As usual, I was into my daily ritual of surfing the net, when I sensed my abdomen cursing me . It is obvious that you can’t carry on with your work peacefully when somebody is swearing at you, especially when it is your own stomach. I shut down my latop, and set out for the dinner of the day. I reached my daily-meal-place, the local parotta shop at the end of the road. Hold on; by saying ‘local’, I just mean the geographical thing, and not the olfactory or gustatory senses, as the food available in parotta shops defines the meaning of heaven. As the foot of a hungry me set itself inside the ‘heaven-on-earth’, rays of bliss poured from the shopkeeper’s eyes (because I was his regular customer). ‘Two dosas’, I said and walked my way to the last seat, which was both cozy and close to the place where hot dosas were born out from the cook’s hands. The shopkeeper, as always, brought me a glass of water. And I, as always, decided not to drink it (in parotta shops, the food tastes like heaven, and not the water).
Minutes began to melt away, and voluminous amounts of hydrochloric acid started to evolve inside my belly. The plate in front of me was still empty and colourless. I threw a look of hunger and impatience towards the cook, and to my shock, I discovered him to be missing. I looked at the shop owner, who was having a busy time smelling the rupee notes in his table’s drawer. My appetite was strong, but my common sense was stronger, which stopped me from yelling at him. I pulled out my mobile and began to meddle with it, so that I could bring my hunger to a temporary halt before it gulped me down.
Moments later, my nostrils seemed to ripen with the smell I so loved, the smell of hot dosas coming to life from the culinary superstardom of the cook. The server placed them on my plate, and dollops of coconut chutney and sambar found their way. I instantly fell in love with the food, and my stomach with me.