Worli Koliwada (4)

Friends often tell me I can ask just anyone on the street which bus goes where. They've failed to consider the extent to which people feel compelled to agree with me. I took the bus to Worli Village thinking that it would leave me close to the Nehru Centre. So very wrong. Not only was I several kilometers away, but walking toward the sea only entangled me deeper in the meshes of Koliwada, the fishing village. One gentleman even stopped me and, after inquiring very politely in grammatically perfect English where I was from, confirmed that, yes, this was the way to the Seaface. Soon I could see highrises — Prabhadevi — across the bay. But there was no point turning back. Finally I reached Worli's apex, surmounted by a fort that resembles a roofless church, swaddled in semi-pukka constructions.

My timing couldn't have been better. As I retraced my steps to the depot the scent of frying oil wafted from every doorway. Boys were exiting in droves with trays of samosas, pakoras, and yes, vadai, until I was just one member of a mouthwatering procession. I followed a tray of samosas into a sweet shop. Its cases were filled with multicolored burfis, marzipan strawberries and watermelon-slice kaju rolls. The owner gave the fresh vadai another five minutes. In the meantime I had a samosa with a surprisingly coconutty coriander chutney as we tried to hash out where I'd turned wrong. He concluded that my Hindi was "tutti-frutti," which is just about right. Five minutes later — 10:00 on the dot — I was striding briskly southward with a hot vada pav in hand. Now that's how eating and running is done.