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‘Why don’t you tell them! This gradual strategy is obviously not working,’ I said
as I opened the menu.
We had come to Amethyst, a charming teahouse set in an old colonial
bungalow. It is one of the few redeeming aspects of the city. Set in a one-acre
plot, the bungalow is on two levels. Outside the bungalow there are grand
verandahs with cane furniture and potted plants with large leaves. Waiters bring
eclectic drinks like jamun iced tea and mint and ginger coolers along with
expensive dishes with feta cheese in them. It is a favourite haunt of stylish
Chennai ladies and couples so madly in love, they feel a hundred bucks for jamun
mixed with soda was OK.
‘I’ll have the jamun iced and chicken sandwich, and some scones and cream,
please.’ Ananya said.
‘And some water, please,’ I said to the waiter.
‘Still or sparkling, sir?’ the waiter said.
‘Whatever you had a bath with this morning,’ Krish said.
‘Sir?’ the waiter said, taken aback, ‘tap water, sir.’
‘Same, get me that,’ I said.
‘I have told them, of course. They don’t agree,’ Ananya said, as we reverted to
our topic.
‘Is Mr Harish history?’
‘Finally, though it will take two years to make Shobha athai OK again. She is
like – tell me one thing wrong with Harish.’
‘He can’t get a woman on his own,’ I said.
‘Shut up, Krish,’ Ananya laughed. ‘You know how I finally closed it?’
‘Did you tell him about me?’
‘Sort of.’
‘Sort of?’ I said, my voice loud. ‘I am not Mr Sort Of. I am The Guy.’