%%USERNAME%%    %%ACCWORDS%% %%ONOFF%% |
 As the first blog entry got exhausted. My second book |
| Evolution of Love Part 2 |
A hotel’s complimentary buffet breakfast is civilisation’s most well-mannered disaster. By 6:30 a.m., adults who normally snooze through life are already hovering outside the restaurant like it’s a limited-time offer. The doors open, and decorum evaporates. People surge forward with the quiet panic of a species that believes the poori might escape. The continental section watches in dignified despair. Croissants age gracefully in the air-conditioning, bread slices dry into museum exhibits, while true desi minimalists walk past them like unresolved childhood trauma. Bread and eggs? Not again. The dosa counter, meanwhile, attracts devotees with the intensity once reserved for land disputes. The Full-Hog Overachievers arrive next. Their plates are not meals; they are architectural statements—paratha touching pasta touching pineapple, united by pure ideological confusion. They are not here to eat; they are here to economically punish the hotel for including breakfast in the tariff. A few announce “nothing is good” before returning for seconds. Nearby, someone downs their ninth cup of masala chai and wonders aloud why their blood pressure is misbehaving. The answer sits quietly on the table. Then emerge the Protein Bros, majestic creatures whose arms reach the buffet before the rest of their bodies. They demand fourteen egg whites and negotiate like it’s Chickpet on a Sunday morning. One boldly pours whey powder into sambar, declaring it “fusion.” Somewhere, a chef’s soul detaches and drifts away. A diabetic guest orders a strictly egg-white omelette while simultaneously dual-wielding mango and pineapple juice like nutritional nunchucks. Their glucose meter applies for early retirement. Moments later, the Rich Sleepers float in at 11:20 a.m.—breakfast long gone, toaster unplugged, hope extinguished. Time, to them, is a rumour. They request pancakes from the void, and the staff complies with the weary obedience of civil servants during budget season. À la carte, of course. The business traveller is on Day Four. Toast, fried egg, coffee—again. He pockets bananas like classified documents, sips coffee with lifeless eyes, and wonders vaguely when joy last visited. Children, meanwhile, are pure chaos wrapped in sugar: sprinting toward waffles, drowning them in chocolate syrup, rejecting anything that resembles nutrition. Staff step aside as they charge past, muffins raised like trophies. Mothers negotiate. Fathers pretend not to see. Uncles are the buffet’s apex predators: poori, dosa drenched in ghee, pongal the size of a small asteroid, five cups of chai—followed by the inevitable declaration, “I eat very light these days.” Fitness moms interrogate the buffet like it’s a terror cell. “Which oil? Which farm? What breed of almond?” After exhaustive investigation, they consume three cubes of papaya and radiate moral superiority. Foreign tourists wander in gentle confusion—idli with jam, chutney with muesli, sambar sipped like broth—until their tongues go numb and they realise India has entered their bloodstream. The lone cereal guy sits surrounded by 800 calories of joy and chooses cornflakes anyway, crunching with the quiet discipline of someone punishing themselves for existing. Nearby, an influencer couple rearranges a single poori for forty minutes, photographing it from every angle. By the time they finish, the poori has lost all emotional stability. Elsewhere, professional buffet looters slip muffins into handbags, bread rolls into jacket pockets, and leave rustling like mobile grocery stores. And through it all, someone always makes the impossible request—masala cornflakes, gluten-free poha, sugar-free gulab jamun—while the staff stares into the middle distance, questioning every life choice. A complimentary buffet breakfast is not nourishment. It is revenge. It is childhood memory. It is class struggle. It is comedy and tragedy served on the same plate. It is a deeply personal confrontation with carbs. It is the Olympics of paisa vasool. And when it’s over—plates cleared, crumbs wiped, the last banana successfully smuggled—everyone makes the same confident declaration: “Tomorrow, I’ll eat light.” As we leave, we all tell ourselves the oldest lie in the history of hotel breakfasts: Tomorrow, we’ll behave better. Tomorrow arrives. We won’t. But it’s comforting that we believe it. |
View Portfolio
Visit Notebook
Send Gift Points
Awards
Badges
Send Email
Community Newsfeed
Puzzle Hub
General Discussion
Sponsored Items
Book of Trinkets
Static Items
Books
Groups
Interactive Stories
Audio
Campfire Creatives
Community Notes
Crossword Puzzles
Documents
Folders
Images
In & Outs
Madlibs
Photo Albums
Polls
Product Reviews
Quizzes
Survey Forms
Web Pages
Word Searches
