No matter what happens, there will always be gol gappas.
[And sometimes, around them, there will be a startling mix of people, shrieking at a popped five-rupee balloon, heckling at their kids in Panjabi, speaking lovely Delhi English, sweating faintly, looking bewildered, wrapping shawls tighter around themselves. And in their midst, Mum and I, wiggling in our seats, hissing through our teeth, slurping the green dregs out of a stainless steel katori.]
No comments:
Post a Comment