Bhaja

Three unextraordinary drinks. After the trek down from Visapur, these may well have saved my life:

Nimbu pani, premade, in a dampened towel–wrapped steel decanter. No squeezing, no salting, just a sweet-sour-salty shot of dancing electrolytes. Okay, make it two. One for me and one for N. to pass off to me.

Kokam sharbat, the product of a whole family's five minutes' mixing and spicing. At first I mistook the jeera, hand-ground, for gnats. I would've drunk it anyway. This tin oven of a dhaba has perhaps not seen so much business in years.



Limca. More than a drink, it's a fully negotiable unit of utility. As in, how many Limcas is x worth? The answer is usually unflattering to the x.

Bonus Limca anecdote

The Greyhound stopped over in Atlanta for one hour. I made a beeline for the Coke Museum, spiraled my way up to the top floor, and beheld the dazzling array of spigots. When I spotted the green one with the limey orb, I understood what an addict must feel for his substance. My pulse slackened, my breathing became regular, and I had the sense of being at home. It had been years. I drank until my stomach ached. I drank some more.

With 15 minutes to get back to the station I finally pried myself away myself away from the nozzle. Bail bonds, bail bonds, bail bonds. And there was my bus, my luggage still on it, backing out of its gate. I broke into a sprint, dragging my guts with me, sloshing into the curve of the off-ramp. There we stood, face to face, Tienamen-style. I waved to the driver, and then doubled over, head between knees for the few precarious seconds before the door opened with a pneumatic woosh. I passed most of the ride to Montgomery with my legs crossed.

Bandra Station (E)

Meerut Haleem and Biryani. Not a review — it's a mental note. I might have been able to stand, with effort. I could even have shoved my way through the river of flesh on whose far bank perched three hulking bhartans of slowly liquefying mutton. (Red meat improves x-ray vision, studies show.) But asking the sigdiwala to cancel my order once he'd already thrown on the skewers just wasn't in the cards.

Boti, then. At three for Rs 20, there was no point in asking too many questions. I did not learn what kept them that scandalous shade of red. I did know one thing: for the aches and sweat stains of a full day of outdoor errands I had found a cure, and it was meat. Let's hope this ajnabee is here to stay.

Where? Past the platforms, on the far side of the foot-over bridge, where a solitary track threads its way up to Bandra Terminus. The iron picket along one side and the low wall on the other both have their occasional chinks, but the great mass of travelers flows through this one crossing. Somehow, they manage to close the gate once an evening when a solitary engine sulks its way out of the shed. At those times human traffic flows through foot-wide apertures on either side. Literally, through the wringer.

A Hyderabadi once told me that eating animal parts are good for our respective (counter)parts: gurda helps the kidneys function; paya strengthens the bones, etc. To have been spat out of this flattening machine to the smell of charcoal and the sight of these juicy chunks of mutton leg, I believed him.