I meet the boy who delivers groceries. He tells me about a YouTube video where he has seen Lalu Prasad cook mutton curry for Rahul Gandhi. He says he likes to cook mutton curry, too.
He stays with four other boys from Bihar and Uttarakhand. The boys from Uttarakhand are better cooks, he says. They know how to make round, thick rotis, which can soak up the mutton gravy.
Cooking mutton curry has always been a masculine ritual in India.
Men who would otherwise only deign to admit they can boil water for tea will proudly admit they can cook a wonderfully succulent mutton stew on a winter afternoon. Memories of picnics by the banks of the Ganga come bubbling up. Men sitting around in chairs, stirring a degchi of mutton curry for hours, with glasses of Golden Eagle beer in hand.
Mutton, with its association with Kali, also has a religious sanction for Hindus, if not always flavour.
The air is cool, and the scent of bela flowers is in the air. On the road, there are other walkers. Some in pairs, some with their dogs.
There is Babur, a friendly black Labrador mix, whose human, a Sikh gentleman, is addicted to Johnny Cash ballads. Further ahead, I can spot Laila, a magnificent double-coat Alsatian, about to do her job on a taxi tyre. The driver does not try to remonstrate with Laila's dogwalker.
I have seen the same driver threaten the dogwalker when Dollar, an exuberant Indie mix, urinated on the other tyre.
I walk at a faster clip to make the sweat break out. Also, I wish to cross this stretch of the slip road faster as I had seen a yellow-and-green speckled serpent disappear into the nursery. I do not like snakes.
But I do like dogs. I wonder whether I would meet Bogie. Bogie is a Beagle, about a year old and supremely
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