With the Prime minister of India, his cabinet, his party and government mostly turning a blind eye to the lynching and attacks on people eating beef, India must be creeping into the Guinness book, as the first country,maybe the only one where people are targeted, thrashed and tormented for their food habits!

The wife ran to my car as I started the engine this morning, “You forgot your lunchbox!” she cried.

“No!” I said in terror, “I don’t want it!”

“You don’t want lunch today? You know what the doctor said; skipping meals isn’t going to help you get any healthier!”

“Yes,” I said, looking fearfully at other flats in my building, where neighbours were peeping out at the commotion downstairs, “But, I’d prefer being alive than healthily dead!”

“You don’t like my cooking?” she asked, arms akimbo, a sign of trouble. “I love it!” I said hastily, “And I love it so much, I want to be around to eat another meal, and another and another!”

The wife looked at me, as if I needed to visit a shrink, “You know something, I’m just going to leave the lunchbox on your car bonnet. Take it or leave it!”

“Don’t!” I shouted, jumping out of the car, and running to her, “Don’t let our neighbours see that box!”

“Neighbours!” she spat out and looked up to see a dozen of them staring down at her, “What have neighbours got to do with your lunch!”

“They may be in touch with mobs!” I whispered urgently, “As soon as I leave, they will call some mob leader and get me lynched outside!”

“But why would you want to do this to my husband?” shouted the wife looking at all the neighbours, peeping from their windows.

“Because, they think there’s beef in the lunchbox!”

“Oh husband!” laughed my wife, “It’s only chicken, I know you are not fond of beef!”

“But they don’t know!” I said, looking fearfully up at the flats where I suspected men and women stood huddled, staring fixedly at my lunchbox, “They don’t know the difference between chicken or beef!”

The wife slowly looked at the now invisible neighbours, behind their window curtains, “Maybe I need to give them cooking lessons!” she suggested.

“No!” I shouted, “Maybe you just need to take that lunchbox off my car, and back into the house.”

“Maybe I need to train you in karate or judo!” she said, again standing with arms akimbo, looking at a fearful me, staring at my lunchbox.

“No,” I said, “Maybe we need to tell the Prime Minister to leave the nation alone, a country,once never afraid of their lunchboxes!”

“Where’s the Prime Minister?” asked the wife, looking like holy thunder.

“Having meetings across the globe with beef eating leaders, asking them to bring business to India!” I said lamely.

I heard windows close, as I fearfully looked at my lunchbox on my bonnet filled with innocent chicken, but beef to all my neighbours..!

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