances. Who whirled faster within their lives, moved away quicker from where I was. And then they were gone. Gone all, except the immediate own.

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There I was smart. Kept them dependent. Baited them with the proverbial carrot. From a distance that seemed attainable, not unreachable. Hah! The carrot of Inheritance. In that hope, they live. And I exist.

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Solitude haunts. Fearfully. Carries one back into the past with ghosts of the present. Ones that scare. Those that stand transparent, revealing pictures of hollowness. Phantoms that fill my void with their long shadows of hopelessness.  

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The ways of time. What could Einstein’s laws explain that I can’t? Did four walls close in around him when time and space curved? Did he wail... a silent unending wail when the clock stopped? Or did the mind die within its own terrified blankness when months crawled...

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Loneliness is a strange thing. It frees in ways that can be exciting. No constant eyes, no noisy words, no exacting ways to be. But what do you be when you do not be? What is it to be? Be sitting? Be standing? With nothing to do... be still? Wish I could. Forever. But time is not on my side. Yet.

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Right now, it’s time to move...

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It’s a Sunday lunch and a Chinese restaurant. We are just contemplating the menu. Mouth has found some overly spiced salads in tiny bowls. It does not pause to order. One finger unfurls, pointing and signalling at the salad that has to be served right away. It cannot wait. In goes the spice, in goes whatever, in go the sauces. The load has to be at full capacity; otherwise, it does not merit chewing.

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The beady eyes stare all around. Inquire. What’s the delay? But we just placed the order. ‘Oh! Okay.’ Chastised, it quietens for a few moments.

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 ‘Some water please,’ it asks instead. ‘Ha... the soup!’

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A spoonful of liquid is quickly slurped up. Miraculously, the mouth opens without spillage; other solids are dropped in. It’s loaded and raring to go. The plate is piled thicker. A fork plies through and picks up whatever it can hold. The mouth swallows. It does not chew.

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‘Dessert?’ It manages to ask greedily. Reassured, the fork resumes its activity. 

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For the rest of us, it's nice not to indulge in forced small talk. It’s nice to smile at all the others. It’s nice to begin looking at what one would like to start with. It’s nice to be able to...

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A thud! The fork falls. Suddenly the mouth is turned away with its back towards all. It is difficult to do that while sitting around a table, but apparently not impossible. The remaining food is pushed away. Concerned, I rub the back that is now frontwards, hoping to tease a burp out. Instead, out comes a croak from an unknown direction.

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 ‘No more... no more.’ 

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This apparently is the meal closure. Stack. Stuff. Swallow. Suddenly - no more.

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Halting to breathe, the mouth yammers, ‘Yesterday it was Lebanese with this relative. The falafels were delicious. What is it going to be for breakfast tomorrow? Relative was wearing a sari I always wanted. How much does an I-pad cost? Daughter is treated badly, told her to shop now and then. It’s good therapy. Could you arrange for fries this evening?’