As you finish lunch that was delicious and adequately spiced in a bustling canteen/restaurant where some talk about the trip they return from, some discuss elections and politics, some sit and observe others with the curiosity of an outsider, and many come and go, as if just passing through, as if they cannot stay away from this nerve-center. You can only wonder how all this spices up the book you read. There is a writer excavating an imaginary impossibility; there is a reader as comfortable and fulfilled as the writer in his comfortable chair, yet both discomforted by the comforts for they might compromise their 'will'. And then there is activity, exchange, a rhizomatic desire cutting through the small space, sculpting in time, what the writer wants to capture, what the reader wants to grasp. Exactly when this is established, and the spices have settled on the tongue, not too early to spoil the invited guest, not too late to upset it with laziness, the alertness of the insides shake hands with a hot cup of chai. You wish the writer had written about this blissful moment, this oh-so-perfect moment. But then, you could go and write about it too.
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