The Food Truck or the Secret Life of Momos
It is not often that I read something I have previously written and come away satisfied. Curiously, the same rarely applies to sketches I may have made. Either I think too much of my drawing or too little of my writing or perhaps everything is perfect or nothing is or maybe we are all just bags of plasma and connective tissue wrapped in a thin skins waiting to be steamed when the oceans boil over as the fires consume this fragile dumpling we call a planet. And thus it happened in the Year of the Backwards Facing Artichoke that two weary travelers ambled down the badlands known as Lokhandwala when they were faced with a sight that would have struck down lesser men. Had a passing bulbul ( Pycnonotus cafer) been able to comprehend their mouth-speak, the following is what it might have heard- A: Ah, we come upon yon foul beast, spewing forth its pale clammy spawn with impunity. B: Bhaiya, two plates of momos- one fried, one steamed. A: Come hither ye yellow monstrosity, that we may
