Another meaningless incursion away from the office. I would welcome such distractions if they were not so mundane.
We entered the posh and quite pretentious establishment a little after midday. The cheap lighting and the faux-wood flooring greeted us with an air of forced artistry.
Chaaye Khaana, the name itself dripping with bourgeois sentiments, is a favourite haunt of a certain class. Mostly iMac wielding hipsters. The mature, pipe-puffing intellectual reading away at his international newspaper is also a fairly common sight.
The lads from the firm and I took a seat which provided a wide angle of the cafe. People-watching was quite an enjoyable past time for my compatriots. I was impartial to the sport myself, but their company was amusing at the very least.
One of them started. "Yaar woh bachi check kar!"
The rest swivelled on their seats eager to get a look at the targeted prey.
Another piped in, "bara tight piece hai yaar."
A roll of my eyes, and I return to sipping the sad brown slop which they have the audacity to call an espresso.
Mr. T, a likeable fellow I must admit, changed the subject. "Oye, match dekha kal raat?"
The ensuing babble bored me. I turned around and inspected the adjacent bookshelf. I snapped my head back in disgust as my retinas were assaulted by pretentious tile after pretentious title.
The Secret? Really? I can discover self-actualisation on my own, thank you very much. And if it was that easy, that it could be condensed into a remarkably thin volume, you'd think we'd be inundated with superpeople.
Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho. An entire rack of Paulo Coelho. Huh. Arson had never sounded so appealing.
After we had finished off the sad fare, the bill dispensed off, we took our leave of the ostentatious cafe.
"Good scene tha, yaar. Phir aaye gaye."
- published in the first issue of Exist Magazine on ________
We entered the posh and quite pretentious establishment a little after midday. The cheap lighting and the faux-wood flooring greeted us with an air of forced artistry.
Chaaye Khaana, the name itself dripping with bourgeois sentiments, is a favourite haunt of a certain class. Mostly iMac wielding hipsters. The mature, pipe-puffing intellectual reading away at his international newspaper is also a fairly common sight.
The lads from the firm and I took a seat which provided a wide angle of the cafe. People-watching was quite an enjoyable past time for my compatriots. I was impartial to the sport myself, but their company was amusing at the very least.
One of them started. "Yaar woh bachi check kar!"
The rest swivelled on their seats eager to get a look at the targeted prey.
Another piped in, "bara tight piece hai yaar."
A roll of my eyes, and I return to sipping the sad brown slop which they have the audacity to call an espresso.
Mr. T, a likeable fellow I must admit, changed the subject. "Oye, match dekha kal raat?"
The ensuing babble bored me. I turned around and inspected the adjacent bookshelf. I snapped my head back in disgust as my retinas were assaulted by pretentious tile after pretentious title.
The Secret? Really? I can discover self-actualisation on my own, thank you very much. And if it was that easy, that it could be condensed into a remarkably thin volume, you'd think we'd be inundated with superpeople.
Eleven Minutes by Paulo Coelho. An entire rack of Paulo Coelho. Huh. Arson had never sounded so appealing.
After we had finished off the sad fare, the bill dispensed off, we took our leave of the ostentatious cafe.
"Good scene tha, yaar. Phir aaye gaye."
- published in the first issue of Exist Magazine on ________
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