Trust, Tokens and Three Masala Doses


Today, after our customary morning walk at Doddakalsandra Lake, the three regulars among us, faithful to habit and appetite, followed our well-established ritual, heading in our scooters straight to one of the two Darshinis nearby for breakfast. On weekends, loyalty narrows further: only the Masala Dose specialist will do.

The first among us to arrive had already done the noble deed, ordered three Masala Doses and three coffees. Efficiency is a virtue in our circle, especially when hunger begins to speak louder than wisdom.  The last among us to arrive, observing the weekend rush, suggested we each have a single idli while waiting for the doses. It seemed sensible. So I dutifully bought three idli tokens.

But fate, and a fast-moving kitchen, had other plans. By the time I approached the idli counter, the Masala Doses had arrived, steaming, golden, and impossible to ignore. There are moments in life when sequencing must surrender to temperature. The dose came first. The idlis, patient as ever, waited in quiet dignity.

We finished the doses with reverence and then, in a rare display of digestive courage, proceeded to honour the idlis with almost equal enthusiasm. Crediting idlis after a masala dose is not common practice, but we are men of commitment.

Then came the closing ceremony, coffee. The friend who had ordered the doses and coffees began searching for the coffee tokens. What followed was a full-fledged forensic operation: pockets examined, jerkin inspected, even expressions analysed.

The gentleman who generally oversees the functioning of the place, familiar with us as regulars, noticed the unfolding drama. With admirable generosity, he said we should go ahead and collect the coffees; he would inform the coffee counter if the tokens were misplaced. We were touched.

But shortly thereafter, he mentioned that upon checking with the counter staff, it appeared that coffee tokens had not been purchased at all. A mild wave of embarrassment passed through us. We had not asked for a favour and certainly did not wish to receive one inadvertently. 

I  quietly decided to buy fresh tokens and promptly headed to the counter. My walkmate, however, was unwilling to let truth be short-changed. He hurried to the coffee counter, where the counter gentleman confirmed that payment for the coffees had indeed been received. The misunderstanding arose because he assumed I had misplaced the tokens and had merely conveyed that no token had been purchased by me.

The overseeing gentleman immediately set things right and instructed the coffee counter to serve the three coffees without further token drama, clarifying that his intention had always been to help, not to suspect.

In that brief ten-minute episode, honesty, assumption, pride, goodwill and mild embarrassment all took turns at the counter, before trust quietly reclaimed its rightful place.

We finally sipped our coffees in peace.
And as we mounted our scooters to leave, one of us remarked, “Next Sunday, let’s first confirm the tokens… and then confirm the friendship.” To which another replied,
“Friendship is permanent. Tokens are seasonal.”

We all agreed that in Bengaluru’s Darshinis, paper tokens may go missing, but trust, thankfully, still doesn’t.



Stories, not instructions. Experiences, not advice—medical or otherwise. Data, only what the internet quietly gathers anyway. Proceed with equal parts curiosity and common sense.

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