The Memoirist
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The Memoirist

I Don’t Eat Shit That Farts

I know my food. Or do I?

A man in suit holding a banana like a gun with funny expression on his face.
Photo by Ryan McGuire on Pixabay

In India, engineers are made and destroyed on the night before the semester examinations.

The more we practiced mugging the lessons the previous night and vomiting everything on the answer sheets the next day, the better we got at it.

I remember it was my last year at college. I was cramming the Cryptography chapters for the exam the next day. I had a couple of chapters left when I felt hungry.

Hunger was my body’s way of telling me I was putting too much pressure on my delicate brain and needed to take a break. So, I sneaked out of the house and went to my favorite Chinese restaurant in the city.

At the restaurant, I ordered my usual. Veg Hakka Noodles and Cauliflower Manchurian. Oh boy! I will never forget that taste. I don’t think I have tasted better Chinese food than that.

It was a very satisfying meal, and I asked the waiter to box the leftover Manchurian for my roomie.

Back at the house, after he took the first bite, he immediately asked me, “What did you order, dude?”

“Noodles and Cauliflower Manchurian.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I am. Why what’s wrong?”

“Congratulations! You ate Lamb Manchurian today. Welcome to the non-vegetarian club.”

“Nonsense. I don’t eat shit that farts.”

“Well, you certainly did today, shit face. This is lamb. How could you not feel any difference in the taste?”

“How could I have known? I haven’t eaten it before. I don’t know how lamb tastes.”

“But you know how Cauliflower tastes, asshole.”

That was my reaction —




We publish memoirs, personal essays, and fictional memoir. Creative stories unpacked from the nostalgic hope chests of our lives.

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Gaurav Jain

Gaurav Jain

I have three TVs, two cars, and one wife.

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