The Full Loaf

People usually have fabulous stories about their college days. Dangerous stories, outrageous stories, funny stories. I have plenty of stories too. Stories that fit every possible header you can come up with. The small catch is that all these stories are exactly what they are, figments of my imagination. (And I have been told by many of my imaginary friends that I have a wild imagination). Among the very few stories in the "Actually Happened" Department, is this little narrative. I cannot classify it as a story as it doesn't seem to have an end... or any substance for that matter. But for some strange reason, this narrative has idle mass, and occupies space. Much like a Government employee. This narrative would start, ramble on and will finally end. As the reader's eyes would size up the final period, the thought of the senseless, meaningless void that would seem pervasive would strike the reader like the effervescence of an over-employed rickshaw puller, but the desire to destroy the source of the narrative would not be very intense (hopefully) and the reader would move on to better things in life, and the narrative would become that idle space-occupying mass again.
With that rather elaborate "Don't Tell Me I Didn't Warn Ya", allow me to wag my mental tongue.
During the college days, we had this little ritual. I would accompany my accomplices to the college bus stop, where we would wait for the bust. We would also be waiting for the bus, but that was actually secondary. The bust was a girl. I really wish I had seen her face, and none of my friends have seen her face either. I named her Mr. Sem Boothalingam, on an impulse, and the name stuck. She would be there like clockwork, and after five minutes we would look like we had caught a rare strain of Instant Conjunctivitis and Instant Rabies. We would be bleary eyed and foaming. It is quite a miracle how we aren't doing consecutive life sentences for the way we had gone on. The staring would vaporize all our testosterone, and we would have none left to walk up to her and start a conversation. We would board the arbitrary bus and get down at the next stop, for really, my house was actually not even a block away. Tucked away behind the bus stop was a Bangalore Iyengar Bakery. This was a hydrating pit stop. This joint was run by two extremely soft spoken gentlemen, who had survived that long just because God chose to NOT to make man want to haggle over a samosa. They made this thing called Dil Pasand which was something else. In all my exploration of the world (about 100 square kilometres) no other Dil Pasand has come close to this one. The kitchen was in full view, and you could see almost all the ingredients being put in, and observe in great detail which body parts were scratched at what point of time, during the course of making this Dil Pasand. This bakery also sold the whole loaf, and if I asked for it, the owner would actually be so happy, for I would had saved him precious time and effort in cutting the loaf. We went to this bakery almost everyday for the three years I went to college. Most of the time we wouldn't eat anything. We would talk rot to each other while staring at the cakes through the glass counter.
Somehow, after college, this Bangalore Iyengar Bakery was forgotten, along with many other things like education, hardwork, discipline and so on. Almost all of my friends are in other countries spreading the good nonsense, and a few guys are actually dead. Last week, SIXTEEN years after biting the last Dil Pasand, I discovered the Bangalore Iyengar Bakery again. I was doing one of those antiquated, much debated about activity called walking, and there it was. The shop window had gotten a modern tinge to it, and it now had some plastic chairs on which several future Dil Pasanders sat, munching away, but the photographs of the Gods were the same, as was the kitchen. Only it seemed a bit darker. On an impulse I walked up to the shop. One of the soft spoken gentlemen was there, and he looked at me with a "Hey.. I've seen this thing before" look. I just ventured, saying that the last time I was here was sixteen years ago when I was in college, and he said "Aaaaaaah." Other than the natural mixed messages that his sense of self-preservation would have sent spiking up his spine, I am sure he had no cotton-picking clue who I was, or cared for that matter, but the old relationship was back on. Like there had been no break from schedule. I now buy the Iyengar bread and am finding it as good as it was earlier.
The Dil Pasand tastes phenomenal too, and with every bite brings back sepia toned mindscapes of Mr. Sem Boothalingam and her spectacular pair.