Takeaway Lunch
The Man I Live With
So yesterday, the man I live with, decided, in the manner of divine dispensation, that we would be ordering takeaway lunch. Which was fine with me.
He said he would be ordering. Which was also fine with me. I decided that I didn’t want breakfast at all so that I could eat well.
So I waited for him to place the order. 10 o’clock, 10.30, 11 o’clock, 11.30 am and the order was not placed. I waited.
I was getting hungry and when I get hungry, I get angry. It is not your common or garden anger: it is a full-scale enraged, wrathful, rampaging, ‘tandav’ kind of anger. So then I am quiet and simmering. And simmering. I am trying to think good thoughts, but.
I breathe. In and out. In and out.
Then he looks at me, sees my face, and immediately places the order. After the usual paraphernalia of payment, the OTP, etc., we wait. After 15 minutes, we track the order and the gentleman looks at his phone and goes bug-eyed. “He is coming from Africa!” he tells me, awed. I run to look, and sure enough, there is a small tracking dot somewhere in the area of the Ivory Coast, in Africa. We were duly impressed with the efficiency of the courier service, though I privately wondered whether I better begin cooking. This could take days!
After 15 minutes, the doorbell rings, and it is our order. The courier refuses to give it to me initially, insisting that it was for ‘Janvi’, even though my name, address, and order details were clearly printed on the cover of the package in his hand. While he was arguing with me, the gentleman came and stood behind me. My gentleman is not someone you argue with. So the courier gave me the package, and left, after one last resentful glance at me.
After 15 minutes, we get another call. A courier man calls up and we tell him that our parcel has already arrived, but he pays no heed to that.
He says that he will be reaching our house soon since he has reached the railway line. Which railway line? Somewhere near Mulund, an hour away from our house. He is heading in the direction of Godbunder Road. “Ok,” the man says, deadpan and poker-faced. No one does deadpan and poker-faced like he does.
We study the tracking system, very interested now. The dot is searching for Janvi and someone else called Ranjit. After 20 minutes we get a message saying that our parcel has reached.
That was a very fast flight from Africa.
Thus, we live and learn.
©️ 2022 Suma Narayan. All Rights Reserved.
Shoutout to this riveting poem about the presence of truth: and our absence of observation, by Anthi Psomiadou:
