So Not Blogging Boston

It's seven in the morning here - and I have been up with the proverbial lark.
Not been doing much of anything, doddering around here, and doddering around there. Drinking tea, watching the sun come up, reading stuff on the Net, and generally killing time.
And at moments like these, when the world is a-slumbering and you have a hot cuppa in your hands, you dream and you wonder, you ponder and you reminisce.
And pray bear with me, gentle reader, while I indulge in some of the above.
It's cold here in Boston, not the brrrrrr! shiver! kind of cold, but - well, bracing. You'd want to pull a sweater on early in the morning and remove it at around nine - that kind of cold.

And so you think of sunlit dawns back in Pune, when the sun is peeping over the buildings, and there is a chill in the air. When you breathe out, you blow little white puffs of air - and so you do that, repeatedly. Secretly delighting in that simple act, much as a small child would.
Shoes and thick white socks, blue jeans and a white sweater, and you're up and ready to go.
You walk out onto the streets and those lovely old people greet you.
Grandmothers wrapped up in button-me-down sweaters, wrinkled faces and crinkled smiles, warm eyes surrounded by spectacles and a blue scarf tied around their faces, trundling along on their morning round. Old Grandpas, wearing black trousers and a collared t-shirt, with a sleeveless sweater drawn over it, a polished stick (purchased in Mahabaleshwar) swinging along in one hand.
Bikes pass you every now and then, footballers, badminton players, cricketers and what-have-you's either returning from their morning workouts or heading for them. Cheery greetings abound across generations as Punekars wake up to another chilly day in November.
And out at the beginning of Fergusson Road, Pune congregates.
There sits on that road a little restaurant with a modest facade. A little fence separates it from the footpath, and some tables are crammed into the seating area on the outside. To the left sits the cashier, and on the right are the chairs that are occupied by the people who haven't yet been assigned a table.
The waiters are dressed up in white, and the boys who clean up the plates are dressed in blue shirts and shorts - both teams are paragons of efficieny. They move around and between tables, juggling orders and requests, serving and clearing innumerable plates and glasses, bowls and spoons.
The patrons make a ruckus, and the place is never quiet - everywhere there are people talking to each other, hailing each other across tables, talking loudly and generally making bedlam.
So you sit on your chair, and ignore the proffered menu - of course, if you are a true regular, you won't even be offered one.
Me, I start with the Kanda Mirchi Utthappa with a small bowl of white chutney by the side, and sambar as it should be.
Next, I have the Wada Sambar - mix, of course.
Finally, as dictated by law, that culinary concoction, that pride of Pune, the best filter coffee served anywhere on the planet.
It sits there on your table in a little white cup - with a little white saucer for company.
Frothy foam at the top, and wafts of that lingering heady aroma emerge from it.
To all the Punekars reading this - you can smell it right now, now can't you?
And so you rise, satiated, from the table, and head out into the world outside, to do whatever it is that you have to.
But ladies and gentlemen, there is no better way to start the day.
Than with breakfast at Roopali.
Amen.