A couple of days back I buried leftover nachos in soil. In a pot.
Why? You may ask. Well, I wanted to stop myself from binging on it and buried whatever was left in an impulse.
What happened next will blow your mind. At para 11, you’ll never see a nacho in the same light.. or spice..
(OK, that was a bad attempt at trying to buzzfeedify my introduction)
Presenting! The journey of Nachos and its packet as observed by the sole survivor — the packet.
A head full of air, they assumed.
“What’s he proud of?”, says the mango Kernel, “He’s nothing but plastic. Look. Her body shouts for validation"
No MSG. Non-GMO Corn. Zero Trans Fat. Zero Cholesterol. With 40% less fat than the poor potato chip. Now with 4g protein!
I heave a sigh.
My body, too flatulent to care for the rotting kernels.
With flashy colours and plum body, I’m the proud keeper of nachos. My many-a-cutes born of the corn that displaced the local makai for profits, styled by notorious Lady Palmolein herself, the destroyer of rich forests of Malaysia and Indonesia. The crunch is laced with flavours and spices engineered to hook their tongues forever.
My seductive sight invites the human who doesn’t wait to devour my acutes.
“How can he let them tear her like that?”, the kernals cried in horror.
As the human tears off my skin, and if I’m lucky, a small part of me separates. What’s wrong with that? Nothing. That’s just how I reproduce- tissue division. My little one, indestructible as I am, goes on to carve her own journey. I hear one little ones even made it to the intestines of the blue whale.
Half-way into constant munching, the human suddenly empties the remaining nachones into the soil. Dirt. In my whole life, never have I seen my nachos, having lived their whole lives in air-conditioned quarters, meet that fate.
I too slip beside them, amidst the judging gaze of rotting mango kernels, waiting to witness a slow death. Very soon it rained, it seemed death didn’t want to wait.
Lady Palmolein’s makeup started to wear off… leaving a shiny sheen on the water collected on top of the pot. All that was left of my acutes was a reeking slurry and oil that floated, oblivious of rains.
Come dawn, it was time for me to be shipped to my folks at the landfill. I hear my family doubles and triples every year, each as indestructible as the one before. I hear sometimes they entangle their bodies to create a big plastic mountain. How glorious that sounds! I’m excited to reunite with my family and live for another 200 years.
“Look at her, proud of going into a landfill, I hear the soil there, reeks of toxic fumes. I never want to die to reunite with that soil", the kernel lamented.
I don’t care. For men may go and men may come but I go on forever.
The Nacho Packet