On Saturday, a friend and I wanted to discuss the fine print in the N-deal over a plate of Chana Bhatura and filter coffee at a well-known south Indian restaurant on Central Avenue, which smells so strongly of dhoop that you also start smelling of it. On weekends it is very crowded and this Saturday was no exception.

I was sharing the bhatura with a friend with the hope of splitting the calories, and again exhorting the heavens to explain, why, oh why, does guilt not burn calories, as I have guilt in plenty with much to spare, when I noticed the couple sitting at the table next to ours.

He was in a safari suit, but she was beautiful — in a red printed chiffon sari with a diamond sparkling on her shapely nose. But he had his hands under the table and in one of them he was holding the glass of water that had been served to him. He was trying to wash his hands there. When he met my startled eyes, he stopped trying to do that, but without looking the least bit discomfited, extracted his hands and rested them on the table for a while. But just as I relaxed a bit, in one swift movement he grabbed the glass and washed his hands on the potted plant that separated him from another table.

When the food came — they were sharing a dish too — he pulled the steaming steel boat with the vadas stewed in the sambar towards himself and plunged into it. I was glad in a way — he was lending credence to the theory that a lot of the violence against Indian women is acted out on the dining table — when the woman shifted on her haunches and let out a loud belch.

Then there was no looking back. The man pulled out his flashy mobile phone from his pocket, flicked it open and dialled a number, all of this with one hand, since the other hand was busy with the Chana Bhatura that had arrived recently. He was presumably speaking to his daughter’s in-laws. He asked how each of the family’s 12 members was doing in a voice that can only sound right when accompanied by right head-banging, devoting about exactly a minute to each relative.

He passed on the phone to his wife and while she asked the same questions at the same decibel level to the same people, he remembered the 13th member of the family and was frantic till his wife spoke to him.

The conversation over, the woman belched again. This time, it was louder and lasted longer — it indicated satisfaction with the world.

Last seen, the man’s hands were where his trousers met and he was scratching the joint with a certain force that led to a slight, scraping, but rhythmic noise. The expression on his face showed 100 per cent pure peace. He knew the meaning of Zen.

All this happened before my very eyes, at a restaurant, and I am not exaggerating one bit. I was imagining the couple abroad, where they looked likely to have gone, at John F. Kennedy international airport, behaving exactly this way. I felt slightly nuked. Why is Prakash Karat afraid of the US? One of our greatest strengths lies in our absolute inability to distinguish between the private and the public — and it can devastate any nation.

Then why cannot people here bring themselves to pronounce certain words?

Take this sample from a manual prepared by the Centre on a subject that is crucial to life, in more than one sense, but cannot be mentioned. The manual is to be used by teachers across classrooms for high-school students, who are to be warned of every danger that attends their age. This is an indecent proposal from a boy to a girl: “There is nothing harmful in it, do it for my sake. I do so much for you, won’t you do this one thing for me?” If a student asked the teacher what did “it” mean, what would he say?

Anyway, that’s not my problem; I have learnt to be as discreet. In India, you get away with anything, as long as you don’t mention “it”.

chandrima@abpmail.com