I was listlessly flipping through
the pages of the prospectus when the clap of thunder stole away the light in my
room or rather from the entire Allahabad. Only the generator-installed kitchen
beneath our floor was thriftily lit and the workers were busily engrossed in
preparing lunch. The roasted-scent of rotis
in the air found their way into my room, making my stomach growl even
louder on encountering the stimulus.
Opening the door to my balcony, I
could see the busy cooks- rolling bigger dough, pressing the rotis into shape
in between their palms and eventually frying it in the hot-boiling oil. Some of
them were peeling off the boiled potatoes while others were grinding the spices
as the odour of garlic filled the congested kitchen.