Portrait #2

Waiting for my packed dinner at Dill's Chawla Chick-Inn in Panchsheel Enclave, 11:00PM. It's pretty lively: the kitchen is full, the tables are all taken, and there are people gathered waiting, as I am, either for their food or for a table.

There's a large company of young Sikhs, boys and men, good naturedly chatting amongst themselves and eating their dinner with great relish. They're all wearing black turbans and have varying quantities of facial hair. At another table, a respectable and finicky looking trio are at their meal. If they're enjoying themselves, there's no evidence. A dog with a sweet and stupid face is rummaging about, sniffing car tyres and bushes. He has a brown face and a black tail. He is meek, and afraid of a skinny black bitch who is loping about the marketplace as well.

A young man in a tight expensive-looking synthetic t-shirt strides forward and lights a cigarette. He is framed between two hedgerows almost perfectly. His face is unshaven, his beard is a couple of days old at the most. His body is well worked out: his arms are big, his neck is square, his chest is thick and powerful and his nipples are outlined slightly through this stretchy shirt. His stance is heroic: legs evenly spread, one hand resting on his hips, the other hand holding the cigarette to his lips, which grip the cigarette and suck at it attentively, and his eyes shut momentarily when he sucks at the cigarette.

The sweet and stupid dog is sniffing about the bush to his left. Our hero kicks the bush. Quick and hard. His face twists ever-so-slightly, but then he relaxes. He kicks at dogs all the time, his shoulders seem to say and he probably misses as often as he connects. The dog scampers away and I avert my gaze. Dressed as I am in holey shorts, a dirty t-shirt and a loose sweatshirt, I'm suddenly suspicious that if my shape were different he'd probably kick me too. He glances in my direction, standing two feet away, and gives me a once-over. I don't return his look, or at least I pretend not to. He turns to the restaurant counter and yells, Ei bhai to no one in particular. Nobody responds. He steps past me, gets inside his car and sits there with the door open, spread across the front seat with a leg up, smoking his cigarette in style.

My food is handed over. I walk away and back to my flat. When I get to my gate, I see the dog has followed me home.