Caught

We are sitting outside a park under a blue tarp eating potatoes and paranthas and discussing digital news functionalities. Across the smooth wide street is the multi-storey urban approximation of a Buddhist Monastery; delicate white travellers go in and come out. A gently dog slinks about around the food smells, routing through trash; he is startled by the plastic bottle flung at him by a young waiter. A portly man leans against a motorcycle (or vice versa) and pulls dramatically from a little cigarette, striking an irresistible pose; I whip out my little black box and catch him in it. We drink tea and talk about catching and getting caught, and with one eye I am looking at the branches above as they catch the light. A pair of improbably white loafers catch my eye and I guffaw. It doesn't seem like we are in the most polluted city on the planet somehow. And as we are paying the bill, a young man with two friends and a perfectly heart-shaped birthmark on his neck walks to a table and sits down.