22-10-2022, 10:07 AM
Let me tell you something about me and football. First, I hate this game. Second, and by no way because
of the first pointer, I am no good at it; although, that doesn’t stop me from admiring a good game when I
see one. And admire I did the fat guy in the midfield as he dribbled the ball between his legs. A tall stick
lurched towards him. Our fatso quickly defected to his left and furiously kicked the ball at a scared
teenager who turned reflexively to his side. The ball hit his elbow.
‘Hand!’ the fatso screamed in delight and duly encashed the free kick. I was impressed.
I looked at them from a distance, hoping they would notice and call me over. Maybe they were too
engrossed in the game or maybe they didn’t care about a stranger gawking at them. I stood unheeded.
Sighing, I made my way to the exit.
Spencer Mall is more of a two-floored convenience store. I was thrilled to spot an escalator and hopped
right on. The first floor hosts a small cafeteria consisting of three chairs each around circular wooden
tables. There is a glass counter on the left where you get ‘The best Frankies in town’.
Confession—I had no idea what Frankies were. I wondered if they were so expensive that it would drive
my pride of being loaded away.
At the first floor, one takes a U-turn to face the cafeteria. I occupied one of the empty tables and studied
the menu. The contents were reassuring. A basic vegetarian Frankie cost around forty and went up to fifty
five if you wanted many fancy fillings. Schezwan paneer Frankie commanded my interest. I went to place
an order at the glass-top counter and there she was—the Girl behind the Counter.
‘Hi! And what would you like to have today?’ she smiled at me affably. It was almost a smile of
recognition, as if she had been privileged to have known me since ages and that I was her favourite
customer. I bit on my braces—her perfect pearly whites probably never needed dental treatment. The
thick and sleek black tresses almost shone and one lock of hair hung cutely on her dusky face. Her eyes
were everything the on-screen actors swoon to and poets write couplets about. You get it, don’t you? She
was probably a few years older than me and wore a black T-shirt that read ‘Joe’s Frankies’.
I tried to power up. Speak up , I screamed inside and mentally rehearsed what I had to say. Just order as
you would normally do and say ‘Thank you’ when you get it. How hard is it? A question popped in my
head—how is schezwan pronounced? C and H are silent, duh , came the answer. How can two
consecutive letters be silent, I wondered. Well, it just sounds better, doesn’t it? ‘Sez-waan’ , I reasoned.
But this is taking too long, way beyond the line that separates a customer from this pint-sized
nincompoop. And was that sweat on my forehead?
‘Sir?’ the girl asked unflinchingly, her expressions intact. I hoped she wasn’t just pretending to be calm
while hunting for an alarm button under the counter.
‘One plate schezwan paneer Frankie,’ I said and instantly felt proud that I didn’t stutter. Smooth , I
praised myself.
‘That would be fifty rupees, sir,’ she looked into my eyes, smiling all the while.
I must tell you, gentle reader, that continuous eye contact is worse than browbeating. You see, girls are
not intimidating. Only pretty ones are. I understand I sound shallow but I call upon the puberty-license.
of the first pointer, I am no good at it; although, that doesn’t stop me from admiring a good game when I
see one. And admire I did the fat guy in the midfield as he dribbled the ball between his legs. A tall stick
lurched towards him. Our fatso quickly defected to his left and furiously kicked the ball at a scared
teenager who turned reflexively to his side. The ball hit his elbow.
‘Hand!’ the fatso screamed in delight and duly encashed the free kick. I was impressed.
I looked at them from a distance, hoping they would notice and call me over. Maybe they were too
engrossed in the game or maybe they didn’t care about a stranger gawking at them. I stood unheeded.
Sighing, I made my way to the exit.
Spencer Mall is more of a two-floored convenience store. I was thrilled to spot an escalator and hopped
right on. The first floor hosts a small cafeteria consisting of three chairs each around circular wooden
tables. There is a glass counter on the left where you get ‘The best Frankies in town’.
Confession—I had no idea what Frankies were. I wondered if they were so expensive that it would drive
my pride of being loaded away.
At the first floor, one takes a U-turn to face the cafeteria. I occupied one of the empty tables and studied
the menu. The contents were reassuring. A basic vegetarian Frankie cost around forty and went up to fifty
five if you wanted many fancy fillings. Schezwan paneer Frankie commanded my interest. I went to place
an order at the glass-top counter and there she was—the Girl behind the Counter.
‘Hi! And what would you like to have today?’ she smiled at me affably. It was almost a smile of
recognition, as if she had been privileged to have known me since ages and that I was her favourite
customer. I bit on my braces—her perfect pearly whites probably never needed dental treatment. The
thick and sleek black tresses almost shone and one lock of hair hung cutely on her dusky face. Her eyes
were everything the on-screen actors swoon to and poets write couplets about. You get it, don’t you? She
was probably a few years older than me and wore a black T-shirt that read ‘Joe’s Frankies’.
I tried to power up. Speak up , I screamed inside and mentally rehearsed what I had to say. Just order as
you would normally do and say ‘Thank you’ when you get it. How hard is it? A question popped in my
head—how is schezwan pronounced? C and H are silent, duh , came the answer. How can two
consecutive letters be silent, I wondered. Well, it just sounds better, doesn’t it? ‘Sez-waan’ , I reasoned.
But this is taking too long, way beyond the line that separates a customer from this pint-sized
nincompoop. And was that sweat on my forehead?
‘Sir?’ the girl asked unflinchingly, her expressions intact. I hoped she wasn’t just pretending to be calm
while hunting for an alarm button under the counter.
‘One plate schezwan paneer Frankie,’ I said and instantly felt proud that I didn’t stutter. Smooth , I
praised myself.
‘That would be fifty rupees, sir,’ she looked into my eyes, smiling all the while.
I must tell you, gentle reader, that continuous eye contact is worse than browbeating. You see, girls are
not intimidating. Only pretty ones are. I understand I sound shallow but I call upon the puberty-license.
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