Now, imagine this…

I’ve lived for the past few months with a slowly dwindling collection of teeth. Teeth that were once a mouthful have been falling by the wayside so to speak. No gum left to support them you see. And for some peculiar reason, my health did not allow extraction.

It’s been hell. My smile, indeed my laughter, has been stifled. My appetite has been reined in. My voice has air bubbled into mike-disturbing blows.

And while I wasn’t worried about the gaping hole in my teeth from a cosmetic point of view, I was definitely concerned about the impact this situation had on both my passion and my profession.

I love life, I love food…and I make money from my voice you see. And the very foundation of my personality was now not just shaky, but literally falling apart.

I spoke to my friend and Dentist of a few years and he finally suggested a temporary pair of dentures. And after a few weeks of measurements, moulds and fittings, finally yesterday I was fixed.

And thus began a period of acclimatisation and adjustment. I had to get used to laughing with my teeth. To eating with my teeth. To drinking with my teeth. To speaking with my teeth.

It wasn’t easy. I almost gave up. But I was told not to give up. “In a few days you won’t even know that you are sporting dentures” assured my doctor. So I braved on.

Then the kids and the wife came back from work and suggested that since a double celebration was in order…my teeth, and my daughter’s birthday…I should make an evening of it.

Now, except for some soft Dal & Rice for lunch and a couple of soft Vadas for a snack in the privacy of my home, I hadn’t yet ventured out. I wasn’t quite ready for coming out of the ‘closet’.

So we decided to dine at a favourite place. A place that we loved not only for its excellent food and service, but also for the quiet and peaceful ambience it provided. Plus of course, it was so close to home.

We reached Ziti’s a little after 9pm. And were pleased to find just a couple of tables taken. Strangely, most of the tables occupied had men at them Two here, three there…see what I mean.

Only one table had three (later four) young men and one lady and all of them were negotiating their way through a meal and a laptop.

And that’s where the problems crept in.

All the male only groups left discretely. ‘Wonderful’, I thought to myself. My relief was only momentary.

A quiet, harmonious place like Ziti’s was suddenly assaulted by the shrill, high pitched cacophony that the lone lady passed off as conversation, flaunted as a voice.

Look at her and you wouldn’t believe she was capable of such irritation. But I promise you, within seconds of our settling down, she began to grate.

The conversation was about some web content, some target and pattern identification and some programming benchmarks. I couldn’t understand a word and only prayed that the group exited soon.

But No! They sat on…and then a friend joined them. And that poor fellow was interviewed on the spot and some seriously good advice about foreign travel and credit/debit cards was bandied about.

In the meanwhile, our conversations were stunned into silence. My irritation began to show. And the kids had a hard time preventing me from making a scene.

I had to ask for a second round of starters simply because the first did not even register in my memory bank. My coke had to be repeated too.

Luckily, by the time my main dish arrived, some grilled bassa and a tiny portion of rice, the group had finally heard their calling and had left for their destination…happy with the ‘Jugaad’ they had planned and the alcohol they wanted to consume.

The rest of the evening shaped up well but I was still not in a mood for dessert. So we decided to get back home and have a celebratory drink.

The moment I stepped out from the restaurant, the cold hit me. And I began to shiver. My teeth began to chatter. And this was a whole new experience. I was worried about whether the rattle could be heard outside. Worried if my new teeth would fall out.

But my daughters were quick to the rescue. They switched on the heater in the car. The wife threw around me a shawl (and her arms). And I reached home, a quietened man.

A couple of scotch’n ice shots and I was fine…singing a lusty happy birthday song as my daughter cut an assortment of cupcakes.

Damn, I thought later, as I was slipping out of my teeth…damn, but I pity the guy the girl at the restaurant is destined to marry. The poor chap will never be able to have ‘sweet nothing’ conversations with his wife. Doesn’t matter.

As long as they don’t come to Ziti’s…ever again. Bloody hell…that voice still rankles in my mind. I better get into some pa’jazz’mas.