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.