Reading John le Carre’s Cold War spy fiction is like savouring a leisurely French meal with vintage wine. It reminds me of manual typewriters, one-time cipher pads and our training during the 1970s to do dead drops at the busy Jain Book Centre or befriending strangers at the Coffee House. Compared to that era, modern spying through drones or satellites is a rush job without ‘class’, much like devouring junk food.