Vegetarian Hormone Soup

It is quite easy to feel put-upon when you're the lone vegetarian in a house of carnivores. One begins to feel proprietary towards the fruits and veggies. "Keep your hands off my spinach, you already have chicken curry!" I would say, to which my brother, not unreasonably, would usually reply, "Just because you're a vegetarian doesn't mean you're the only person who gets to eat plant matter!" It was a moot point, because my mother is in the habit of cooking quantities that would feed a platoon of hungry rugby players, so usually we'd grumble a bit more, formulate some choice insults and mutter them sotto voce in case either parent was in hearing range, and then forget all about the whole thing five minutes later. 

Then one month, PMT hits me like a hurricane. Dinnertime: I am looking forward to delicious methi chapatis with mango pickle, I open the fridge and lo and behold, the chapatis, they are gone. My brother strolls by, casually, munching on something. I turn a gimlet eye upon him and yes, rolled up in his hand is a methi chapati. Quite steadily, I ask, "Where are the rest of the chapatis?" He swallows; says, "Oh, I ate them. Did you want some?"

At this point, in my head, there was all that really lame lightning-strike imagery you see in cheesier hindi films at moments of high drama. "You ate them ALL!" I roared, aghast. "WHAT ABOUT ME? I'M THE VEGETARIAN HERE!"  I was, at that moment, the spirit of capslock made flesh, but my brother remained unfazed by all the majuscule melodrama. "Che," he said, in between bites, "you do not have the exclusive right to eat vegetarian stuff just because you're a vegetarian."

It was too much. I burst out sobbing. "YOU PEOPLE HATE ME!" I railed, as my very confused parents came in, "YOU DON'T CARE IF I STARVE TO DEATH!" I flounced to my room, utterly bereft, depressed and lachrymose, there to die a (very, very, very!) slow death from starvation.

Except, half-an-hour later, I wasn't bereft, depressed and lachrymose; I was hungry and perplexed. Had I really thrown a fit over chapatis? I went downstairs to check; three pairs of eyes examined me. "Have you stopped your nonsense now?" asked my mother. 

"Um, yeah." 

"Good. Then go eat. There's dal and brinjal on the stove for you."