Azad Maidan

Gandhiji went to a lot of trouble to get his salt. If only the British had had Fritos. Neither man nor nature has devised a system more perfect for delivering vital minerals. Yet this crowning accomplishment of our species, that which separates us from beasts, remains unknown to Indians. So what would I reach for after completing my 21.06 km?

The overpowering sensation was thirst. Could there really be no water on offer? (I had laid my hands on only an airplane bottle since Haji Ali. The "water" handed to us as we limped past Girgaum turned out to be a sweet-salt sharbat so thick it almost made me gag.) Thanda matlab... kya?

As I emerged from the chute I was struck by a vision glinting in the 9 a.m. sun: a beautiful, milky, very rectangular slice of heaven. Some reckless optimist had positioned her kala-khatta cart at the finish line, anchored by a 100-lb. block of ice. I was hoping to be bludgeoned with it. The next best thing was a nimbu pani or, as it became as soon as I could fetch my wallet, three. Though again both sweet and salt, they were of course cut with lemon and oh-so-cold, fished pensively from the glacial runoff with a long-handled cup ladle.

It took until Bandra to lay my hands on the appropriate foodstuff. Lay's my hands, that is — with the flavoring from their special-edition "Latino Style" potato chips. Though made by the same people as Fritos, they are no substitute, as I quickly realized. "Hot Peppers & Salsa" tastes suspiciously like barbeque. To Frito-Lay's's credit, the bag is not, as on the "Spanish" flavor, adorned with a maraca-shaking Saif Ali Khan. (Instead, these anonymous flavor ambassadors are playing sax. N.B. The project of cataloguing the other Lay's varieties was cut short by an allergic reaction to Saif Ali.)

After a nap, my first impulse was for a chicken tikka biryani. I clambered over the still-upheaved Carter Road to the recently renovated Mezbaan. The fan inside was out thanks to a short circuit, so I sat on the terrace in the beating sun and downed glass after glass of water. When they inquired politely whether I wanted "anything else" I asked for bijli and sadak. This joke went over with a resounding thud. Maybe my delivery was off.

While I was glad I hadn't tried anything so suicidal as the full marathon (which, as I finished my biryani, was only 4:00:00 on), I had recovered enough to feel let down. I hadn't challenged myself. But why push myself to run, when I really wanted to push myself to write? As usual, I needed a conceit. A blogging marathon. A challenge:

42 vada pav in 42 days.

This, I know, sounds like a laughable goal to anyone who went to college in town. My classmate Priya, in her own words, could "down five at a sitting." But the object here is not gourmandizing, nor is it mere snacking. I am seeking out 42 unique specimens from every corner of the city, from the Jumboree Maidan parcel shop to the Teen Hath Naka quarter-pounder. I have been training for months. I am ready and set. Wish me luck.