Morning arrives. Unheralded. Rain-drenched, caped in verdant green. The efforts of the cosy warmth of my blanket notwithstanding, I drag myself out of bed. The patient nag of a persistent drizzle. The pitter-patter on the window pane. The orb of a washed out sun. The hazy silhouette of a metropolis locked in a reverie. The fast morphing canvass of busy clouds.
A hot cup of Darjeeling beckons. And of course something soulful and hearty for breakfast, can anything be more apt than an aloo paratha laced with a dollop of golden butter and oodles of love?