how I accidentally became a regular somewhere

The dhaba is on the stretch between my metro station and my flat, which means I pass it twice a day. I stopped once because it was raining and I didn't have an umbrella and the overhang was large enough to shelter a person. The man at the counter, whose name I now know is Jagdish, said, "Kuch khayenge?" not in an aggressive way, more conversationally, the way you'd say it to someone who'd been standing in your doorway for a while. I had a plate of dal makhani and roti. It was genuinely good. I came back on a Thursday because I'd had a bad day and didn't want to cook. Then again the next week. Jagdish now asks how my office is. I ask how business is. He always says "theek chal raha hai" and I say "good, good" and we both mean it. Fridays he has a fish curry that is the best thing I've eaten in this city and costs one hundred and ten rupees. I don't know when I started coming to a dhaba on purpose rather than by accident. But here we are.