This place was my choice. I had sold it to Andrew for much of our way here. He might not have known what toexpect, but the moment he bit into the first of the vadas, I knew I had called right.
‘This is so good, Rai!’
This sonnet of surnames was beginning to annoy me. It was more a reaction, I could tell, but it might’ve increased after he ran into Ravi and me.
Andrew took a second bite and closed his eyes. It was fresh and crisp like the morning air.
I had three vadas, enjoying every bite. Each was the size of my not-so-considerable palm. I had two with chutney and one plain. I could’ve had a couple more easily, but Andrew forced me to stop. There was excess edible oil in my system already for a whole week.
I wanted chutney for the last bite of my vada, but the steel bowl on my plate was wiped clean. Andrew had eaten my share of chutney, too.
He was on his feet to get us an extra portion, but I told him not to bother. I was going to savour the flavour.
‘You had five!’ He was smiling, sparking the sun.
‘Two,’ I said, keeping a straight face. That raw, early-morning contour had soothed into quiet certitude. It was inviting. ‘You should’ve asked your fashion-blogger friend to come along, Andrew.’
He was suddenly engaged with picking the crumbs on his steel plate.
‘Three can be company,’ I said.
Andrew looked around him. I think he was looking for a waiter to either call for the bill or have him walk me out of this busy location.
I opened my phone to Pooja’s Instagram page and found that she was online. ‘And she’s an early riser.’
‘How do you know?’ Andrew asked, hawking the tired look.
I flashed the page at him. Andrew looked away.
‘You should’ve worn a polka-dotted shirt.’ I giggled. It was that kind of a morning.
Andrew smiled; his face coloured.
‘Hari Rao would’ve been impressed.’
I had crossed a line, I could tell, by the way his eyes hardened. I’d done the polka dots to death. Maybe.
‘Why would I want to impress him?’
‘Because…’ I said, tilting my face up to his. Our lips were not in line.
I was craving coffee, black and bitter. I raised my hand to signal for one, and Andrew, who was seated opposite me, took my hand loosely in his.
‘Not here,’ he mouthed.
I returned his smile, brighter and warmer.
‘They don’t do black coffee here, Myraah,’ he said.
I should’ve known; I was the local girl. I had done this road a million times growing up.
I took my hand back and let him keep the smile as we exited the stall.
Some 10 minutes later, Hari Rao’s convoy passed us. I couldn’t help but throw a glance at Andrew. His foot slammed the accelerator; we were back at work. On the campaign trail, en route to Mysuru.
We drove through a couple of villages before stopping at a two-lane expanse, which had some five homes. Mud and brick constructions, never touched by a paintbrush. Hari Rao stepped into each of the shelters and interacted with the adults. The villagers from the seemingly better-placed settlements that we had driven past had been transported to the remote Chittakayanakoplu. Hari Rao wanted to bring this hardy commune into public consciousness. If he went there, especially in the lead-up to the elections, the mediawould follow and train their lenses on local issues like housing and electricity. More people, even if they were just in the backdrop, would lend to the voice of the people.
I followed Andrew into the first house. I hooked my fingers into the belt loop of his carpenter jeans to keep up with him. He turned once to check if I was okay before returning to the action.
