From: tstpcc@gwunix1.gwu.edu (Paul C. Chemmanoor)
Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian
Subject: Theobromina, however she may be spelt.
Date: 22 Nov 1992 18:09:11 -0600
Organization: UTexas Mail-to-News Gateway
NNTP-Posting-Host: cs.utexas.edu


1] After a while, a story.
   Comments to paulchem@tigger.cs.colorado.edu

2] 
                          Theobromina, however she is spelt.     -- Icarus.
                          ----------------------------------

        "Get up! Its ten in the afternoon !" 
R. was being obnoxious.
        "So ?" I asked, turning over.
        "My parents are coming over."
        "So ?"
        "Arent you ashamed of your self ? I mean there are kids 
        starving in ethiopia.  And you sleep till the sun goes down!"
        "Oh please forgive me, I am not worthy.
        I am not worthy, I am not worthy!" I said, waving my arms 
up and down, my eyes closed, in my best imitation of wayne and garth.

        "What manner of man is this ?".
I recognized that immediately as the rhetorical prelude to a speech.

        "Surely a bad manner." I said contritely. 
    It was best to pre-empt the speech with a little self-abnegation.
    "Well, to be sure, a bad manner indeed." R. said, stumped for words.


    "Leave me alone, will ya ? Its not that I am actually sleeping. 
    God forbid at this late hour. Im just running the diagnostic memory 
    checks. Research has shown that lack of sleep affects 
    short term-memory. I cant even remember my name. 
    ipso facto somnia solus.  Which is to say, therefore I must sleep. 
    In a while perhaps Ill remember who you are, and why exactly you are 
    disturbing my repose. And that may be bad for ya."

        "O paule sehgalis homeris exegenisis nilus 
        contritum. Which is to say : Eric Sehgal
                must be sorry that you learnt classical latin from 
        quotations on chapter headings in his books."

Ouuch! A double ouch! That hurt.

        "I did no such thing !"
        "You did too !"
        "Did not!"

        "Im R.P. and Im coming in and you can hear 
        me knocking and Ive two words for you: Wake, Up!"
        "Look R., Im telling you if you dont stop this  
        I swear to Gawd, Im gonna kill ya."

R. did not stop. I took aim with an extended finger and shot R. down.
R. fell immediately into a stupor induced by too much effort after a 
breakfast of multiple masala dosas.
Reminded me of the time back in college when I had read something 
about hypnosis and went around telling my
batchmates who were studying for their exams 

        "You are feeling sleepy ... You are feeling sleepy, 
        So sleepy your mind has become clogged and your 
        thoughts slow. You havent slept for three years, 
        not counting the months of september of course which 
        you spent working all three shifts in a day, in a 
        chalk mine, and no holidays."

Ten minutes later I fell asleep and woke up only the next afternoon. 
Which is why I avoid the topic of hypnosis to this day when I meet old friends.


With R. gone visiting the sandman I returned to my diagnostic checks.
A lazy scan of the memory banks. Two red lights were blinking. 
Those were projects pending.
One of them had been in red alert for months now. Never mind.

And then a brown glow lit up. Then epiphany burst forth.
Chocklit. Chklit. [unix spelling]. lite choco.  
gertrude Stein. gertrude stein. Gertrude Stein.
Hershey Almond Joy, hershey almond joy, hershey almond joy.

The words flowed:

    Theobromina, (however she is spelt),
    sweetest of the xanthines,
    Theobromina, (however she may melt),

    you dont know what it means,
    to smell of bitter chocolate,
    each time I unwrap a foil,

    you dont know what it means,
    to meet a dark slab of fate,
    inside a flattened paper coil.

I was surely inspired that day.
So I wrote it down.

    There was a knock on the door and I showed R.'s parents in.

        "I keep saying, look R. you shouldnt sleep so long, 
        even though it is a holiday.
        You have to be more disciplined, I say. But who listens ?" 
I explained to his parents while he shot very venomous looks at me, 
blinking awake.

        "He says nobody understands, Uncle, that he 
        doesnt want to be admired (little chance anyway 
        of that happening I muttered under my breath) 
        only understood, like the german writer Nietzche, he says." 

I was on a roll and I rubbed it in.

        "And all because I asked him to wake up, auntie", 
        I told his mom.
        "..Rhomba kashtam..." or something of the sort his 
        mom said and her eyes promised that R. would hear more of this. 

    The rest of the day passed well for me and rather badly for him.
    Ha, ha, only joking I told him later.

    I thought that was the end of it.

    Until my parents came over and found a letter 
    addressed to Theobromina on my table.
    I spent the afternoon explaining I wasnt seeing anyone 
    who was into paper clothes.

    I can tell ya, its tough explaining bad surrealistic poetry 
    about chocolate, the food of the gods. To your mom.  
 Well, I guess it could be worse.

    I guess R. and I are even now.


3] Later,
   Paul Chemmanoor.


Newsgroups: soc.culture.indian