Pilgrimage to Momo

She couldn’t stop fiddling with her hands as we walked along the river towards Central Mall. “I just need to see Momo” was her mantra, murmured every fifteen steps or so. She’d resolved the day before that she’d stop clubbing. And now, barely thirty hours later on a sweltering Friday night, she was wavering like a man on a tightrope with an elephant on his back.

In the place of actual clubbing, she claimed that all she needed was to see the place – to take in every inch of those huge letters and also sneak a few quick whiffs of that odd smell that only a club can produce – and she’d be fine.

This, unsurprisingly, made no sense to me. But then, addictions seldom do. At least she was trying; via chanting the said mantra, playing with her hands and… er… growling occasionally. That coaxed some respect and a lot of laughter out of me and so I accompanied her on her pilgrimage.

We decided to walk. I had absolutely no idea how to get there but she knew. Surprise, surprise.

In time, the four magical letters appeared through the trees.

M… O… M… O…

We fell silent. It was the biggest anti-climax ever. But that was just for me. It seemed like she was going through her own little catharsis.

Five minutes was all it took. There was some sighing and longing looks but she managed to peel herself away. It had worked on some unexplained metaphysical level. She stopped toying with her fingers; the chanting was no more and, thankfully, so was the growling. We walked away filled with some odd sense of accomplishment.

Still, I’m sure she’ll be tempted again soon. I’m giving her (yes, you!) two weeks before she succumbs. Of course, she could just choose not to tell me about it but that’d be cheating. We wouldn’t want any of that now, would we?