Omelette paratha, and cold coffee


Omelette paratha, and cold coffee.

Not a perfect combination of drink to go with the snack, but nonetheless pleasingly savoury.

I was sitting next to a table occupied by three young guys dressed resplendently in haute kameez and kurta. They were conversing in Sindhi. I thought I had heard them talk more about politics than anything else, but in times such as we live in, anyone can be found talking about politics.

My friend pulled over, wincing that his company has to launch before the elections. I asked, twice, what they want to launch. Before he could answer, the guy nearest to me on the table next to ours was rattled at the word “elections”, and asked “which elections?“. I had not noticed that all of them had taken interest suddenly. When my friend said, “elections in Afghanistan“, they all let out a sigh followed by a good, heavy laugh. The one who had asked the question quipped, when my friend stated that in Afghanistan there are over forty presidential candidates fighting for a single position, about our Great President being practically the only candidate over here and joked about him being an unbearable burden on everyone. They all burst into mirth. I remained quiet, for some reason. My friend felt like carrying on the conversation, something I thought exceedingly needless.

We were the only two customers left in the cafe. It was half past one in the dead of a humid night. As we walked out, we saw a flashy Parado parked outside, with a heavy police escort waiting next to it. There could have been no doubt it was theirs.

They spoke in Sindhi, got nervous at hearing the word elections, and made fun at the expense of the president. The road outside was deserted, and it was late at night. And the men waiting outside glared straight at us as we strapped our seat belts and drove off.

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