Hard to believe, but precisely on
the point of seating the famous old Hindi song from the mid-seventies over the
speakers. Remarkable coincidence. Did the look-out pass the wink to the lads in
back for the switch to be flicked? Could it truly have been complete freak coincidence?
Mein Shay'Ar TO
Na'Hiii.... Mein Shay'Ar TO Na'Hiii.
The catchy
refrain that gives the song its title, repeated a number of times through the
course, carried the chief fluttering lilt.
Da DaaR DA
DaDiii.... Magic.
On Youtube
there were numerous film clips from the period with smooth moustachioed leading
men sending Beauties spinning over palatial ballrooms under the spell of the
wolf call. Cut to green fields, sports convertible with passenger door left
open after the lass has taken flight. Cavorting then and a chase that wasn't
through lush, flowering garden splendour belonging to the Tata empire
presumably. (Formerly the estate of one of the British nabobs).
Light skin tones, bright eyes and
slender waists, the vocalist never a patch on the naiad.
Here on Buffalo Street last week the wrong waiter had been chosen for the enquiry.
Here on Buffalo Street last week the wrong waiter had been chosen for the enquiry.
Closer observation would have noticed the
sliver bracelet on the right hand. Fellow was too young for another thing.
Plenty of the younger Sikhs working here dispensed with the turbans.
The older Tamil enlisted for help knew the thing straight off easy as pie. Who didn't know Mein Shayar for goodness sake? A short little pantomime ensuing in the passage before the table.
You dolt! Hand clap to the forehead. What good are you? Out. Out I say. The whole bag of potatoes right this instant…. High Nazi salute. (The swastika had originated in India after all.) Marching orders in the direction of the kitchen.
One fears the reno job cannot be too far off at Komala Vilas, now in the third generation here. The old founder is still venerated enough to maintain his place in the frame hung above the register. A couple of times a year the elderly daughter comes out for a review from Chennai. Even in these few months new furniture has been introduced—metal-framed chairs that shrieking across the tiles. As the various heirs have gone their own way, there are now numerous Komala Vilas in Singapore. Buffalo Street opposite Tekka Market the one holding the line as much as possible.
The older Tamil enlisted for help knew the thing straight off easy as pie. Who didn't know Mein Shayar for goodness sake? A short little pantomime ensuing in the passage before the table.
You dolt! Hand clap to the forehead. What good are you? Out. Out I say. The whole bag of potatoes right this instant…. High Nazi salute. (The swastika had originated in India after all.) Marching orders in the direction of the kitchen.
One fears the reno job cannot be too far off at Komala Vilas, now in the third generation here. The old founder is still venerated enough to maintain his place in the frame hung above the register. A couple of times a year the elderly daughter comes out for a review from Chennai. Even in these few months new furniture has been introduced—metal-framed chairs that shrieking across the tiles. As the various heirs have gone their own way, there are now numerous Komala Vilas in Singapore. Buffalo Street opposite Tekka Market the one holding the line as much as possible.
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