I haven’t since deserved a meal as well as on that summer’s day in Ghatkopar. It commands a lasting place in my memory and this blog-
Among others, voting time in the city last year meant one important thing for us interns- a field day. It also meant strong chappals and six hours on the road, a sling bag and camera. I could have been a tourist. I was perhaps. I didn’t cast a vote anyway. Choppy train rides, amla sherbet that tasted a lot like peace at Prachi’s home and another chance to test my Marathi skills. A hundred faces, questions, shrugs, election jokes, sidey smiles and raised eyebrows later, I broke out in a sweat. Then the ‘partner in crime’ called.
In typical newbie fashion, we had overworked. Priya and I. Despite being posted in a low activity constituency where adventure is an hour-long power cut. This is what we planned to take back to office. Not before that royal meal though.
We spoiled ourselves rotten in the first big looking restaurant Ghatkopar had to offer. We would have nothing less than air conditioning, burying ourselves deep in the red of the Maharaja-style couches. Nobody could touch us here. The world seemed ridiculously powerless.
I don’t remember what we ate. Only that it was heavenly. Comfort served on a clean, white plate. The waiters let us be. And be, we did.
The rest of that day is a blur. People in a newsroom are painfully pleased around polling time. I sipped on coffee and watched the fun.
I distinctly remember food from that summer because we considered it a vulgar luxury. Lunch at ‘Aaram’: where one fellow waited on all tables and yelled at us for being indecisive. Domino’s: much craved pineapple on pizza. Street side bhel and chana chor garam and chai downstairs with Serena.
Having an overdose of random nostalgia and blaming it on the times. The run up to the end of final year seems quite like PMS.