It was a pretty long week and quite an eventful one. To start with, I had the (mis)fortune of watching The End of Oak Street. So much screaming and family squabbling—not to mention kids out of their heads, like venturing out into the dark to rescue their pet—all while dinosaurs are hounding you in your own neighbourhood. Anne Hathaway going berserk is probably my least favourite genre. Why is she always in blue in almost every frame? It seemed as though the costume designer couldn’t think of anything other than denim jackets and trousers to depict the movie’s 80s settings. And damn, those dinosaurs were so ugly. Jurassic Park fooled me!
Interestingly, the movie has been getting positive critical reception in the West. One of my favourite critics dubs it “the scariest dinosaur film since the 1993 Steven Spielberg classic, period.” I also missed the allusion to the queer relationship between two characters. My bad. I was busy hammering out this review on my notes app. I’d rate this movie a bland 6/10 because it didn’t live upto my expectations, and certainly not after two consecutive nights of watching the Avengers’ Infinity War and Endgame. My mother remarked that it is perhaps time for Anne Hathaway to pack up her bags.
Two days later, on a sultry Sunday afternoon, we decided to go to Royal China — the restaurant that served the best Chinese food in town. The Gandhis were regulars there. We didn’t decide to have our lunch there on a hunch; we had booked in advance. I wouldn’t be lying if I said every time I went there I hoped I would bump into that Indo-Italian prince, Rahul Gandhi. As we were gulping down some spoonfuls of egg fried rice, Sonia Gandhi walked in. My mother became visibly excited because here was our dream coming true. And then almost faintly, my mother murmured, “if only Rahul Gandhi too were there.” My father and grandmother kept imploring my mother on phone to greet Mrs. Gandhi. We were unsure because we wondered if we would be perceived as overstepping and disturbing their private time.
Just then, almost as if the universe had conspired to give us exactly what we wanted, Rahul Gandhi dashed inside in a slate-blue polo, looking as if he were walking into his second home. He sat next to his mother and the elderly couple accompanying her. We gasped for a second — we couldn’t believe our eyes. For the next couple of minutes, we forgot about the main course before us, mindlessly munching on whatever was within reach. For our attention had fully shifted to the man sitting just two tables away. He could see us and so could we. We couldn’t help but stare; every time our gaze wandered and met his, we would immediately pull back and pretend to be serious out of sheer embarrassment. We were also slightly abashed at our giggles and animated glances at each other unlike everybody else around us who pretended not to notice the would-be future Prime Minister sitting across from them — at least until then. We saw the man at the table next to us peeking at Mr. Gandhi (or rather, Rahul) out of the corner of his eye. Even a bubbly boy in a turban couldn’t help but glance at him mischievously, just like us. We kept ordering despite feeling full; we had to kill time to stay there until he left — or more accurately, buy time so that we could meet. “Chamomile tea and a mud cake, please,” we said to the waiter who was beaming more than usual. We didn’t want to take a photograph — that would be too tacky, I felt. Just a hi and a smile, would do — anything to satiate these fan-girls.
It looked like he had finished his meal and was picking his teeth with the toothpick — an act I’m willing to pass off as normal human behaviour. And then again his darting eyes found ours. My mother gave a tentative half-bow in his direction and he responded with a polite nod. That nod instantly gave my mother and me the courage to rise from our seats and walk over to his table.
The moments that followed feel blurred in my memory. My body went stiff as I stood up. I nudged my mother to lead, and I followed, my gait incredibly rigid. Words stumbled from my mother’s lips as she tried to introduce herself to him in a faint, muffled voice, “late….MP….Shanavas’ ….daughter.” Before she could even finish speaking, her words trailing off, he reached out to shake her hand. I stood beside her with the diligence of a schoolgirl. When my mother mentioned I was her daughter, he shook my hands as I introduced myself. His warm, youthful smile, will never leave me; never before had I seen a man so polite, charming, and kind. After the brief interaction, we retreated to our table. We avoided making eye contact with anyone even though I could sense the eyes of every surrounding table tracking us all the way back.
We sat down at our table and finished off the last bits of mud cake left on the plate, our hearts lighter and more elated. Now we could finally savour the chocolatey delight in peace. Almost immediately, we noticed people around us slowly getting up to approach Rahul. Some of them even took photographs, despite it being a high-end restaurant. Everyone had been holding back, just like us, for fear of appearing intrusive. They needed the spark to get going, and we offered it with our brief act of chivalry (I am exaggerating, of course). We paid the bill, left the restaurant, and walked out to the parking area to collect our vehicle. On our way out, we spotted Rahul, his mother, and their family friends climbing into theirs. As we drove through the quiet, tree-lined roads of Chanakyapuri, we couldn’t help but feel a mixture of satisfaction, delight, and amazement. Our hearts and tummies were full. Great encounters are rare; this was an unforgettable Sunday afternoon.
Your much-cherished ‘The Week Gone By’ will return in two weeks. The author is currently on a holiday break.
The Unsaturated Reader 
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