Of celebrations, midnight hunger pangs, and chocolate therapies

Aashka Oza
Sep 6, 2018 · 3 min read

Lights out, thumping music filled the air. She let out a painstakingly loud scream. One of terror filled disgust that made many feminists cringe at their own convenient time.

To any other 20-year-old something this was a pretty normal phenomenon at a hormone-charged social setup. Gut told me it wasn’t.

“The hand sickeningly slid around my waist. Bringing on a rage of thunder.” They said it was a party. It was going to be fun. They were so very wrong.

Yosheeta from Kolkata was intolerant about unknown touches. Seriously shy, and a selectively warm personality. In spite of coming from a town known for its exuberant festivity, art, music, pop-culture and the club, this millennial wasn’t ready for the extremities of a bustling new contemporary town.

Afraid of bringing back distasteful memories from her last encounter, I let go of trying to feed her with any sorry, impactless assurances. It was getting late, and probably we should have been heading back to her nest. Gut again encountered how loneliness wasn’t a consoling solution. So we walked through quiet, empty streets of SOBO amidst towering British colonial buildings. The atmosphere was that of romantic midnight strolls post a sumptuous dining experience in the greater part of the city. There we were skimming fast through an awkward yet bearable silence.

Vintage cafes, a la carte continental diners, fancy ice cream parlours, specialised restaurant chains, what not. South Bombay gave its visitors whatever they’d want — from luxurious buffets to comforting luncheons. Alas, the grim night seemed to have begun with the perverse turn of events at the college freshers.

“What could be a nice ice-breaker”, but before brain spoke, gut grumbled. Hearing the outburst she giggled. Embarrassment pinching my cheeks red, I glanced at Yosheeta with a meek sorry.

“People value the real good a lot less than the fake pleasantries at such events. Her voice finally killing the silence. I feel guilty for having pulled you out of the party, you barely got to eat anything.”

I am okay. Thanks. Also glad that I came. Not that I would…

“Hey, sorry to cut you in between, but where are we?”

Time had played its card, engrossed in our sombreness we’d walked all the way off causeway street to marine lines and exiting out to the drive.

“There’s a beach shore coming up next. Would you like to go?”

“Will there be food around at this hour?”

“I guess, the city’s famous milkshake place would be open.”

Bachelor’s was a go-to option for a late night sweet cravings. Especially for the American culture fed populace of Mumbai that lunged at anything that spelt Ferrero/Nutella even remotely. Not that Bachelor’s was bad, they pioneered street side food-truck eating with a hint of western glam. Their speciality lied in milkshakes and real fruit juices. Which was literally an attraction point for foodies not just from the vicinity but also far off suburbs.

Adamant that I guzzled some form of food to sustain the night, Yoshetaa nudged me towards the stall. And so we settled, going half-zees for the patent rocher shake.

I am sorry that Rohan stepped out of line tonight.

It wasn’t your fault. Teenage mutants are the coordinators’ responsibility. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have survived this. Thank you for sticking by my side. Extending her right arm towards me, I found a genuine friend in the big old city of dreams.

05 Sep 2018

A decade of celebrations, midnight hunger pangs and chocolate therapies later.

“Nehaaaa!”, Yoshetaa’s patent heavy toned sweet voice filled the surrounding as I waited for us to celebrate our long old friendship. That began on the very grounds of a popular food-truck terrain.