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Stepping over, I walk carefully through faint tracks of piss and nicotine clouds. I stop myself at the narrow flight of stairs and walk sideways to make room for people coming down. The man behind the counter, is stabbing at the coloured keyboard. “Ondu (one) rice bath mathe (and) one glass of milk”, I tell him. He hands over a coupon and I let my body swarm through people holding hot plates in the sky, four cups of tea in one hand, someone wiping the table off, and the kitchen roaring back to life each time a new order is placed. The plates of food go so fast, it is almost close to a miracle that a bead of sweat doesn’t fall on them. The sight of open butter dosa with its thick ball of yellow potato curry sprinkled by the red chutney powder is making me revise my original order. But the guy keeps the rice bath in front of me. There are no chairs, so everyone must stand and kind of slump over the table. But I go out to the front that overlooks a relatively good view. The board says, “St. Joseph’s Autonomous College, Bengaluru”. Students are moving as herds while crossing the road. Most of them are wearing hoodies, justifiably so. There is a pleasant chill that the city is infamously known for. But how do they look so good with their messy buns and loose clothes? I look like a…the point being, I don’t look like anything. I walk to the park nearby. There are many vegetable and fruit vendors. The mangoes on the cart look plump with pulp, and proud with colour. There is a rush to buy them. Flies on the apples and oranges feel entitled, almost to a point of laziness to move from where they are sitting. My friends had informed me of a place, a few kilometres away from the park, that gives full meals for a mere 25 rupees. I fish out my headphones and play songs to accompany me and my thoughts, till I reach to this place. I am sceptical, but I am open to the 25 rupees meal. It is a small place, like the one I went for breakfast. But it is also as crowded. My friends weren’t wrong. I got rice so hot, that its steam stained my spectacles, sambhar that burned my fingers, diced tomatoes, oily and crispy pappad, dotted mango pickle and a glass of spicy buttermilk. All for 25 rupees! They had two slim tables with six chairs. The rest of us had to sit in an extremely narrow flight of stairs. The kitchen was right underneath, so we were also being cooked occasionally. And with the sun at its peak, it really felt like summer. A tall glass of white, cold, and creamy lassi was being served next doors, and my tongue buds latch on to it, like how I kiss my boyfriend. I found myself walking here more than in any place I have travelled. My feet took me places and my eyes saw the city through its food. Bangalore is a place that relished its fiery bisibele bath as much as it does with a cool glass of lime sugarcane juice. Side by side, some dog shit, peanut and corns grilling in a black soot pan, guavas with chilli powder and salt, and even greasy stuffed chicken momos and thick katti rolls have a place in the city. It is almost like people here are always onto the next. Though, that will only happen after they pat on their stomach twice. Content, but always going forward. The charm lies therein: you will never get bored. Never. But right now, all I can think about is drinking one more glass of sweet lassi and maybe, asking my boyfriend to come over.