I am going to win the Booker next year. I was toying with the idea of the Nobel too, but two prizes would be too much money.

The novel is about my kitchen. It is a complex narrative about the many masalas I use, in Hindi, and explained in the glossary. But it is actually about the politics of masalas.

Through the narratives of a love affair between a caste Hindu girl and a subaltern peacock, of a carpet soaked in rich dal and memories, of a small town trembling with communal tension in the backdrop, of havelis bent on telling their autobiographies, of what happened between a pair of old intricate lace curtains and an armchair my grandfather never could sit on, of a detailed discourse on the social forces that lead to the birth of a terrorist and of the dhaniya murgh (coriander chicken) that my grandmother’s sister cooked, my novel will explore the question: “Why does garam masala dominate Indian cuisine?”

It could be rephrased as: “Why, oh why, does garam masala have to be the flavour of India in every international market, even with books and films?”

I will call my novel Koh-I-Noor, after the famous basmati rice brand, and all the ‘I’s and ‘’s will be italicised.

But the most exciting question is, what will I do with the Rs 42 lakh that I will get? Honestly, I don’t know. There will be some money to give away as tax, but there will still be several lakhs left.

Don’t get me wrong. I want the money. But for me all numbers that end up in more than six or seven zeroes look the same and that is why I prefer them to be written in words rather than figures.

So I have a gameplan ready for spending the money. I will spend them on big things.

First I will change my profile. To improve it, I will drop my husband of many years and get a boyfriend. It will cost a lot.

I will buy a wardrobe. It will be an enormous wardrobe, hollow and deep, made of sturdy teakwood, with chambers, walls and corridors. When the world will get too much, I will be able to walk into it, wander inside and stay there.

I will pack into its cavernous depths all the loose ends of my life. I don’t want so many of the clothes that fill up the racks of my current wardrobe. I am not interested in them; but neither can I throw them away. Is that the definition of loose ends? Anyway, I will throw them in and forget them.

I will throw in all the cassette, CD and DVD covers without anything inside that I have accumulated over the years.

I will pack in my EMIs into the wardrobe. Before that, I will make a grand visit to the bank, wearing a kanjivaram, and sign off the cheque with such a flourish that the woman behind the counter who infuriates me with her unfailing composure and smugness will be forced to drop her jaw.

I will buy the biggest thing on wheels that I can — a bus. I will fit it with Bose speakers. I will build a bus stand, where the bus will wait, always ready to leave. That’s the best thing about travel — to know that you can take off any moment you want to.

I will also buy an auto-rickshaw. Because an auto can get into places no other vehicle in the world can.

I will go shopping. I will buy something I have always wanted. I am ready to spend several lakhs on it.

It will be the wig of my dreams. It will be made of the best south-east Asian hair, long, black and straight. But when I will wear it, and toss my head, I will cast a dream. I will be Rekha.

Then, I will start on a long journey. When I was very young, an uncle gifted me a doll. She was a beautiful doll, a blonde in a bridal dress, holding a bouquet of tiny white flowers. She had very fine features. I used to look at her for hours. At night, I used to put her back gently inside her cardboard box, while the other dolls slept outside. She was my sister. No, more than that.

But then I forgot about her. Her nose got rubbed in, her neck started to wobble and her white chiffon dress had gone grey. The lace came off. When I looked at her next after many years, she looked scary. I tried to fix her up. But it was not possible.

I will take her up again. I will travel the world with her. I will get her neck and nose done. I will get her the dress she once wore. I will spend all I have on the happy ending.