Retrieved via the Wayback Machine. Originally posted by Manisha Lakhe

‘parikrama is the hottest indian band! it’s a must-see! and zero does original stuff!’

i received so many smses on my phone that i agreed to be fodder to the gazillion mosquitoes that would be present in an open air situation. armed with odomos, and determined to stand in front of the speakers (with the slight hope that some of the lower frequencies might repel the parasites) i landed at kala ghoda in time to have chaat before the concert began.

the chaat was spicy. so one turned to Annu Parmar Kulfi. the kulfi was so good, it cried out for detailed tasting. and when i realised that a smorgasbord of kulfi was not enough, i was compelled to, in the name of honest blogging (this excuse for gluttony has been copyrighted now), eat a full plate each of all the kulfis.

;)

there was Malai, Kesar Pista, Malai Pista, Dry Fruits Kulfi, Mango, Matka, Chikoo, Strawberry (or was it raspberry), half liberally laced with the most delicious rabdi, and half eaten without the topping. i have never liked falooda so i denied myself that pleasure. after all, one has to think of ones weight and all that.

‘where are you?’

oh! an sms. from azad maidan. am in the middle of licking a plate, happily ignoring people who are gawking at me as if i were a live art installation. hmm.i wish i had a hat, could have made money to cover kulfi costs.but do i care? there’s one more flavor to try.

‘where the heck are you?’

i use my left pinky to sms back a request to friends to stand near the speakers so i can find them when i am done here.

the gawkers are giggling now. i glare at a few, but stack my plates just so it does not seem like i might need an ambulance to take me away.

the kulfi guy seemed to be enjoying the circus, because the portions got larger with every buy.

when i finally stopped getting the smses, i realised that i had overdone the tasting thing.

besides the kulfi guy now suggested i try them all again with falooda.

i bumped into the Time-out magazine horses, and asked for directions to azad maidan.

i totter over on a sugar high towards the general direction of the and find that the last scene from Monty Python’s Meaning of Life is looping in my head. i head home in a cab.