Tags:
Journalism of Courage
This summer, while visiting Manhattan, I found myself staying in a neighbourhood chockful of restaurants. As a vegetarian by choice, my quest for an evening meal was not a prolonged exercise. While walking down the street, I found a place displaying a neon-lit hoarding which read: 8216;Only Animals Eat Animals8217;. Reassured, I entered.
A task I always find onerous is in deciding what to order. This time I asked the waitress what she recommended, and she suggested 8216;mint flat bread8217; what we call pudina paratha, spinach fritters palak pakoras and a yogurt ensemble raita. I promptly endorsed her suggestions and sat back, waiting for the food to arrive. Just then, at a table not far from mine, a young lady waved to me. Before I could identify her, she walked over, saying, 8220;I am Jennifer. Do you remember me?8221;
Jennifer joined me at my table and confided that while she had kicked the non-vegetarian habit, she was still struggling to give up smoking. I suggested that every time she felt the urge to light up, she should chew on a green cardamom and a clove. The urge to smoke would then abate, I assured her. By this time the waitress was back with the food. Jennifer nibbled at one or two of the dishes, muttering they were delicious. Suddenly she got up to go and said, 8220;Mama, last time I promised you I would turn a vegetarian and I did. Today, I promise to quit smoking.8221; She then picked up her bag, shook my hand warmly and walked away.
In none of our previous meetings had she ever addressed me as 8216;Mama8217;. I also noticed that on her way out, she pulled out her packet of cigarettes, shoved them into the garbage can near the door.
