The Delivery Race

At 7:04, Gautam ordered dinner from the back seat of his cab and made a confident prediction. “I’ll be home before it arrives.”

The driver, Shafi, glanced at the road ahead. “Okay, sir.”

It was a neutral reply, but Gautam would later recognise the compassion behind it. They were leaving Bellandur for HSR. His food was coming from a restaurant much closer to his apartment. These facts were available to him. Hunger had filed them under unimportant.

He ordered two dosas, one portion of idli, and enough chutney to support a small committee. The estimated delivery time was thirty minutes. The estimated cab arrival was twenty-seven. Gautam appreciated the elegance. Three minutes to wash his hands, open a plate, and behave like a person whose evening was under control.

At 7:12, the food order changed to PREPARING. His cab estimate changed to thirty-two minutes. He regarded this as a temporary disagreement between apps.

At 7:19, the order changed to PICKED UP. His cab estimate changed to thirty-five minutes. Gautam sat up. Shafi remained calm. The car ahead had advanced half a length, and he was allowing the gap to settle sensibly.

“You think we’ll reach soon?” Gautam asked.

“We will reach when the road moves.”

This was difficult to dispute without introducing fantasy.

The delivery rider’s name was Ramesh. His small map icon began moving towards Gautam’s apartment with a focus Gautam found personally challenging. Gautam zoomed in, zoomed out, and tried to determine whether there were enough signals between the restaurant and home to restore fairness.

Shafi asked whether somebody was waiting for him. “Dinner,” Gautam said.

“Good dinner?”

“Potentially. If I remain involved.”

At 7:27, Ramesh called. “Sir, building entrance is beside the medical shop?”

“Yes.”

“Fourth floor?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone at home?”

Gautam looked out at a stretch of road he had now studied in unnecessary detail. “Not currently.”

Ramesh paused. Gautam imagined his dosas beginning a new life without him. Then he remembered his neighbour, Mrs Nirmala Rao, who had once collected a parcel and improved its packaging before handing it over.

He called her. She answered on the second ring. Yes, she was home. Yes, she could receive dinner. No, it was not a problem. Did he want her to put it on a plate? Gautam asked her not to trouble herself. She said she was already finding a plate.

He sent Ramesh the revised handover instructions and thanked him for checking. He specifically said there was no need to rush or wait unnecessarily. The rider completed the delivery, sent a cheerful message, and continued his evening. Gautam appreciated that only one participant in the race had ever considered it a race.

At 7:42, Mrs Nirmala called.

“Your food has reached.”

“Thank you, aunty. I’m still on the way.”

“I noticed. The dosa was getting soft. I have put everything on plates.”

“Very kind.”

“And I made some fresh chutney.”

Shafi laughed quietly when Gautam repeated this. “Dinner has settled in before you.”

By the time the cab reached the apartment, Mrs Nirmala had also persuaded her husband to heat the sambar. Gautam rang their bell holding his laptop bag and the mild embarrassment of a late guest at his own meal.

They invited him inside. The food was warm. There was an extra chair at the table. Mr Rao asked about work while serving him a dosa that had undergone considerable neighbourly supervision.

Gautam thanked them both. Dinner had won the race, but it had chosen excellent company.

The next evening, he ordered only after reaching home. Mrs Nirmala messaged at seven.

“Are we not receiving anything today?”

Read when you’re a passenger or safely off the road. Never while driving.