A story for young children who would rather eat a mouldy cookie than not eat at all.

This story is about a cookie. I am sad about this, because cookies should be eaten, and not written about. In fact, when I was young, I hated didactic tomes on cookies (not that I encountered many) but still. If somebody had told me that one day I would torture little children so then I would have laughed out of derision.
I am very derisive.
This did not stand me in good stead when the cookie started talking to me. I was astonished. Then I was derisive because I did not know better. Sometimes when people are bewildered, they engage in camouflage. Dear children, do not think I tend to be moralistic here- I simply speak the truth. I add that the truth is rarely pure and never simple. A man called Wilde said this. He was not a straight man, but he was not crooked. This duplicity you shall not understand now. This is not because you are stupid, but because you are innocent.
You are a child and you are innocent. Everybody tells you this. Believe them at your discretion.
So I return to my little tête-à-tête with the cookie that called itself Mouldy. Mouldy was not mouldy, understand? Now do not go and tell an adult this. They will tell you that this is an existential question and pose it as a moral dilemma. This will make you confused and disgusted and you will never eat a cookie, ever again. That would be truly sad, because Mouldy did not suffer from existential angst. It was unhappy most certainly. This was because of a far more deep-rooted reason.
It did not have a national identity.
Little children are considered as innocent (though not stupid) and therefore are not expected to understand a difficult concept such as national identity. Do not misunderstand me. I shall do my best in explaining what it is, but if you know better, remember-it is not my fault. It never is my fault. Now we shall proceed.
The cookie- I mean Mouldy- was baked in a kitchen in Scotland. It was baked in a most exclusive kitchen in Scotland. The trays were clean and homely. Yet it was a massive industrial kitchen with a huge turnover. A turnover is an amount of money, which your kitchen could make it if was meant for people outside your family, who would be ready to pay for the food cooked in it. Remember this-it shall stand you in good stead- whatever your turnover, always keep your kitchen clean. The cookie should not be mouldy. Mouldy was not mouldy. However, people refused to understand.
The factory where Mouldy was made. It enjoys a huge turnover, but cares not for the cookies.
Mouldy was not a tough cookie. It was not a cookie that crumbled, either. It was a cookie that melted in your mouth. It was a chocolate cookie. Moreover, it was a chocolate cookie with Belgian chocolate chips embedded deep inside it! Can you imagine? Oh glory! What bliss! Mouldy would have been a very happy cookie indeed if it had not been made by-sadly- a process called Dutching…
A discerning child or a nosy adult at this point would say, “Hold on. What the hell is this dutching?” This is undoubtedly a legitimate question and one that I shall answer. The box that Mouldy and seven of its brethren came in had the exact definition written on it. But maybe it was not as exact as it claimed, because, you see, even though a sentence may be written with a lexicon-like feel about it, it may not be a definition because it defines nothing (other than your confusion i.e.,)…
This was what was written on the box…
Dutched v. a process invented in Holland in 1828, creates a smoother richer chocolate.
Do you see how it explains nothing? Yet looks so convincing, to the dictionary manner born? This, dear children, was what Mouldy strongly objected to. As a result, it was shipped off to far away India from Scottish shores, I mean of course, Highlands. Yes, it was a tough cookie. However, note that I speak metaphorically. Of course, as it would have told you itself (as it did me) that it was dutched, so physically, it had no choice. It said so with a sardonic smile. Cookies never smile, but when they do, they always smile sardonically.
Mordant Mouldy being shipped across the seas.


Therefore, Mouldy got a passage to India for its troubles, and what happened to the ship nobody knows. It probably sails on the high seas in the name of globalization. Mouldy does not like the word globalization but then it has its reasons. If you ever meet a cookie like Mouldy and encounter its box- never ask Mouldy whether it is Scottish, Belgian or Dutch. Mouldy is a very temperamental cookie. It may bite you.
When Mouldy and I started conversing, we knew not what was in store. It was the start of a life-long friendship. Mouldy did not have a very long life, though. Before it got any mouldier, I had to eat it.
Soft watch at Moment of First Explosion. This is a painting by a man called Salvador Dali. He was a great artist and he was preoccupied with time and with anal activities. Excretion was his forte. However, melting clocks came a strong second. This has something to do with Einstein and relativity. Physics was changing the world, and it was changing art. Modernism sets in, and the cookie starts wondering about its identity (and also wandering, as the case maybe)…

Now I am trying to explain why I had to eat Mouldy. I know it seems barbaric to all adults who devour this page but I know children will understand. It has something intrinsic to the melting clock. What people are familiar with these days is the melting pot, which is all very well, but hell, there is a melting clock (see above) and it ticks. It ticks with greater fervency than an ordinary clock. Mouldy knew all about it. I asked Mouldy, “Why is it so, Mouldy?”
Mouldy gazed gloomily at me and said,” Because it melts, you idiot. It can melt away any time. And then who’d eat the cookie?”
I added,” And who would do the potty?”
And Mouldy said,” There is always someone to do the potty, don’t worry.”
I was not reassured. Potty was something wonderful. Dali thought so too. If I were not there to do it, would someone be able to carry on the legacy with as much strength of conviction as I?
I strongly doubted it but did not argue with Mouldy who was making my mouth water. This would have been cannibalistic, to actually argue with something and then hungrily devour it. Consider- an unscrupulous politician would have jumped at the chance. Would have executed an impromptu dance. Not I.
This is a pot. I do not know whether it is a melting pot. It may be one at the exact moment of apocalypse.
“Mouldy,” I said,” With due respect, I cannot eat you. There are seven more. I shall eat another. You shall stay.”
Mouldy looked as disgusted as only a tough (metaphorically) cookie can look. “Are you stupid? Is this a matter of sentiment? You must eat me. This is your duty. Mine is to be eaten. Do you know who says that?”
“Bhagavad-Gita?”
“I SAY IT!
NOW EAT!”

This sudden crumbling of the cookie disconcerted me. If a cookie loses it’s temper then a gastronome loses his appetite. This is something that you must remember, dear children. You may lose your temper only if you are not going to be eaten. If you are going to be eaten, then be garnished well. Remember, you must appeal to the senses. Or so Mouldy said gloomily. (Children, of course, are never eaten outside of malicious fairy tales. The wicked witch is a myth that all children know quite well. Adults should seek newer and more original means of suppression.)
Now that I have cleared up the air on children not being eaten- the scaredy cats actually trembled for a bit- I shall proceed.
As I was telling you, there were seven other cookies in the box, and when a box of trans-national cookies come to India, to a middle class family, then the box cannot solely be eaten up by one member. It is not done; it is a breach of etiquette. So I discovered that one cookie had already been eaten.
“Your father has, ruthlessly enjoyed Grandee,” Mouldy informed me, “This is right and proper, because they were both eminent personalities. Your father, of course, still is.”
I said chattily,” Grandee shall become potty tomorrow and that is being very important indeed.”
Mouldy, however, did not think highly of potty. Cookies are made of chocolate chips. (Mouldy was made of Belgian chocolate chips and computers are made of silicon chips and they both look down upon potato chips or banana chips, so you can just imagine what exactly they would think of faeces.)


This is a silicon chip. All those electronic devices that scare your technophobe mothers have them. Notice how it has claws. These claws are very dangerous; they will claw your soul out if you depend too much on them. If you are ready to sell your soul to an electronic chip then this particular trip will have had no effect on you. Goodnight and good luck, as Mr. Clooney would say. No relation to McLooney as far as I know.


All this was all very well, but we digress. We have digressed since the beginning of the story, and now I think that I am a very bad storyteller. I must become an accountant if I advance at this rate, if only to learn a bitter lesson in brevity.
Grandee was eaten while Mouldy and six other remained. The six other cookies were quite quiet and quite Stoical, and they did not like my budding Epicurean sensibilities. Mouldy was a philosophical cookie with a distinct mind of its own. It wanted to be eaten and it wanted to converse with me. On the other hand, it detested the fact that it did not have a national identity. Moreover, ‘twas written in a nondescript corner
Made in the United Kingdom.
Was it even Scottish enough?

It did not have much time to ponder, because after eating six stoical cookies only Mouldy was left.

I looked at Mouldy (longingly and sadly). It looked back at me- a bit sad, but mostly irritable. “What are you waiting for?”
“To digest your silent brethren.”
“Okay,” said Mouldy.

However, stoical cookies are soon digested, and one has to carry on. I told dear old Mouldy who had taught me so much, in such a short span of time, “ I will miss you, Mouldy.”
Mouldy visibly crumbled and said quietly, “I will miss you too. Do not let my story die. Also, try to figure out my nationality. It perplexed me. Where do I belong? If you can answer, answer now. Or eat me.”
“And answer tomorrow’s potty?”
“NOT TOMORROW’S POTTY! THAT’S LIKE SAYING YOU WILL BECOME A GHOST! DO I NOT TRANSCEND? YOU ARE INSENSITIVE.”
Which I was, so I honestly tried to answer, ”I think Mouldy that you are truly a global citizen. The world is your chocolate chip. As for where you belong, where does your heart lie?”
Mouldy whispered….
“Your stomach.”

I missed Mouldy an awful lot for a long time to come. Keeping in mind my Epicurean sensibilities, and my fine temperament, my father got me a new gift, to cure my disenchantment and ennui…

Okay, dear children, this is where the Parental Guidance clause and censorship come in. First, if you do not drink a lot of milk and fresh fruit juice until you are 18, then you will never enjoy wine (I kid you not.)
Second, wine is a stunt.
Third, and most important, all storytellers are bastards. All.