A dinner in street.


‘Haeli(tell me)’ cashier nodded his head at me. 

‘Masal dosa’ I said and showed a finger to tell him the count. 

‘Thirty.  haeeyyyy…. ‘ he said and rushed to the street. Three teenagers were racing on a bike and dashed over a couple. 

They didn’t stop, though there were too many hands trying to grab a hold of them –  the three teenagers. They managed to escape them all and dashed themselves, missing the balance, on the vehicles that were parked at the sides of the street shop – I was waiting for Masal dosa. Few grabbed their collar, few jumped over them, many punched on their face. There was much hassle. 

I got my dosa a little while later, sat over a concrete near the shop and started feeding my hunger. 

‘What is happening here?!’ a voice directed towards me. A white. 

I told him what happened there, repeating many words again and again, I couldn’t twist my tongue proper to his mother language. 

‘But, why did they dash on those vehicles? ‘

‘They were trying to escape’ I said. 

‘Aaaahhhh…’ he said and shock his head. 

He was eating ‘Set dosa’ with a coffee by the side,  with bare hands. 

‘Good to see you eat with bare hands’ I smiled. 

He laughed out loud. “Food that are costlier than these are not tastier than these” 

‘Where are you from?! You are here for very long?! ‘ I asked. He said, he is from London and he has been in India for six months now,  traveling along Kerela and Tamil Nadu for past five months and his stay in Bangalore of one month is getting over by tomorrow. 

‘I’m leaving Bangalore tomorrow, but I don’t know where I’m going next. My travel so far has been as this, zero planning’ he grinned. 

I excused to get me a coffee,  got one and went back again to him. 

‘How do you feel about the past six months here? ‘

Staring with food, he continues praising good about culture, tradition and people. 

‘People here handle things by themselves,  which I don’t see in London, I mean, in terms of dealing things among themselves as it just happened now, in that hassle; without taking it over to an burocracy level. Ah.. where are those three guys who got caught?!’

‘Their plea has been considered after the smashing’ I said. 

He was raving about things here, I don’t know if it was because of my emotive nature, but I was more than proud. Perhaps, gloating. I couldn’t get ride of that thick grin that was sticking on my face.

‘You people get rid of your politicians somehow, I mean, somehow… You people can handle it all with yourself, you just don’t need them’ there was a firm genuineness in his expression then. 

I was just sitting there, with my grin for sometime. 

‘Alright man, good to see you, have a wonderful trip’, I wished him and started walking home. 

Only after crossing few meters, I remembered I had left the coffee glass in the place we were talking and didn’t give it back to the shop. 

I went back there only to see no coffee glass at the place I kept but the English guy I was talking to had picked my glass as well, along with his plate and his coffee glass, and was giving it to the shop. He was modest enough to pick something I used. I wouldn’t have done that in his place, just until then. 

I left the place, with a sense of making something really ugly. Only I couldn’t put that “Why?!” into words here.

Woke-up Panting


‚ÄčI do not remember how it started, it was dark and blurred-up. Nobody remember a dream, as clear as day, do we? I don’t anyway. Given a choice, I would copy the dreams to a memory stick, bottle it up, peruse them, and be fascinated again. Most of the dreams aren’t remembered to the least when I be awake. I’m happy to have remembered this atleast as fragmented scenes.

But I do remember from the scene where I was asked to interview Mr. Modi, for a TV show. Don’t ask me who asked you to.. which TV Channel was it. It was all blurred-up or skipped perhaps to say it better. Even I wasn’t able to say, “Ok, Stop..” and make these questions, because I couldn’t afford to – it would wake me up, moreover there is no way I could resume a dream, once terminated. 

The place all this happened was a Bazaar street in my town, that is very much familiar in my memory; to be more precise – a building that looked more like a garage from an outer look, reached crossing multiple alleys. I could vaguely remember a tea shop near the garage like place with worn-out wooden door. Yes, I was suppose to interview Mr. Modi in that place that looked more like a garage, with worn-out wooden door. Insane, I know. If not so, would you say it’s worth being a dream. 

Next scene, I was preparing there for the interview, with questions.. that I don’t remember. I can guess though.. : You proposed “Clean India”, people expected Dustbins, But you gave a 0.5% cess and you said “helping farmers” people expected loan cancellations and promoting native breeds, But government gave a 0.5% cess. Why do you do this Mr. Modi? I was asking to the empty chair opposite me. I was nervousness enough in the dream to debacle the hosting place. 

Woke-up panting, glad to have not interviewed Mr. Modi.