making sitaphal milkshake could be a metaphor for our times.
first, a brief description:
you take a ripe sitaphal and try to cut it. if raw, you can curse the fruitman, but curse you never so shrewdly, the fruit will refuse to be cut.
if ripe to the correct extent, it collapses squashily in your hand. then you pick out the skin. a lot of the fleshy stuff is stuck to the skin, so you ooze it out. then comes the real test of character- separating the flesh from the large seeds. you could sit there tediously getting lil bits of the flesh. or, as the shastras suggest, you pop the whole thing into a particle accelarator and get centrifugal forces to separate the wheat from the chaff, as it were.
but the particle accelerator (ok, its a blender) breaks down from chopping too many seeds and you return to manually oozing. 17 back breaking hours later, you are donne, but find that most of the good stuff is splattered across your hands. some judicious mopping and licking (why waste?) later, you are left with a few grams of sitaphal essense. by this time, the milk has long curdled, you have lost your appetite and your mind.
it says a lot about the lack of free will, doesn't it? nobody asked you to make it. you prefer chikoo milkshake anyway. so then why? sheer bloodymindedness?
or ... a suprasitaphalmilkshakeauthority? a pied piper of sitaphamelin? that gets hold of you and won't let you go till you make it?
from mina harker's journal, 4:00 pm
the blogger was found in a state of gibbering rage and taken away for further observation. the only hint of what could have brought about such madness, was the shards of a mug, belonging to the office juice bar. the liquid splashed around the area suggested milkshake. juicebarman confirmed selling it to the blogger's colleague for rs. 10, shortly before the attack.
we will need all our strength and garlic to fight this demon.