Where everyone pretends to know my name, while miname lurks near the pasta counter and secretly spits into the bowl of olives

I wonder if there are buffet guerrilla experts. The kind who just hover around this or that dish and “adulterate” it with some choice ingredients.

I wonder what waiters feel about buffets. Do they heave a sigh of relief? Or are they slightly jealous, just a little bit pissed at their sudden redundancy. Sure, the fancier places have people get you food and “how was the pasta sir?” and “could I get you another martini ma’am?” and all that but still.

Redundancy is probably one of the worst words in the entire spoken language. Probably. It is like being alive but dead. Or even worse, dead but not decomposable if you know what I mean. “Cheh, even maggots have no use for you”.

I wonder how cave men would drink water. They definitely did not have bottles at that point of time and I am pretty sure that their tongues were not so developed to allow them to lap it up. I wonder if they dunked their heads underwater and then just opened their mouths. Hmmmm.

The monsoon has shown the Met Dept the finger all over again. “Heavy rains expected in next 48 hours” my fuckin ass sala. Its hotter and wetter than………

Perv alert.

I took a bus ride today. And one in the auto and one in the local. And it was all fantastic coz the bus was empty and the autowala was an encyclopedia on indian political history and the local was not too crowded and when it zipped past bandra i felt a cool, wet breeze hit my face.

Everything here appears to be worn smooth by time. The slabs of rocks I walk upon, the staircase upon which my hands rest, the metal pillars placed on the sidewalks. Worn smooth by time and people.

This city has enough stories for a hundred epics. And enough anger for a thousand wars. And enough love for a million plays and enough energy for a billion people.

 

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