It's the lifeline of Mumbai.
No, not the local trains..but the indispensable, irreplaceable, quite ordinary looking Vada pav.
It appears in many sizes..mini to medium and finally a jumbo sized one. It's equally relished by all. From the unkempt man living on the street to the business man in his Mercedes. None's discriminated ever. A collegian's casual lunch..the office goer's
late afternoon snack.
The shabbily clothed vendor at the makeshift shop nestling under a huge tree, right next to an overflowing dustbin, deftly makes balls of the already prepared boiled and mashed potato sabji, flattens it between his palms, dips it in besan batter with elan and fries it along with it's other cousins in a huge cauldron filled three fourths with boiling hot oil..till done and golden brown.
Flies swarm around him. He's unperturbed.
He then drains it onto a plate, then places it between two unsplit halves of a pav.
'Chutney separate?' he asks you, one eyebrow raised like a bharat natyam dancer, while new customers keep milling into the shop by the dozens.
He then wraps it up in a small piece of an old newspaper, winds a string around it and there you are..minus your ten rupees.
You are so hungry, you could eat the paper too.
You take one bite..ooooooooo...delicious..how come the homemade version is a poor copy of it?
The masala's just right, the alu even sized. It's so hot, enough to burn your tongue.
Your eyes glued to it, even as you relish it..you forget to notice the pretty young thing walking down the street.
Such is it's charisma!
Your meal over, the paper thrown into the dustbin with no cover
you walk away as if in a daze..mesmerized..
only to wake up..
when the guy calls out..
'Saab...apne paise nai diye.'
