Time stood still. .
It doesn’t for me, usually. I’m someone who’s always thinking of something or the other at any given time. I’m capable of standing under a cold shower, grooving to Daft Punk and wondering why Test cricket is dying. .
I can be stuck in soul-crushing traffic, while my mind’s in North Korea, thinking about plausible scenarios which can lead to a revolution against the dictatorial regime. It’s a blessing and it’s a curse. .
That day, however, time froze like a teenager caught smoking pot in the basement. .
How couldn’t it? How could it not bow down to the simple yet jaw-dropping majesty of this place? .
The Illiterati Café is to a book lover what The Vatican is to a ‘born again’ Christian. I started salivating as soon as I entered the place, only partially provoked by the earthy caramelly wafts of a Bhagsu Cake baking in the oven. .
There’s a collection of books which can serve you well for a 40 years prison term. You’re free to pick one, two or six. You’re free to dawdle around for hours. .
There’s hot chocolate, too. When it’s 4 degrees outside, a sip of that brew can release enough dopamine in your brain to put The Great Yangtze River Flood of 1935 to shame. .
The clincher in this den of pleasure is the view. If you’re lucky enough to arrive at the right time, you can hoist your flag at one of the three mountain-facing balcony tables. .
Books. Mountains. Hot chocolate. What more do you need in life, really? We can’t remember how long we lazed around. Was it three hours? Four? Six? .
Who cares? Time stood still.
P.C : @