Set Dosa

And with the rains come more slush
And with the rains come more mush.....

Set Dosa

It comes in five pieces. A pieced-out mash of yellow potatoes wrapped in five pieces of crisp brown dosa cloth. With impeccable accuracy, the waiter puts down the plate exactly in-between the two of us. The sambhar is like nectar. I can tell that even before I taste it, as I watch you a swallow a spoon of it and see its colour spreading in your cheeks. We never talk while we eat. At least, not with words. You won't speak even to disapprove of the way I dump the sambhar and chutney on my piece of dosa before swallowing it, treating red-orange nectar and green ambrosia like they were just two flavours of ketchup. I still haven't absorbed the habit of having them separately with a spoon, like you do. You only speak when we get to the fifth piece. You say in mock pleading, "But I'm hungry". And I have to laugh, and surrender spoon and fork.

A light drizzle has started outside the restaurant. We have two cups of coffee while we wait for it to stop. We blow the cool air of nostalgia over warm reminisces and sip carefully of the trepidatious future. We avoid talking about the present. As if it were something that needs to be held just right - like these stainless steel coffee cups, filled to the brim, held just at the top, too loose and it spills over you, too tight and you burn yourself.

Its still raining, even after we pay the bill and walk out. But for once, you don't mind being led out into a warm drizzle. And I don't mind either. Its been years since I walked you home in the rain.