The soft and soothing music from a piano played in the background in a large dining hall. Dull, dim and depressing lightings illuminated the vast space. Men and woman in decent and extremely formal outfits occupied tables and conversed in hushed tones, while the powerless flames that ignited the tall candles on the tables swayed to its side, as though it danced to the harmonic, and sleepy, music with filled the air around us. Darshan and I dropped into an extreme high-class and top-notch five-star hotel in Mumbai, and although the surrounding was breathtakingly beautiful, the space was not my thing.

"This is the kind of place I'd visit if I want to fall asleep", I told Darshan, who busily read through the laminated menu card, and as always, he managed to only flash a smile, without daring to move his eyes away from the menu card. "Would you have a plate of pasta?", Darshan raised his brow, and I wrinkled my nose, shaking my head to my side. "Order something, Dityaa! The waiters have been staring at us for fifteen minutes", Darshan hissed in annoyance, and slid another menu towards my end of the table. "Order French Fries or something", I vaguely answered, without laying my hands on the menu, and Darshan exhaled loudly. "If that's what you wanted, we could have drove to McDonalds", Darshan said. "Exactly...", I banged my hand on the table, and forced ten heads to turn in our direction. "Shh!", Darshan hushed me, and flashed an awkward smile at the ones who shot perplexed stares at us. "...you should have asked for my opinion and preferences before walking into a five-star hotel, Mr. Know-It-All", I whispered, loudly. "I'm not a Know-It-All", Darshan argued. "Of course, you're not, but you roam around trying so hard to be one", I huffed, and Darshan opened his mouth to say something but I silenced him. "Don't. Please don't argue with me right now; I'm extremely hungry and I have no control on my words, we'll end up in a bad fight for no reason on our first outing. Talk to me later. Order something now", I said in one breath, and Darshan simply gawked at me with a blank expression on his face, as though he had absolutely no idea what was happening around him and I wouldn't blame him for it because he belonged to a normal family. "Please", I pleaded in a whisper, and it didn't take too long for a smile to illuminate his face. "I'd suggest you to carry food to work from tomorrow. You're crazy", Darshan suggested, and raised his hand in the air, signaling the waiter, who literally sprinted towards our table with a notepad.

"Hi, Sir", the waiter greeted Darshan, respectfully, and didn't even bother to turn in my direction. Rude! Darshan didn't even make an effort to greet him back. Had the waiter greeted me, I would have greeted him back happily and asked about his well-being. And maybe, I would have even enquired about his family's well-being. But he decided to lick the celebrity's shoe; his bad, his loss!

"I'll have a mushroom soup and a bowl of Italian salad and a set of medium French Fries", Darshan placed our order, and the waiter scribbled it down on the notepad. "Please add some spice to the French Fries", I requested. "Spices?", he echoed, blankly. "Sprinkle pepper, salt, paprika and all of that; make it extremely spicy!", I explained to him and it took him a moment to nod in agreement, before walking away. "You didn't have to do that. Just take what they serve!", Darshan scolded in embarrassment. "Take whatever they give? Are they giving it for free? You're paying, right? So, you might as well just make them do it the way you want it to be", I told Darshan, playing with the pile of tissues on the table. "But honestly, you're settling down for mushroom soup and salad? Are you serious? What's wrong with all the rich people, man? You have all the money in the world and you decide to have flavoured-water with boiled mushrooms for dinner? There are so many people in this world who are dying to be as rich as you so that they could hog and gobble up all the varieties of butter chicken, Chicken tandoori and what not!", I rolled my eyes, and Darshan silently watched my ongoing drama – which was a result of extreme starvation. "I thought you're a vegetarian, though", Darshan furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. "At home, yes; but whenever I'm out, I'm worse than all the Punjabi Uncles with big bellies, who sit in restaurants and swallow plates of non-vegetarian dishes", I answered and Darshan laughed. "There's this restaurant near my house, back in Surat, and they have the best butter chicken in the world. When you visit Surat for a show, or something, visit the restaurant. But let me know before you drop in; I'll call the restaurant owner and tell him that I know you. Kamlesh Bhaiya gives a twenty-percent discount for the people I know, and he also adds extra cream!", I informed Darshan, with pride. "That's super cool...", Darshan awkwardly said, and he looked uncertain about how to react to what I said. "...but I don't need the offer...", Darshan slowly said, and I cross-spoke in haste. "Of course, Darshan Raval; you could simply buy Kamlesh Bhaiya's whole shop in one payment, and I'm taking about discount on a fucking butter chicken. I'm sorry for being this stupid; I don't really hangout with high-class people that often", I justified. "Woman, let me complete!", Darshan exclaimed in complete annoyance, and nabbed everyone's attention in the dining hall. "Shh, where are your manners?", I teased him. "They ditched me, after I met you", he snapped. "And I do not need your life-changing offer because I don't eat chicken", Darshan completed his sentence. "No wonder you're stuck with mushroom soup!", I said, disappointedly. "I'll throw a party for you once I get my first salary, okay? The other day, on Facebook, I ran across this food-page which promoted all these road-side stalls in Mumbai. I'll take you there and we'll have the best night of our life with BBQ chicken and chilled beer and all the Bollywood hits!", I revealed with excitement. "You can stand up on the table and dance, and no one would give a fuck. I have done that a billion times in Surat", I told him. "Don't swear. We're in public", Darshan sternly said, through his gritted teeth. "And, and, and...you can scream all the swear words on the top of your lungs and no one would care because the music will be extremely loud. You have to scream to have a conversation. So cool, right?", I stupidly beamed. "So uncivilized", Darshan judged, flatly, and I bombarded him with a long death stare. "Uncle", inaudibly, I muttered under my breath and we coexisted in silence.

He made me feel like I was hanging out with my dad. Or rather, my dad was far more entertaining than him, to be honest!