Poet sitting on the floor in the central hall of The Leela Hotel asks for his mid-morning cup of coffee before he starts to pen scribbly words on paper, his daily riyaz.
“The coffee machine is dead,” the waitress tells him.
“That’s crazy,” he says. “I need my coffee before I write, before my belly acts up and my brain shuts down.”
“My coffee! Just do it,” he commands. “Fix the bloody machine.”
The waitress walks away.
A guard blows the whistle. Oncoming car carrying guitar. “Poet’s order,” the driver announces.
This is the part where the poet changes his act from poet to guitarist.
The manager hears the ruckus. Is this a joke? He storms in. “This is not the place for such drama. Take him away from here,” he yells.
The poet is carried away, kicking and screaming.
“You mustn’t let him in again,” the manager tells the waitress before going away for his afternoon nap.
The poet will be back tomorrow. The Leela belongs to his dad, as they all know, except the manager, who doesn’t return ever again.
Pic courtesy: Graphics factory