Two days ago, my wife and I took a ride on the metro to the city and had our favourite Malabar parottas in a restaurant at Flora Fountain. In the next table a pretty girl, waved her flashy coconut oiled hair, as a guy nearby smiled at her.
Since the waiter took a while, my mind spun a tale:
Their love story began at a small restaurant opposite the hospital. Rohan had come after a sixteen hour shift debugging code that refused to behave. His eyes looked like they had been formatted and his soul needed rebooting. He entered the hotel, and there she was. Anju. White uniform but hair let loose.
Eyes sparkling with the confidence of someone who has inserted twenty-seven IV lines without blinking.
She ordered first. “One Malabar parotta and chicken curry,” she said softly. The waiter, who believed himself the Shah Rukh Khan of serving tables, leaned forward, “Extra curry?”
“Yes please,” she smiled.
Rohan heard those two magical words. Not “Yes I will marry you,” or “Yes I love you,” but “Malabar parotta.” His lungs filled with respect. He looked at her as a warrior looks at another warrior who has fought in the same battlefield of life. When the waiter turned to him, he whispered reverently, “Same order.”
Their plates arrived steaming. The parotta glistened in golden beauty. Gentle layers peeling like secrets of the universe. Rohan tore his first piece. Anju tore hers. They dipped into the curry together with the synchronisation of Olympic swimmers, and ate silently, the silence of sacred worship. He could feel his stress dissolving like software updates evaporating after restart. She could feel her tired feet waking to life.
Halfway through the meal, their eyes met. He smiled at her. She at him. There was more romance in those glances than love at the Taj Mahal.
From that day onwards the staff named them The Parotta Couple. A love that survived hospital shifts, server crashes, and the occasional argument about whether the curry should be a little more spicy. Each meeting started the same way:
“Parotta and extra gravy.”
“Same order!”
And a big grin that filled their faces.
Next week my imagination told me they are getting married. He proposed not with a ring, but with a plate of parotta shaped into a heart using both hands like a sculptor. She cried. The waiter cried. Even the parotta puffed proudly.
And they say love is complicated. No. Love is simple.
Love is layered. Love is flaky. Love is strong enough to survive anything when there is a fresh plate of Malabar Parotta on the table and two hearts ready to share it.
If only world leaders would eat parottas together instead of arguing across microphones, we would have world peace by lunchtime.
So, here’s to love. Here is to laughter. Here, to the greatest ambassador of unity ever invented.
The Malabar Parotta..!
The Author conducts an online, eight session Writers and Speakers Course. If you’d like to join, do send a thumbs-up to WhatsApp number 9892572883 or send a message to bobsbanter@gmail.com
