mihir

I speak to the attendant at the counter. It's not the first time I'm there. I recognize her, in her spectacles, and despite the face-covering she wears. Covid was over long ago, so I'm not sure what she's worried about. I don't bother to ask, our interaction transcends into something more pivotal. I glance through the piece of paper in front of me. I know what it says, but I'm not sure what the mood is like today. I finally decide to go for the Ghee Masala Dosa, as I've done on so many occasions before this. I ask for a Filter Coffee as well. She repeats my order, asks my name, and then, I wait.  There is a constant chatter in the place, of the people sitting, and of those waiting. The walls are just about in place, the white paint tearing down in a few spots. The tables are not spread too far apart, and the chairs even closer. I recognize a few more faces, the ones who are transporting a stack of plates from the kitchen to the promised customers. These face