When the Spice Thief strikes he operates swiftly and decisively. And before I have time to wake up and smell the turmeric, he’s already snatched the cumin, coriander and garam masala, leaving a trail from the kitchen all the way down to his hiding spot: the couch. Upon discovery and, realizing that resistance is futile, he throws himself into a faux epileptic fit on the kitchen tiles. Stripped of his culinary riches and the brief illusionary sense of self-worth they had endowed him with, he lies there, helpless and angry, while I calmly collect the evidence.
As I lay him to bed, I discover the scent of spices still lingering on his skin. It becomes him.