"Ladies and Gentlemen of the jury, let this be known to you beforehand.
A story is a farce, muffled by obnoxious facts, if the reader doesn't read it till the very end"
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PC: glogster.com (Source)
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Some evenings are more eventful than other evenings. By some unexplained coincidence, they are usually accompanied by a red sky and the air in those blessed moments carries a muddy tinge. That weather is more "आज मौसम बड़ा बेईमान है " than how Wordsworth would speak of it. But then, your author is more Dhanush than Cary Grant. There is a high probability, my learned reader, that you would know what I am talking about and there is even higher a probability that you would know how magnificently scenic such evenings can get, especially if you are male.
Did I get to become a victim of the murderous ‘beauty’ (double meaning anyone?) of such an evening. Oh Yes! YES in CAPS.
I remember it was the weekend after the first ever exams of my graduate life. The summery day had given way to tinkling rains which had in turn given way to some cease-fire of raindrops. It was a weather that only two people can really enjoy- those who are in love or those who are in love with food. Somewhat sadly, your author belongs to the latter category. But don’t lose your excitement about this story just yet. As fate would have it, an evening meal off at the hostel mess would create circumstances that would try their utmost to land your author in the former category. Let me take you to the action of that day in all its glory- refreshing, enchanting and appetizing:
On a newly charcoaled road now. It leads to the exit gate from the college that is most frequented by the truant playing masses. This gate opens for you a world where every shop, every building, every nook and corner is tailored, custom made to let people enjoy life on a high. It also leads to a rare peaceful corner of delight where the game of this story begins. Your author is new to the place and it’s the first time he has come out for a meal. Unlike many of the brats who weep about like little babies complaining how badly the mess food sucks, your author actually enjoys the meals he gets there. But he can’t have it today and so he has to search for respite in a hollow that is secluded enough to nosh upon a hearty dish. He takes some instructions from the guard at the gate for a food place in accordance with his liking. He is directed to a joint about 500 meters from there with a name and a landmark. He reaches the said food point, doesn’t particularly like the cover but how to judge the book? Only one way to do that as he enters the gallery opening into a large space. The second the gallery ended, your misinformed author had his first shot at that famous monsoon moment they refer to so many times in the movies and sitting at the table close to the counter was the girl who would make it all happen. Oh how should I tell you about her!! Nabokov once said how it takes a murderer to write a prose style as poetic as to describe a beautiful girl. Maybe you should stop reading, my compassionate reader, for I don’t think I can really describe that girl, dressed in all her fineries, sitting at the table on that blessed rainy day. But for your sake, I will try.
She stood at about 5 feet from the ground but her frame helped her make that number bigger. She was wearing a blue tunic, the kind that is longer on the back than at the front. And she had the eyes of that infamous doe that can only be bettered by those thick framed black spects. Luckily, she had them on too. She was the perfect replica of the girl you have a crush on but to whom you never say anything, ever. Bear with me my forbearing reader, for you might think that I have deceived you with the title and handed to you a platter of my passionate rubble. But this is the real nature of man’s truest stories. There are layers and revelations, one after the other, with emotions and motifs all bound together into a single thread that you never want to let go. These are the stories that stay on with you and those that you look back to.
So there again stood your author on that blissful rainy day in that musical tranquility with violins and saxophones blaring all around him. But he couldn’t hear any of them. All he could muster up was to grab the table beside her to sit on. For once, he did a wise thing and sat facing her. It appeared she had been there a while and was just fixed on what to eat. A demure guy walks in to her table as she lifts her big stern eyes to assert an order of a Chicken Sizzler. My exasperated reader, have you ever been adjured by eyes as beautiful as those to follow in her footsteps without uttering a single hush? That sun-shot moment proclaimed sheer mastery over your author as he straighaway called the same diffident guy and placed the same order of a Chicken Sizzler. The game had now begun.
This girl, this enchantress, this belle, this neighbor of your author seemed by her demeanor to be a girl who knew her way around things. A clichéd bombast would tag her a ‘beauty with brains’ but in that elevated moment of sheer poetry, she appeared to your author as though Athena and Aphrodite have together come down and fused into a unison. The thought of food was far away from the head though. Yes, far away- it was in the belly burning with desires as fiery as hell. A certain assurance though of a perfect evening dish was continuously fighting to subside it. Hers came first as the waiter put down the dish on the table and set open the fumes to gush out of it. The second his own sizzler arrived, your author imagined a supposed happy ending to this little story of the evening. The lid was turned, the steam gushed out. The fork was speared and the first little piece of the dish was brought to the taste buds. And then struck calamity. Oh my prescient reader, how I wish I could tell you that I enjoyed the sizzler as much as I had enjoyed the rest of this evening. Alas, we are always left for the want of something. The chicken was pitiable; not at all tender nor even moist.There just was no depth to the flavor. It reeked a bit of curd and was just too high on soy sauce. The desi tadka of ginger-garlic-onions somehow made it just bearable to be consumed.
Finally done with it. “What an anticlimactic end to an evening that could have been so very memorable”, a disappointed version of an otherwise cheerful author of yours thought. “Is this how I would like it to end?” struck the game changer. With a little courage that has always helped him in making friends and winning foes, your author paid the bill, tipped the waiter and went to the table of that comeliest neighbor of his who herself seemed to be struggling with her meal. “Excuse me, You are very beautiful. Just wanted to tell you that” and a slow walk out. Not really poetic eh? But I think it made for an evening that I can still look back and smile about.
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| PC: movdata.net |
Sometime back, I told my sister about this little tryst and escapade of mine. She listened patiently to the whole thing as I rutted out every minute detail to her. I guess even more patiently than you have, my benevolent reader. After I was done with all my babble, I debated with her of the pros and cons of my decision on that bittersweet day. Would I have been better off if I had never encountered that seraphic creature in that tendersome evening? Finally, she advised me with her all too decisive words of wisdom, something she always possesses but rarely lets out-
“Look out a girl for view. Look out an app for a review”.
And this shut me up for better. I guess, my dearest reader, that you would be ecstatic now to see your stupid author finally succumbing to reality. At least my sister sure looked so as she went to great lengths telling me how it’s really done-
She told me how she does it. For her, TinyOwl comes to the rescue every time the food she gets at her place becomes unbearable to her or when she just wants to bring some change to the monotony. When that happens, she simply has to do 5 things-
- Wield the power of this oh so awesome app and it even picks up her location to suggest the best food in the vicinity
- All the hard work she has to do is to choose the cuisine and the restaurant of her liking. And doing this is so smooth thanks to the reviews and description provided for the various restaurant menus and their dishes. Hell, they sometimes even offer the chef’s profile!
- Now she is a regular user and so she doesn’t even have to type in her address. The app is smart enough to remember her patrons.
- To pass that restless time we experience so much after ordering food, TinyOwl allows you to make yourself useful in those helpless times by allowing you to track the order and know the delivery time. Ahh, if there was anything better than knowing just when the hunger would be satiated.
- Finally, when I’m with her, I have to pay J. But I don’t mind it in this case because there are just no hidden costs here and we only have to pay the bare minimum we would have paid to the restaurant.
This is thus a lesson learnt and a more significant one too because I have even gone through the practicals. As the monster foodie in me has started to kick in more and more, I wait for TinyOwl to come soon into my area and make my food stories as beautiful as the story of that sublime evening.
This was such a nicely written piece. I fell in love with it from the very first paragraph.
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