It’s a rainy day.
I want to lay in bed all day, only to be pried out with a crowbar. I just want to lay around and eat Indian food. Yes, Indian food.
Matar paneer, gobi manchurian, naan, pakoras, rava kesari.
But instead I’m forced to go to work, and then eat like a respectable person at a table covered in white paper. Some people compromise in their relationships, I compromise in my food dreams.
While eating and watching the rain today, I realized that I don’t tell anyone about the Taj.
When I “do the Taj” or it’s “Taj time!!” or any other bro-form of communication to express my deepest affection for what is known to most at The Taj Mahal, I only tell a select few. I’m afraid other people will find out, then they’ll eat all of the matar paneer and leave me only full of rage. It’s my secret club, my escape, and I”ll be damned if it’s ruined by douche bags.
But lets be clear on one thing- it’s not just reserved for rainy days. It’s reserved for the worthy, only those who will truly appreciate it’s tattered glory.