Given the traffic situation in Delhi, there has to be at least one instance when you end up having Iftar, not out of choice, in the cosiness (which turns just about claustrophobic enough at the time) of the car. Used to happen quite often earlier, when I used to be out on the road, rushing from one meeting to another or just plain trying to beat the traffic before it hit a peak on my way back. Now, since I work from home, it is almost always while on the way to attend an Iftar invitation.
Tried taking the preferred exit out of town (preferred, because that was the shorter route to our Iftar host’s place), and had to turn back when we got hit by incoming traffic, on our side of the road. That’s one time when I don’t think much about flouting traffic rules and turning back on the road.
Not much luck trying to get out from the other exit either. The traffic cops had closed the entry onto the toll flyover, yelling into a megaphone that this was because the road was flooded. All I could see on the entry to the flyover was an abandoned beemer; not a bucket load worth of water on the road.
45 minutes on the road, and still some time before we would reach over the Yamuna and get over to the other side. Not so much time left before it would be time for Iftar. No markets, no shops, no stores on this stretch of the road. Forget dates, we didn’t even have water in the car to break our fasts with.
In filmi style, there was a clearing on the side of the road (read: wide sidewalk, less for walking and more for parking the cars of those who were taking a walk in the park right behind), and there we saw our proverbial oasis in the desert.
A makeshift wooden stall with packets of chips, biscuits, then some more chips, juice tetrapacks, and to complete the picture, the washing machine juice dispenser (yeah yeah, those which just keep the juice rotating and rotating and rotating).
“Why are there so many people here? We are the ones who have to break our fasts, isn’t it?”
The queue reminded of government ration shops from an age ago.
There was the “identifiable” long-beard-trimmed-mustache boy in that queue too. Parked his 100cc motorcycle, and helmet in hand backpack on shoulders, waited for his turn to buy a soft drink in a disposable paper glass. We offered him whatever we were having (it was past time to break fast; you aren’t supposed to delay eating once it is time), and he took some, although he didn’t look like he was sure if he wanted to. That thing about strangers not being trusting enough, maybe; a shared religious belief isn’t enough to build that trust either, not even the simple act of sharing a snack while breaking a day long fast.
Some simple can be too intimate for comfort.
The second time we offered, he politely refused. With a smile.