It was another of those hot, humid, mid summer mornings, the medical students had just finished their session of seeing cases, at a satellite, an allotted primary health care centre, away from the nearest town, and were heading back to the parent institution.
There was a talk about going to find a restaurant or a juice kadai, when it came to pass, we sighted a cart o restaurant, under the shade of a tamarind tree.
Stopping the vehicle, and the twenty of us descended, to make friends with the elderly vendor in turban.
It was a kambung koolu cart, with a large clay pot in the center, and all the paraphernalia accessories around, onions, a variety of chillies, fryums, and buttermilk, and drinking water.
For some it was a homely ritual, for others it was a first time drink of the village, with no other alternative kind.
The elderly ruffian gentlemen was way too kind, to see students in the age of his grand children around his cart, he was boistrously delighted to be of service, and shared moments of his family function in the evening.
Paying and bidding farewell we alighted to be on our way.
P. S.
The next halt was a sugar cane kiosk, under a banyan tree, a kilometre away.
Same story, this time an aunt.
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