The rain had driven everyone indoors, if only for a cup of tea, and by eight o’clock in the evening the dhaba was at its peak of chaos. Kunal gazed at the packed dining room through thick clouds of beedi smoke. Oil shone from the surfaces of the tables. The damp walls sucked up the light, making the room appear dimmer, and the floor was a palette of food stains. There was a large, reddish-brown patch near one of the tables — probably spilled sambar, but it looked like blood and reminded him of Lalan; the stained shirt, the swollen eye and broken nose. Kunal shuddered. It could easily have been him. Someone slapped him on the shoulder. “Stop daydreaming,” said Mrs. Seth. “There are loads of orders waiting to be served.” She barked out directions to the waiters with military precision. No one had a moment’s rest. At the pickup counter, Kunal searched for the table number under a plate of steaming chicken biryani.A hot ladle seared his knuckles and he cried out loud.
