Babasaheb Ambedkar Rd, Dadar

As the fever broke, I arose as if from a dream.  I had a yen for something hot and crunchy and as I pondered how to exorcise it I took the right out of St Paul's and ran smack into a dabeli stand.

The froth of wish fulfillment melted quickly beneath the mercury lamps.  I was transported quickly from fantasy through a string of genres: melodrama, farce, tragedy, to horror and, finally, coming-of-age.

Distressingly, there was no butter in sight.  Something oily in the center of the tavaa would have to do.  I was game.  "Ek banaa do," I prodded the wallah.  He heard nothing, for he was locked in that most volatile of standoffs: the large-change transaction.

A previous customer was attempting to pay for his eight-rupee dabeli with a hundred.  Not bloody likely!  For what seemed like minutes, he stood poised with the note in hand, his opponent steely-faced, until finally the latter began counting out tens for what seemed like even longer.

"Ek banaa do," I repeated.  He picked it up, dropped it on a square of newspaper, and shoved it at me.  I scrutinized it.  One side, predictably was cold.  "Thanda ho gaya," I remarked.

"Pehle kyon nahin bataa diya?" asked the guy next to him.  (I hadn't realized it was a tag team.)  It threw me for a loop; I should have told him earlier it was cold?  Or that I hadn't wanted it cold?  I gave him a quizzical look.

"Kanda hai is mein; nahin chahiye to batao," he explained.  A-ha.  Kanda: onions, in Bombay, anyway.  I set him straight.

"Kahaan se ata hai?" he inquired, and I replied: Bandra.  "Tumara Hindi bahut weak hai."  I smiled, and got a wink in return.  That's the first time anybody's told me that: they always tell me how well I speak.  I've hit a milestone.