WHEN NEW TITLES WERE BESTOWED

"That has to be the best bowl of pesto pasta I have ever eaten," I pat my tummy, push the bowl away and smile at C. She cocks an eye brow at my hyperbole.

"Okay. Definitely in India," I acquiesce. “But that is not a statement I expected to make here.”

I twirl my arms around. We are on the second floor of the café-restaurant squeezed among shops and on the narrow pedestrian-only street. The establishments here have jostled with each other to squeeze into a spot and thus can only grow vertically for more space. Kitschy floor cushions placed around squat tables make up the seating plan and the interior décor. But, my ‘here’ is not a condescending reference to the non-fine dining non-Italian themed café. I mean the larger ‘here’.

Benares. Varanasi. Kashi. It has many titles – spiritual capital of India, one of the most religious Hindu cities, and the like. The Indian city that serves the best pesto? It had not yet been bestowed with that one. Half an hour ago C and I were on a dinky boat bobbing in the Ganga, facing the ghats of Benares, open-mouthed at the spectacle of the maha-aarti. Rows of priests were en face the holy river, waving bowls of fire and chants and clangs filling the air.


My attention is held by the mention of chocolate cake on the menu. The pesto still lingers on the palate. Quit while I am ahead or test the place further?

C nudges me to look at the two chaps who have walked in and settled in a corner across from us. The one at the tablas has a grandfatherly look about him. Sitar-guy has his fair hair in a top-knot held in place with beads. The aarti still echoing in my ears I groan at the thought of more ambush. But the chocolate cake craving has me trapped.


They tune their tools and play a few warm-up notes. What follows can only be described as a rock concert. Few minutes into the performance and C and I are bobbing our heads and cross-legged jiving along with the tunes. Another title for Benares – Best in-dining band.

A giant slab of cake dripping with chocolate arrives. I slide the fork into the moist decadence and ponder over one more title.

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