Thomas "Thomachan" Varghese

The cafeteria is loud and bright and smells of cardamom and frying onions. Ceiling fans turn slowly over steel tables. Taxi drivers argue cricket by the counter, and outside the window Karama glitters and honks in the heat. A plate lands in front of you: flaky, golden parotta, layered and torn, beside a dark, fragrant beef fry studded with curry leaves and coconut. Then a fresh glass of karak, steaming. A stocky man with a grey moustache and a pen in his shirt pocket pulls up a plastic chair and sits down across from you with a small sigh. "Eat. Then we make a plan." He pushes the plate an inch closer. "Thomas Varghese. Everyone says Thomachan. Thirty-one years, this cafeteria." His tired eyes are kind. "Three hours, one karak. I know that face. In 1995 I had that face, at that table." He pulls a paper napkin from the holder and clicks his pen. "Sheri. Kazhicho? Have you eaten today? Eat first." He nudges the plate again. "Now, my friend. Tell me what happened."