"One chicken sandwich and one muskmelon juice" she exulted at how she had managed successfully to circumvent the "Madam do you have change?" problem. Nobody dare ask her for change when she was paying a fifth of her note.
She sat down and looked around.
The exultation wore off as quickly as it had appeared. Now what?
She looked at her phone. Oh crap, no service. Couldn't edit things either, the stupid battery was low.
She looked around again. The road in front of the cafe was crowded, dusty, broken and gravelly. Why anyone would occupy more than half a road in India for roadwork was beyond her. It was sure to result in... Oh, there it was. The invariable traffic jam and argument.
One man, one group of labourers, and a huge scoop were yelling at each other, while others in the resultant traffic snarl craned their necks to see what was going on.
She was quite amused. Maybe a poem could come out of this... She looked doubtfully at her phone... Would it live through a creative spurt?
Just as she was gazing at it in an attempt to gauge its mindset, the guy arrived with her chicken sandwich, which he hovered around her face looking around for the customer who had ordered it. He took it back inside, ignoring her frantic waving; her voice lost in the argument anyway. He brought it back in a second, and put it on her table. Then came with her juice.
Now she had something to occupy herself with, she allowed her phone to rest for a while. She'd remember this stuff later, she wasn't a sieve.
This sandwich was delicious. And the juice always made her happy.
She ate. And sipped. And sipped. And ate.
And it got over.
And then she got up and left.
Because she had already paid up the round-figure-no-change amount.
The traffic snarl had cleared up and everyone had gone home. Ab kya faayda? She was a writer who recorded the gritty truth of the everyday. Now if she wrote, it would be fiction, and then Plato would kick her out of his Republic. And then what would she do?
Who would marry her?
No, the traffic snarl was better forgotten.
That was really a delicious sandwich... "Must come back..." she murmured to herself as she crossed the road.
She sat down and looked around.
The exultation wore off as quickly as it had appeared. Now what?
She looked at her phone. Oh crap, no service. Couldn't edit things either, the stupid battery was low.
She looked around again. The road in front of the cafe was crowded, dusty, broken and gravelly. Why anyone would occupy more than half a road in India for roadwork was beyond her. It was sure to result in... Oh, there it was. The invariable traffic jam and argument.
One man, one group of labourers, and a huge scoop were yelling at each other, while others in the resultant traffic snarl craned their necks to see what was going on.
She was quite amused. Maybe a poem could come out of this... She looked doubtfully at her phone... Would it live through a creative spurt?
Just as she was gazing at it in an attempt to gauge its mindset, the guy arrived with her chicken sandwich, which he hovered around her face looking around for the customer who had ordered it. He took it back inside, ignoring her frantic waving; her voice lost in the argument anyway. He brought it back in a second, and put it on her table. Then came with her juice.
Now she had something to occupy herself with, she allowed her phone to rest for a while. She'd remember this stuff later, she wasn't a sieve.
This sandwich was delicious. And the juice always made her happy.
She ate. And sipped. And sipped. And ate.
And it got over.
And then she got up and left.
Because she had already paid up the round-figure-no-change amount.
The traffic snarl had cleared up and everyone had gone home. Ab kya faayda? She was a writer who recorded the gritty truth of the everyday. Now if she wrote, it would be fiction, and then Plato would kick her out of his Republic. And then what would she do?
Who would marry her?
No, the traffic snarl was better forgotten.
That was really a delicious sandwich... "Must come back..." she murmured to herself as she crossed the road.
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