Chance meeting


We are in a cab, making our way across the city of Bengaluru in India.

As a mother, I have reached ‘that’ stage, where I am not given a choice to opt for a window seat in any vehicle. I am sandwiched between my kids. It is a pleasant day, and we have rolled down the windows.My husband sits in the front, lost in thought, and I suspect, also trying to catch a few winks.

There is heavy traffic, and our progress is stilted. The kids play a game of word building.

After a while, the congestion eases, and we start moving.

All of a sudden, an autorickshaw pulls up alongside our cab. The auto driver waves wildly at our cab driver, and shouts out a loud greeting.

Our cab driver is pepped-up now. He recognizes an old friend. And for the next hundred meters, the two vehicles drive in perfect synchronization.

Image courtesy – Clipart Panda

A time during which the two men exchange pleasantries and catch-up on each others’ lives. Their grins are infectious, their excitement palpable.

Our cabbie sits up straighter, and looks recharged.

Soon, the time comes for the two friends to part ways. One takes a left, the other takes a right. They say their goodbyes.

Our journey continues.

This makes me think. We meet many people who travel with us on this journey called life, who share our time, space, emotions and memories.

For reasons unknown, we do not meet most of these people ever again; but sometimes we do bump into someone we know from our past.

Life pauses for a bit for us to rewind and remember, and then moves on, taking us towards new experiences and people.

Bliss in a butter dosa!


The mid morning heat envelopes us.  My husband and I are in the city of Bengaluru, making our way through winding streets and small alleys that are crammed with shops that sell every thing that one could ever want.

The sound of blaring horns and moving vehicles is punctuated by street hawkers selling their wares – clamouring for attention. People are moving, elbows jostling, from shop to shop or hawker to hawker, inspecting clothes or kitchen utensils or fruit or flowers, bargaining, closing deals. Some people are oblivious to the cacophony as they plod on, expertly weaving their way through the wave of humanity.

My husband and I are working our way down the ‘all-important’ shopping list. After weaving through the labyrinth, we are finally done and feel a sense of accomplishment.

My husband suggests that we go to a small eatery called CTR (short for Central Tiffin Room), a small restaurant that has been around for decades. My husband raves about their speciality – benne dosa (meaning butter dosa). The dosa is a South Indian delicacy, which looks like a pancake. The dosa is salty and not sweet. It usually has a potato stuffing, and is eaten with various chutneys and sambar. 

I am easily persuaded. We walk down to CTR. We are given a table on the first floor.

We order the benne dosa and await its arrival. When the golden dosa arrives, I am in bliss. Golden crisp on the outside and soft on the inside, with potata masala stuffed inside. The chutneys and sambar are perfect.

The butter-soaked dosa is superlative. It melts in the mouth. Truly delicious!

Like true South Indians we finish with a cup of strong filter coffee served in cute stainless steel tumblers.

                   Bliss is in a benne dosa and filter coffee!