The tale of the takeaway Dutch Truffle @stregismumbai

30 minutes down. She was still waiting. Holding the cake as if her life depended on it, she waved a hand in the hope of hailing a taxi. In Bombay, your punctuality was directly proportional to the cab driver’s mood. She looked at a taxi as it slowed down next to her and yelled in desperation: “Bandra?” The driver saw through her and drove away as she screamed in a single breath pumped with frustration, “It’s my father’s surprise birthday party, you lizard-faced ass with the emotional quotient of a buffalo!” Just then, she noticed a boy leaning on a car smile at her creepily. She gained composure and faced her back to him. “Why the hell is this freak smiling at my pitiful predicament?” She thought in anger. Suddenly, from the corner of her eye, she saw him approach her, his figure looming in, making his way towards her. And then he said it, “Ma’am if you don’t mind, can I give you a ride?” She looked at him with disgust and said, “What? No. Go.” He smiled again, a crooked smile and said, “Don’t worry. I’m not a creep. Now will you come with me?” he said in broken English. Against all her wishes and out of sheer desperation, she said something she wouldn’t have said otherwise: yes. Within 15 minutes of uttering the word, they zipped through the deafening traffic to reach her destination. He didn’t say a letter, forget a word, throughout the journey. And with every passing minute, she felt herself drowning in guilt for judging him. And when they reached, she got off the car and said, “Thank you.” He smiled his crooked smile and drove off. As they cut the scrumptious, soft Dutch Truffle cake, she had two reasons to celebrate: 1. Dad’s birthday 2. A revived belief in the existence of kindness.

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