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‘Place the baking tray in the oven for 45-50 minutes till the cake rises.’
My phone rang. Pitajee.
Instead of the expected hello, what I heard was maniacal laughter that could only come from a man possessed.
‘Did you put the batter in the oven?’ howled Pitajee.
‘Shut up and don’t you dare ever call me again,’ I said. Just before I cancelled the call, I heard him burst into a fresh bout of the aforementioned maniacal laughter.
I had forgotten that I did not have an oven. Pitajee, that scoundrel, obviously had not.
26 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
I got a store-bought sponge cake, cut it in the shape of the letter ‘I’, put it in a pink cardboard box, decorated the box with a huge pink ribbon, drove to AIIMS and left it with ward boy Ravi Singh for a certain Dr Purva Dixit.
27 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Sponge cake cut in the shape of the letter ‘A’ has been left at AIIMS with ward boy Ravi Singh for Dr Dixit.
‘Did he take the box I left for him yesterday?’ I asked Ravi Singh, as he patted the pink box I had just handed him.
‘No, Kasturi Didi,’ Ravi Singh said dolefully.
‘Did he at least open it?’
‘No.’
That grumpy man! Hmph!
28 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – M.
‘Did he take it?’ I asked Ravi Singh.
‘No.’
‘Did he open it?’
‘No,’ he said, shaking his head.
‘Life is very unfair, Ravi Singh,’ I said balefully.
‘It sure is, Kasturi Didi,’ said Ravi Singh, looking wistfully at a young, pretty nurse who was walking past us.
29 July 2013, 9.00 a.m.
Letter of the day – S.
‘Did he…’ I began, as I dropped off the pink cake-box for the day.
‘No.’ Ravi Singh said.
‘Oh,’ I said, shaking my head with sheer, unadulterated misery. The plan was already falling apart and I had barely reached ‘S’.
‘But…’
‘What?’ I exclaimed.
