I hate it when that Persian woman, who lives in my house, busts my butt.
Every time I let out a belch, she throws me a disgusted look. When the kid who’s also living in my house belches, she won’t say nothin’. He’s just a kid, she’ll say.
‘Oh yeah?’ I retort. ‘He’s going ta be 15 in a few days. Why doesn’t he have ta stop belchin’?’
‘He’s still a kid, come on. What kind of an example are you setting for him?’
‘If he’s all grown up, how come he doesn’t let me cuddle him no more?’
‘He has a right to choose whom he wants to cuddle’. Saying that, the woman reaches for the kid and envelops him in her arms. The kid looks at me with a sly and defiant but nervous grin. Nervous because he knows I’m still tougher and he is setting himself up for a good 10-minute squish, the way things are going. Oh yeah, this father is going ta be squishing him till he is twennie.
Indian food is belchy. If the Persian woman has made rajma dal, you could go brappitty-broop for hours non-stop. What? Yeah, she can teach you a thing or two about Indian cooking, especially tandoori stuff. She makes a mean pulao and absolutely a mother of all masoor ka dals. The Atlantic salmon, they talk to her. I have caught her mumbling to them while she’s lovingly marinating them. Why do you think they race each other up those streams in Gaspé to spawn, prayin’, ‘Lord, please, let at least one of these twenty one thousand nine hundred and sixty seven brats land on the Spunkybong dinner table.’
Yeah, in India, we belch after we eat. Not in the cities – they are polluted with ‘civilization’ there – in the backwoods, where I grew. When I was a kid, the dining table after dinner was open season. It sounded like a monster truck show, just before the race when all the trucks are revving at the same time. No one batted an eyelid on our dining table. Brappa-Brap, Shooba-Deep, Babaloo-Broop.
Arabs say, belching is good for the digestive system. In fact not belching is rude. It means you didn’t care much for the cookin’. Remember Ben Hur? You guys in the west, you burp and then you look around embarrassed. You lose a contract, your woman leaves you, your kids call you gross or your friends stop visitin’.
We stick our chests out in pride and belch. Right from down there, a few inches from our richards.
Ps: I was thinkin’ of doon a similar post on flatulence…what do ya think?