When Meera announced that her school friend Riya was visiting from overseas after twenty years, everyone expected an emotional reunion. It was emotional. Mostly for Meera’s wallet. For months, messages had flown across time zones.
“We MUST meet!” “Just like old times!” “Can’t wait!”
The only place that suited Meera’s budget was a tiny neighbourhood restaurant famous for its fluffy luchis, crispy fish fry, cutlets and endless cups of tea.
Riya agreed……after asking for photographs of the place. She arrived looking as though she’d stepped straight out of an airport advertisement. Oversized sunglasses. Designer handbag. Shoes so dazzlingly white they deserved their own passport. She looked around. “Oh… this place is… quaint.” It was the sort of smile usually reserved for abandoned archaeological sites.
Before sitting down, she produced a packet of antibacterial wipes. She wiped the chair. She wiped the table. She wiped the menu. She wiped the mineral water bottle. She wiped the glass. She glanced suspiciously at the salt shaker as though it had a criminal record.
“One has to be careful,” she whispered. “Hygiene standards, you know.” The bewildered waiter hovered nearby. “Wet wipes?” He looked confused. “Extra napkins?” He produced an entire stack.
Meera quietly accepted the complimentary peanuts and watched the sanitisation ceremony unfold. Then came the stories. Back where I live, our water is triple-filtered.” “We only eat organic.” “Nobody eats carbs.” “Coffee costs twelve dollars.” “I don’t even touch public surfaces.” Every second sentence began with “Back where I live…”
Just then her phone rang. She tucked it between her shoulder and cheek and chatted animatedly for ten minutes. Halfway through the conversation, she sneezed magnificently into her palm….and without a moment’s hesitation reached across the table and picked up a hot, crispy potato chop from Meera’s plate. “Hope you don’t mind!”
Silence. Meera stared. The potato chop stared back. Even the restaurant fan seemed to pause in disbelief. Trying not to smile, Meera asked, “So… the potato chops are naturally sanitised?”
Riya blinked. “Oh…” The waiter almost dropped the chutney trying not to laugh. A few minutes later, Riya proudly announced that people abroad walked everywhere. Moments later she asked the waiter where the washroom was. He pointed. It was barely fifteen steps away. “That’s a bit far,” she sighed. By now, Meera was beginning to suspect that only conversations travelled long distances.
Eventually the bill arrived. Meera instinctively reached for it. Riya gently placed one perfectly manicured finger on the folder. “Oh no,” she declared with great generosity. “We’re modern women. Let’s split it.” Split it.
Meera almost admired the confidence. Here was a woman who had just described her luxury cruise, her ski holiday, her imported organic dog food, and the Bluetooth mirror in her designer bathroom.
Yet the ₹780 lunch suddenly demanded financial equality. Meera quietly paid her half. Riya happily paid hers.
As they stepped outside, Riya hugged her warmly. “We must do this again before I fly back!” “Absolutely,” Meera smiled. Next time, she decided, they’d meet somewhere even more authentic.
A roadside tea stall.
After all, the tea would be boiled with fresh ginger, served in little clay khullars that were used once and thrown away—the ultimate hygienic experience. Walking home, Meera smiled to herself. Some people collect luxury brands. Others collect generous hearts.
Only one of those appreciates with age. 
