On M.G. Road last week – between the long stretch of utility building and barton centre, I was hurrying to get to a dinner I was already 2 hours late for. When I eventually got there, my bag felt heavier – buckling under the weight of my carelessness and what my mother irritatedly calls ‘taking life like a joke’. It was too late to even walk in casually because this was a fancy restaurant – one that can get away with having extremely small tables cramped together in an even smaller terrace. Tall and short glasses were clinking daintily so my bag and I quietly bolted.
Walking back to my bike woefully, angrily, I saw a boy and a girl holding hands and walking towards me. The girl was wearing a purple sweater – the kind of purple that makes walking on MG road on cold nights seem like it is New York. She stopped next to a two-wheeler and took a peek at the small mirror on the bike’s handle. The boy was holding a Magnolia Bakery cover and looking straight ahead, not looking like he was even a little interrupted by her detour. They were still holding hands.
When she came up for air, she demanded to know why he hadn’t bothered to tell her that her hair was all over the place and that she looked like a monkey walking on M.G. fucking Road. He only said no baby, and they walked on.
They were still holding hands.
No scene from any film has had this much mood-lifting spirit.