Home. There's no place like it. It maybe Geneva, Mogadishu or even just Bangalore. It's still home. It's where the roots are and somehow comforting. Most things are easier to deal with at home. Being de-homed, so to speak, causes enough stress to make even the slightest disappointment seem like the sky's been doing the whole falling act. And I've had my share. Not to be cribbing the the past month has been a bitch. And while I do not want to crib about my life considering it is primarily due to my own choices that I find myself at these crossroads there are still things that get my goat. Like this.
The take is simple don't fork my dosa. And this isn't a naan-issue.This incidentally is at the Madras Cafe at Green Park where, along with Adyar Ananda Bhavan (A2B, yeah), one can get dosas for Rs 50/- and about 50 ml of Pongal for Rs 40. I'm thinking, "Keep it."
So here springs my alternate profession plan #56. This comes after ambulance driver (hell an MBBS degree and a driving license), quack, and best-selling author of how not to do things right. Open South Indian restaurant in Delhi.And unlike the competition import both cooks and raw material from, say, Chennai. And con Mohayana to DJ the place with gaana-patu. And we're in business. Get the boys to run around in mundus and speak like Mehmood in Padosan and the choms will flock like flies on fresh you-know-what. It beats idea #43 which involves recycling used underwear with sources tell me is a very lucrative business given cheap labour and Surf Excel.
And who is Pratibha Patil? And since when did loyalty to the Gandhi family start being the prime criteria for Presidency? And why do we laugh at Bush when there's enough nonsense in our own backyard.
