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A sunny day, an avenue with
gulmohar trees, maybe an ambassador or two pass the street,
but the traffic is dominated by Rickshaw pullers and bicycle
riders. It could have been a Sunday, or probably some public
holiday, but it does not matter, because, it just meant there
was no “daftar” to go to. A rickshaw stops in front of a small
café near the clock tower. A man gets down from the rickshaw,
lazily stretches himself, puts his son on his shoulders and
walks into the café, where his friends, some for years, some
newly made, even as recently as last evening, are waiting for
him. As greetings do the rounds, one realizes that the group
is a good mix of various communities and various old world
languages flow freely across the room. The son is the center
of attraction today and everybody wants him to recite
something he has learnt anew. The kid enjoys the attention.
Very shyly but surely he recites all the new rhymes he has
learnt. Over gossip of the past week, “chai and biskoot” are
consumed by plates and countless cups. By lunchtime, they move
to the dining section where the womenfolk join them for a meal
of kebabs and biryani. The meal is complemented by the expert
comments of the gourmands in the gathering, who are
incidentally, too many. Lunch is a leisurely affair stretching
over a couple of hours, with cackles of harmony and discussion
on books. |
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