This morning, at a humble eatery on Wheeler Road, I met an old friend for breakfast. On the table across, sat a couple having a lover's tiff. The man, dressed in workmen's clothes, spoke animatedly. Whenever he paused for breath, the woman, dressed tip to toe in a burkha, would stuff a morsel of dosa into his mouth. Whenever the woman spoke, the man listened intently, then nodded. They didn't hold hands; the only contact was when her dosa touched him.
[I don't have a photo. They have their privacy. I had the privilege of observing true love operate.]
[I don't have a photo. They have their privacy. I had the privilege of observing true love operate.]