Rosalyn D'Mello: A table for one

With my brain functioning at a suboptimal level thanks to an unprecedented case of dysmenorrhea I opted for an early dinner so I could wolf down a painkiller Irsquod barely survived the flight from Delhi to Goa with my back threatening to cave in any moment my lower abdomen ingloriously aching The salty sea air was already beginning to relax me But by 7 pm I was starving and despite how roomy and comfortable my hotel was the menu assured me that a meal here was outside my budget I didnrsquot mind at all I walked a few hundred meters to Amigos an old haunt of mine a little familyrun affair flanked by the river near the mouth of the Nerul bridgeI was feasting on my solitude Irsquom least selfconscious when therersquos no one across the table from me Representation picThinkstockThe restaurant showed every sign of being open the tables had been clothed the fans were running the hanging lanterns had been lit except there wasnrsquot a soul around I called the restaurant A woman picked up presumably the owner I asked if they were open She confirmed that they were ldquoWell Irsquom waiting outside for someone to take my orderrdquo I said in a surprisingly softspoken tone of voice given the increasing intensity of my hunger Half an hour later the kitchen door opened and a hip 20something popped out definitely a family member who seemed unperturbed by the ravenous look in my eyes I promptly ordered a butter garlic squid and a plate of reshadstuffed bangda It being the beginning of April the good Goan in me naturally asked for Urak but they hadnrsquot procured any and I didnrsquot at all mind making do with some cashewI sat at my favorite table from where I could watch the twilight set in the water thus darkening the ripples over the surface melding into night a boat or two bobbing along indifferently anchored to the banks My peg of cashew was soon propped in front of me along with wedges of lime and a soda just as Irsquod requested I made myself the perfect mix and sipped it for the welcome drink it was I felt my soul returning to my body I felt the comforting tug of my Goan roots I pulled up the link to a gorgeous poem my friend had sent me lsquoHow to Take Off a Sarirsquo by Pakistani poet Momima Mela published by a prestigious magazine and read it off my phoneAround then the butter garlic squid arrived bordered on one side by a plump arc of jungli salad The gentleman waiter was concerned with civility He brought in a quarter plate so I could help myself I soon abandoned it and instead put the whole platter of butter garlic squid in front of me at vantage point so I could tear into it like a famished savage I savored each tender buttery ring chewed on the scraps of smashed garlic stopping now and then to nurse my appetite with draughts of feniMy hunger half satiated I took a small break and was drawn to two stimulating essays one on the French poet Mallarmeacute the other on Rimbaud both of which I eventually read back to back as I tucked into the mackerel Like a respectable Goan the cook had stuffed both sides of the fatty fish with a rather delectably thick and wellvinagered reshad The skin was perfectly charred and the squeeze of lime over the surface was the only finishing touch it demandedI was ecstatic Every now and then I leaned over skillfully to monitor the couple sitting on the table diagonally across Collectively we were the only clients at that early evening hour I was hoping to overhear their conversation a habit Irsquom notoriously good at and enjoy But more often than not they would each sink into their individual phones avoiding conversation When they decided to pick into what was placed before them they each did so perfunctorily with little or no enthusiasm for the act of eatingI on the other hand was thoroughly feasting on my solitude Unlike a vast majority of women I enjoy eating alone Like they say you can never be lonely if you like the person yoursquore alone with Irsquom least selfconscious when therersquos no one across the table from me I chew on my food like I do when I eat alone at home rhythmically to keep time with the song thatrsquos playing in my head I start with a fork and knife but eventually cede control to my fingers I surrender to my desire to touch my food to participate in its textural eccentricities which is what I did with the banana pancake before it made its foray into my mouth Then I gleamed I was restoredDeliberating on the life and times of Everywoman Rosalyn DrsquoMello is a reputed art critic and the author of A Handbook For My Lover She tweets RosaParx Send your feedback to mailbagmiddaycom