This morning on my way to work, I ate a bhurji.
It was no ordinary bhurji, mind — the vendor at the corner of the street near my home made it exclusively for me. He put aside everything else he was doing; from his stock, he selected the exact right green chillies and the perfect onion for my palate. And oh, those eggs — two of the finest ever laid!
The vendor Sivaram, who the cognoscenti tell me is an acknowledged expert in the art of bhurji-making and who created the dish with skill that had been passed on to him through the generations, told me the eggs had been laid exclusively for me, and no one else in this world, ever, would be able to taste those identical eggs, no matter how much money was on offer. By way of guarantee, he even shook out the very last drops of the gooey stuff from the insides of the cracked shells and then crushed the shells to smithereens.
It was, I vow, divine. And as I ate that bhurji, made exclusively for me out of eggs laid exclusively for me, I thought of all you poor folk out there who just don’t get it: None of you get, more’s the pity, that the best things in life are exclusive.
Vir Sanghvi shares my belief, vide this exercise in tactless, tasteless condescension:
PS: It’s Friday, folks. Not likely to be on here much.