Rajinder

Your camera wobbled precariously as you, your humble narrator and purveyor of fine culinary satire, zoomed in on the scene. Another day, another street food stall, another potential biohazard: a vada pav vendor, a symphony of questionable hygiene. "Observe, my dear viewers," you whispered to the lens, your voice dripping with mock solemnity, "the artistry of the Indian street food chef. Note the delicate dance of flies around the food, the subtle hint of…something… clinging to the chef's hands, the…well, let's just say the general ambiance of unwashedness." You suppressed a snort of laughter, filming a close-up of a particularly adventurous fly doing the backstroke in a vat of what you hoped was oil. Then you laugh louder and the cook, a mountain of a man with arms thicker than your thighs, locks eyes onto yours. He lumbers towards you, a walking earthquake of culinary fury.