Now even the shopkeepers in the waiting area are casting a baleful eye on me. Pune airport is so tiny that if I let loose a deep sigh, it will ricochet in a second. After one’s done with the security, there is nowhere to go and nothing to do. I think if I suffered a fate like Tom Hank’s character in the movie, The Terminal, at this airport, I’d probably guzzle engine fuel. Though laying my hands on engine fuel may be difficult, but Pune ‘International’ airport will ensure I’m driven enough to find it. Being a defence airport, I’m sure there’ll be barracks containing fuel.  I glance at the wristwatch on my hands, and the hands, mockingly, have moved three minutes ahead. It’s already past 8.00 p.m. and the Let-eet-go flight is STILL delayed. I’ve been at the airport for the last six hours and ideally should’ve been hovering over Delhi right now. Just about to get into the car that will drive me to my wedding in Panipat.  Yeah. Shocking that I’m still languishing in Pune when tomorrow (or under twelve hours) is the most important day of my life. Not that I planned to be here. It just happened. I missed my haldi, Ganesh pooja, and sangeet. Well, technically, I didn’t miss it because they didn’t happen. Sangeet did, but the others without me–the groom–are kinda impossible. We had planned a quick engagement in the morning, but now it appears dicey. Before you scream at me, hear me out. I had applied for a three weeks’ leave and they approved it. It was only after my green signal Ma got the wedding cards printed. Holding the ‘Takshak Weds Uttara’ deep purple, scroll-like card in my hand ignited a spark in me.  Uttara is everything a partner should be. Gorgeous, intelligent, friendly, great sense of humour, and most importantly: she wants to marry me. I still cannot fathom why she agreed to marry me, though I am good-looking, moderately tall, and settled with a good job. When I saw Uttara’s picture on BharatiyaMatrimony, my heart skipped a beat. The beat then trumped into an earthquake when we finally met. And just like that, post our roka, our courtship started. And it’s been quite a ride. Whenever we have met, a whole total of five times. I’m excited to start our married life, but then why did I delay it? Short answer? I didn’t. Long answer. I ‘technically’ did. I had just joined a new company as a team lead for support and was not very well-versed with their tools and, distracted as I was, I goofed up. A technical glitch sealed the deal. My manager agreed to my holidays in November instead of December. A fact that I didn’t realise unless my boss, who sits in Bangalore, pinged me by asking me why I was in the office instead of getting married. It was then the whole (literal) song and dance unravelled and I understood my gaffe. By then, others had already applied for leave and my (new) plans usurped many of theirs. Suffice to say, I’m not too popular in the office right now.  Explaining the whole scenario to my parents and Uttara was another task in the Herculean list of impossible tasks. Uttara’s expression when I narrated the incident was... something else. I had planned it so well; I used humour and a bit of self-deprecating minor touches. But, I think the humour didn’t sit well, and the deprecation was self-ly enough.  So, bottom line? An annoyed and completely miffed fiancée. Who’s going to get madder than a Delhi-ite experiencing road rage when I let them know the flight is delayed? Again.  A flight announcement diverts my attention. My ears pip up. Good afternoon passengers. This is the announcement for flight 689B to Delhi. We regret to inform you that the flight is delayed and is expected to depart from Pune airport at 21.45 hours. Let-eet-go is sorry for the inconvenience. Thank you. Hell’s bells. Another hour and a half before take-off. So, if we leave, by say, 10.00 p.m., we’ll land in Delhi by 30 minutes past midnight. Then deplaning, baggage, etc. will be another 45 minutes. So, I can be out of the airport by 2.00 a.m. and should reach Panipat by 5.00 a.m. Not too bad, eh? If I guzzle black tea and coffee and those vile Red Bull thingies, I can make it to my wedding. I’ll be as good as a zombie, but then the groom has hardly any role to play, right? Grin maniacally, leach at his bride, and look all chuffed and important. Child’s play for me.  I gaze around the airport. In December, Pune gets pleasantly cold, but for the locals, it’s time to get the thick sweaters and woollen monkey caps out. I know when I land in Delhi, it’ll be cold, not Pune-cold, but cold-cold. But Pune is true to its reputation, even at the airport, I spot passengers dressed in mufflers, thick flannels with puff jackets until my gaze stumbles upon a girl who’s wearing a simple red cotton tee with white lettering on it. I squint to read the text, and a smile breaks out on my face.  Ek to Punjaban. Uppar se cute, her t-shirt says.  Our eyes meet, and she responds to my grin with a tentative and wobbly smile. Like a rickety conveyer belt, I tear my gaze away and it lands on a guy next to her. He is holding a paper plate with five samosas and three vada pavs. And he is demolishing them like a wrecking ball, which his tummy aims to be! I observe him belch away with the Coke Zero Sugar can clutched in his brick-like hands. Good for him. I clear my head and lean back against the uncomfortable, cold chair and decide to nap. Might as well sleep when I can. The older couple sitting next to me are very unhappy with Let-eet-go airline. I have noticed, higher the age, higher the discontent. What makes older people so grumpy? Is it because they see others having fun, an alien concept to them? Or they are sad about the brevity of their life? Or its quality? Who knows? Or even, cares? But the Uncleji and Auntyji next to me had lots to say. And loudly. Typical Delhi people, I catch myself (smugly) thinking. Heck, I’m a proud Delhi-wallah. If you consider Panipat to be a part of Delhi, of course. When Delhi can accept cities like Noida and Gurgaon in her folds, why not Panipat, eh? “I asked that girl at the counter, why so much delay? You know what she said?” Uncleji spits out. Literally. Poor Auntyji pats his hand, consoling him. Another peculiarity is all Delhi-ites insist on speaking in English. Why I have never known, but back to eavesdropping. Is it even eavesdropping when a speaker is blaring next to ya? “What did she say?” Auntyji replies, almost by rote. “The mooha pilot got stuck in the traffic, and missed the flight’s take-off time. Now, because we lost our slot, everything is delayed.” “Haw. Hai, the traffic here’s also as bad as Dilli? They call themselves the smart city, hainaji?” You go, Auntyji. “Kaahe ke smart? They don’t even have a dhang ka Metro here. Bade aaye. Our Delhi pilots travel by the Metro. Have you ever heard of a pilot getting late? Shay, smart city.” “It’s a good thing we told Cheenti beta to not come to the airport. He would wait forever, hainaji?” Aha, so even pilots goof up. I self-guffaw and in minutes, am lost in slumberland. I dream of Uttara and she is taking my name from her sweet lips. It’s morning, and she is gently nudging me.  “Takshak, Takshak, Takshak,” she whispers. I smile sleepily and an unknown, but full of disgust, voice pierces my somnambulistic bubble.  “Ugh, he is drooling. Shee!” I wake up with a jerk and hear the announcement screech. This is the final boarding call for passenger Takshak booked on flight 689B to Delhi. Please proceed to gate 3 immediately. The captain will order for the doors of the aircraft to close in approximately five minutes. I repeat. This is the final boarding call for Takshak. This is the last and final boarding call for flight 689B. Thank you. Bhains ki Aankh. Bloody buffalo’s squint eyes. I cannot miss the flight. I half-run to the counter, surreptitiously wiping my mouth and dry-swallowing the taste of garlic in my mouth. Garlic. Another bane of Pune. Sometimes, I think they should just cook garlic ki sabji and add vegetables to it as seasoning. Because that’s how most of their cuisine tastes like.  Speeding through check-in, I run toward the open mouth of the flying beast aka airplane and instantly step into a landmine. People are glaring at me. Open hostility from a fellow-Delhi-ite is something to be experienced, while their Maharashtrian counterparts do it covertly. I plonk onto my seat, 32C and am happy to note the row is empty. I dump my backpack next to me. Lo-and-behold!  Cute Punjaban is sitting across the aisle from me, next to Samosa man, who’s munching through precious personal space just as he did to food on terra firma. Amongst the hostility, Punjaban smiles at me, which I reciprocate warmly. “Sorry, I delayed the flight. I didn’t realise how tired I was,” I whisper. She nods. “You’re here, so all good ji.” The soft ji shreds through my heart and for a moment, I’m lost in her kindly brown eyes. Her eyes attempt to speak to me, but I’ve always been bad at reading signs. “Sir, please ensure your mobile is in airplane mode,” an air-hostess steps in between us.  Drat. I obey the instructions and realise I’ve received eighteen missed calls from Uttara and a gazillion of messages. I revert to network, but Wot-Da-Feck takes forever in normal situations, under stress, it just dies. The air-hostess glares at me, and scared of her, my phone is network-less. Again. Uttara is going to be so mad. It’ll be epic, but I’ll win her over. After take-off, the pilot speaks. Good evening passengers. This is your captain speaking. First, I’d like to apologise for the delay. Traffic disasters affect all of us. Second, I’d like to welcome everyone on Let-eet-go Flight 689B. We are currently cruising at an altitude of 20,000 feet at an airspeed of 400 miles per hour. The time is 10.25 p.m., and the weather is foggy but is looking good. With the tailwind on our side, we are expecting to land in Delhi approximately fifteen minutes ahead of our scheduled arrival. The cabin crew will come around in about twenty minutes to offer you a light snack and beverage. I’ll talk to you again before we reach our destination. Until then, sit back, relax, and enjoy the rest of the flight.  Wow. What luck, we’ll reach early. As the crew dispenses food, I ask for a black coffee and so does my aisle neighbour. Samosa Man wolfs down three more vada pavs and an upma.  Punjaban looks at him and then gives me a side-eye. “I know, right?” I sip the not-so-hot coffee and add sugar to it. It tastes like sweetened tar now. “My name is Toshani. Are you from Delhi?” her voice is as sweet as jalebi syrup. Her name starts with T. My name starts with T. Together people will know us as TeeTee. And maybe we can pick up TT as a sport. And then we can sing, “Dhal Gaya Din, Ho Gayi Shaam.” No, that’s when they are playing tennis, not TT. I’m drowning in the sea of forbidden attraction. Just like Sivagami in Bahubali, my hand is outstretched, holding onto my sanity. Shut up, Takshak. YOU are going to a wedding. Your. Wedding. Toshani is looking at me with an expectant look and I realise I haven’t responded. “I’m Takshak. Yeah, I’m from Delhi. Dwarka. How about you?” “Arrey! Both our names start with the letter T. So cool, na? I stay in Janakpuri.” Unlike Sivagami, I sink further and with my sanity, the two of us are powerless against the waters.  “I was just thinking of that too!” I fake-laugh.  “Where do you work in Pune?” “I’m TL Level #3 support team in MindFickle.” An appreciative dawn blossoms in her eyes. “Oh, I just joined TechPro. I did my MCA from Delhi and this is my first job.” “I’m sure you must have topped your MCA exams.” A gentle laugh extracts itself out of her. Can drowning people hear? I sure can. “Nothing like that! How’s life as a TL?” Our conversation is like the offering of food at a shaadi. Continuous, non-stop, and tasty. And also, rich. People in our rows wanting to pee and/or when air-hostesses pass our row, keep interrupting us. One hour into our flight, just as the hands of my wristwatch, like us, are getting closer to each other, and inch towards 11.30 p.m. Samosa Man suddenly rises from his seat.  “Air hostess. Air hostess,” he screams. Everyone on the flight is gaping at him. He sways while holding on to the seat in front of him, and clutches at the hair of the man there. One hand goes to his gargantuan stomach. Weird, rumbling sounds emanate from the tummy.  Toshani cranes her neck and stares at him in horror. “I don’t feel so good,” he whispers. Should’ve thought of that before inhaling the fried stuff, I think.  With an ear-splitting hiccup and gravity-defying act, he vomits. Unlike the green puke in The Exorcist, his offering is flecked with food items and he generously douses everyone with it. It covers his neighbours and the rows ahead. Screams echo in the airplane. And an unholy stink circulates through the vents. He is moaning and his eyes crash into mine. I understand the Morse code being filtered to me. The man is going to let it go... With a loud fart, his eyes fill with water, and he lets go.  Well, Delhi Belly is the apt word for it. It suits the place and the man’s erm... symptoms. If you thought the earlier odour was noxious, now it’s just indescribable. With an effort, I drag my eyes off the disaster and look at Toshani. She is covered with the goop and is numbly gawping at her feet where more stuff from Samosa Man is pooling. “Chee. Chee. He did ulti on me. On my favourite shirt. Chee.” Toshani frantically rubs her mouth with a napkin as tears mixed with puke run down her cheeks. Fighting nausea, I take advantage of our proximity to the bathroom and drag Toshani, and by God’s grace, my backpack with us. I push her inside with my bag. “It has soap, a clean towel, and a sweatshirt. Clean up.” By the time I return, Samosa Man is looking green, and massaging his chest. The cabin crew gauges the seriousness of the situation and one of them runs–as fast as one can on high heels and calls the cockpit.  “I’m going to get a heart attack! I’m heart-attacking,” he moans. The air-hostess asks if there’s a doctor on board. A tentative hand enters the airspace. “Dr, can you please attend to this man,” she pleads. The man waddles to Samosa Man, peering at him. “I did my doctorate in ‘Mathematics of Juggling Patterns’. I can tell you the pattern here suggests this man may be sick.” The stewardess gives him a dirty look, and raising her voice, asks. “Is there a medical doctor present?” Meanwhile, the Samosa Man is almost tearing the skin of his chest with his movements. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die on this plane! My children will grow up fatherless and my wife will be a window.”  “Sir, do you have heart issues?” “No. No. But I got a heart-attack in May,” he groans. And he still eats like that? I wonder.  Alarmed, the air-hostess waits for the captain, who shortly arrives, observes the olfactory disaster and mayhem, makes a snap decision, which he conveys to the chef stewardess. Other passengers have started to beeline for the lavatories. A stewardess struggles to maintain law and order while managing the queue. She holds a hand to her nose, and I’m scared she may start puking! Away from Toshani, my submerged senses resurface and I sink back into my seat. Just as the announcement seals my fate. Good evening passengers. This is your captain speaking. We’ve had an accident in the flight, and because of a passenger’s potential medical condition, we’re diverting the flight to Jaipur. Once the patient is de-planned, we’ll continue our journey to Delhi. We are sorry for the inconvenience caused.  No. No. NO. We cannot stop at Jaipur! How will I reach Panipat by 5.00 a.m.? It’s already pushing one a.m. My head crashes into my helpless hands as I pull my hair with frustration. Why is this happening to me? Toshani places a hand on my shoulder. “Takshak, are you okay?” She shoves a tightly sealed plastic bag into the overhead cabin. Toshani has washed up with no visible signs of puke. She is wearing my sweatshirt—man, does it suit her more—and pants.  Toshani catches me looking at them. “I always wear capris under skirts.” I nod and move to the middle seat and she takes my seat. Samosa Man, breathing deeply, appears to be asleep. At regular intervals, he paws his chest and then reverts to sleep. How can the man rest after causing such mayhem in my life and lives of others? “They diverted the flight to Jaipur,” I morosely say. “Acha, for taking him away?” She points at the (now) Slumber Man. “Yeah.” The air-hostesses are trying to clean the projectile vomit but their valiant attempts are barely making a dent. The smell is now tolerable. Thick layer of perfume turns everything sickly sweet and all the bathrooms are choc-a-block. People getting rid of their personal demons.  “Thank you for the sweatshirt,” Toshani murmurs. I turn to look at her. We are a hair’s breath away. Rancid odours emanate from her, despite her best efforts. But they’re powerless against our gaze, chained to each other. Toshani lowers her eyes and her hands fumble with the seat belt, fiddling with the clasp. I peer at the top of her head, and an alien feeling of protectiveness envelops me.  Good evening passengers. This is your pilot speaking. Again. We have started our descent into Sanganer Airport, Jaipur. We’ve already received the clearance to land in fifteen minutes. The time right now is 12.45 a.m. and I estimate a delay of ninety minutes before we’re airborne again. Thank you and good night.  A deep, silent sigh unravels out of me, and before I can articulate my displeasure, I sense a weight on my shoulder. Turning, I spot Toshani, who’s placed her head on it, and her hand is on my chest. She is fast asleep. Her eyelashes flutter on her flawless cheeks and the sense of belongingness and rightness is as alarming as the omnipresent smell of vomit. Heart churning, I gaze out of the window. Blackness greets me and in the glass’ reflection, I see Toshani’s head on me, and my eyes sparkling. I push the image out of my head and strain to bring up Uttara’s face. Uttara, my fiancée. Whom I’m marrying tomorrow. No, today. Whom I’m marrying today. In a few hours. Why am I so unsure? I close my eyes and let fatigue bring me under. The sound of footsteps running onto the aisle wake me and a man is huffing and puffing, trying to push a wheelchair-clad Samosa/Slumber Man, sipping Frooty and waving bye like Princess Di, out of the plane. The hum of the motors, the noises from outside permeate in, but aren’t enough to wake Toshani, now curled up against me, and who takes up more real estate on my chest. Good time to have a broad chest, I catch myself congratulating myself. My hand inches toward hers, I place mine over it, and pass out. Even in my sleep, I know we remain stationary, and like an insect, foreboding burrows into my head. Time is passing and I’m not moving. And yet, I’m changing. When I wake up next, there’s a lemony scent in the airplane. Toshani is still practically on my lap. The sun has wiped out all traces of the night and a glance at my watch tightens my stomach muscles. The cabin lights are off and I vaguely remember taking off at around early dawn. I feel Toshani stir as she stretches and gazes at me. “Good morning.” Her voice slurs with sleep. I tap her nose and smile. “Did they take the ulti-man? What’s the time?” “Yeah. Seven o’clock.” The stewardess serves us black tea and I gulp it down with much needed alacrity. My mind is in tatters, and I’m torn between a known fate and an unknown one. Logic and emotions are on different sides. I look at my dormant phone. I must speak to Uttara.  Maybe she’ll have a solution for our problem. *** The baggage carousel is malfunctioning. Every minute, it spits out a suitcase, and somebody pounces on it. Every suitcase is out except mine. While I stand with Toshani, our hands loosely intertwine, she leans against her trolley. We’ve exchanged numbers, but I’m yet to tell her about my conjugal contract with another woman. Why do I hesitate? I haven’t turned my phone on because how can I talk to Uttara while I gaze into Toshani’s eyes? I know I’m deplorable, but even in my depth of lowliness, I have morals. Her phone trills, and her father’s here to pick her up. With a deep hug, a chaste kiss on my cheek, and a whiff of the Samosa Man’s puke, she sets off, leaving me behind with my not-yet-here bag and a sensation of missing her already. When the conveyer belt develops a dry mouth, I realise my bags are not there. Approaching the counter, my gaze falls on the huge digital clock, which, with pride, displays eight-thirty a.m. I shake my head and give into Murphy’s Law. As expected, my bag, like my heart, has been left in Pune. I tug my backpack to myself and walk out toward the Metro. My wedding clothes are in Panipat, anyway. One hour, sixteen minutes and five SMSs from Toshani later, I’m in a cab taking me to Panipat. I have dropped a message to my parents that I’m en route, but not sure if they’ll check it. The last twelve hours have snatched all the fight from me. I don’t know what life wants from me. I don’t know who or what I am. *** The shehnai, sombre and morose, suited her mood.  The number you’ve called is currently switched off.  Hearing the same message tempted Uttara to throw her phone on the floor, but she was already reeling under the marriage expenses, and buying a new cell was out of the question. Her father and she had put in every little paisa that they owned, and lots they didn’t, on her wedding. The phone rang and for a minute she thought it was Takshak calling to update her.  It was Shrenik.  Her thumb moved across his photograph on the screen as she pressed the red button. Shrenik was an enormous piece of her past. And it was a past that had to stay put. They met while doing their chef apprenticeship in Delhi. Amongst the red chilly pastes, Manchurian sauces, sizzling brownies, and kadu-petha, their love too simmered on a slow fire, but the fire extinguisher of caste doused their romance much too soon. The same old story. Shrenik was a Maratha, and Uttara hailed from the Jat-land, Panipat. The land of honour killing, the land of choiceless options. Her family subjugated Uttara into signing up for the matrimony sites, and soon, Takshak stormed into her life.  And she forgot all about Shrenik and her life became a living personification of the lines of her favourite poet, Amrita Pritam.  Maine apni zindagi ki sari kadwahat pi li, Kyunki is mein tumhare ishq ki ek boond mili thi. Takshak was sweet, a bit of Delhi attitude, but everything else was a perfect match. Sometimes, Uttara felt underneath all his perfectness, lay a small atom of discontent. As if Takshak didn’t know what was love and what he was shown, he assumed that’s how love was supposed to be. Whenever they hung up from their lovey-dovey conversations, Uttara’s sixth sense screamed that her fiancé wasn’t as invested. Or a bit too invested, perhaps? Or was her past with Shrenik colouring her judgment?  There were some red flags, but with parents and their decision to marry you off, everything was a matter of compromise. The red colour of the ‘heart’ camouflaged the red flag. So, after a few ill-fated attempts, Uttara kept her concerns to herself, resigning to a life of adjustments. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad, after all? Already Takshak’s goof-ups with his holidays had cost her a lot of money, and with his flight getting delayed, was it a sign from above? Or just of a carelessness. Uttara didn’t know the answer, but she did know one thing. It was nine-forty-five a.m. on her wedding day, and her fiancé wasn’t in Panipat. Was this the Indian version of being left at the altar? Or was Takshak up to his goofy, 11th hour tricks? She cancelled their engagement party, but the bills, already generated, had to be paid. What a waste! As her maternal uncle struggled to get the maroon chuda over her henna-ed hands, her mind tripped over the swirls on her palms, crashed into the beads on the bangles, and wrestled with the dangling kaleeren. Why hadn’t Takshak called? And, why had Shrenik called? The wedding was to happen in a few hours. But without a groom, was it even possible? Or could they just substitute the man? *** All the billboards dotting the GT Karnal proclaim to have the best pickle in the world. Having tasted the Panipat’s famous ‘dele ka achar’, I cannot guarantee the world’s best tag, but it’s definitely amazing. The advertisements sober me down, remind me I’m in a pickle. Toshani sends me a picture of the washed tee she had worn accompanied with a message that her mom scrubbed all signs of Samosa Man from it by boiling it. It makes me smile for the first time since we’re apart. With thirty-five minutes for the festivities to start... I’m, at best, an hour away. *** Was it fair to risk so much of money in the end just to say no to Takshak? Uttara wondered. Why was the girl’s side expected to bear the entire burden? The worried faces of her parents and mutterings amongst the relatives gnawed at the edges of the hole in her stomach. Refrains of ‘unlucky’, ‘it’s all her fault’, etc looped endlessly in her ears. The pinched expression on her father’s face turned hers to stone. Why was Takshak not here yet? Did she matter so little to him he couldn’t even bother to message?  Getting any kind of refund on the payments was impossible. The marriage was going to happen, with or without the designated groom. Could the love she still harboured have a chance? Could the rising Phoenix be allowed to live? *** Just fifteen minutes away. As the mandap grows closer, I want to turn all the way back. Living a lie for the rest of my life with Uttara isn’t something I can carry off. While I’m not sure this ‘thing’ with Toshani will lead to something, but I want to know. I want to have the chance, but what about Uttara?  Yes, you ask, I was the one who chose Uttara. But did I really? They proverbially locked us in a room and the only way out was to agree to the relationship. Did I want to marry her? Do I want to marry her? I know she’s invested a lot of time, effort, and cold cash into this ... our marriage. But this is the rest of our lives. Heck, I can repay the money to her. I want to flee. To turn back. To turncoat. But I owe Uttara to, at least, tell her about this volte face, face to face.  It’s time to grow up. *** Uttara looked at her phone. Shrenik had called again. And again. The phone has been constantly buzzing like a bee on steroids. Zzz was all it vibrated. Each zzz was a slice to the heart. Each zzz was a call to feel. A call to really live a life without compromise.  Without fear.  To breathe.  To love.  Was losing a life worth living it? Yes. Yes, it was. Takshak’s wedding sherwani, and his flowery sehra lay where she sat in her wedding ghagra. Could she pull it off? Her phone whizzed in her hand. Shrenik. Her hand hovered on the red cancel button. Uttara swallowed and pressed the green one instead. *** Goddammit. Uttara sure knows how to make an entrance. I watch from the sidelines as she sashays with the right percentage of shyness and demureness to the mandap. Where a doppelgänger of mine sits basking his hands at the holy fire. He wears my wedding sherwani. My sehra. His physique is like mine. I pinch myself to ensure I’m still me.  Yup. Still Takshak. I watch the two of them, a gleaming Uttara and a flowery veiled ‘me’ perambulate around the agni. Each circumference drawing them closer to matrimony. And each circle, freeing me. My presence seems superfluous. An extra. A video call from my phone catches my attention. I slink out of the room and step outside in the muted sunshine, where everything is clear. Lit up. It’s Toshani.  “You’ll not believe this, Takshu! Samosa Man is my twice-removed second cousin’s husband. The whole heart attack thing? It was a case of indigestion. He ate 10 samosas. He was in Pune for a seminar and got a health check-up, and the doctors gave him an all clear, so he wanted to celebrate,” she says. “Celebrate he did, indeed. Want to meet for coffee in the evening?” “Yeah. Where?” “Haldiram’s? We can have a samosa each.”     Penmancy gets a small share of every purchase you make through these links, and every little helps us continue bringing you the reads you love!