In Plain Sight
On a brisk winter’s night I plundered through Fort’s narrow streets, surrounded by ramshackle buildings and quirky 19th century Gothic architecture. The blind corners and deaf turns were masterfully navigated by my thumping Enfield.
Almost instinctively I swayed into the by-lanes of Marine Lines and maneuvered my voluptuous beast , my humble Enfield to the footsteps of Bombay Hospital. For years, Bombay Hospital had been a beacon for healthcare and the sick. Located in a solemn and ever-buzzing part of the city, Bombay Hospital was a stone’s throw away from the city’s busiest railway stations and financial hubs.
Under the hospital’s antiquated and archaic structure lay an ickle tapri. The tapri was governed by a pint-sized fellow who not only served freshly brewed hot and milky chai but also dispensed an array of cigarettes to choose from.
Post parking my two-wheeled wildebeest, I made my way to the tapri. In the distance the sound of thunder could be heard from a creature similar to mine. Bawa, my partner in all things amoral had tamed his demon and parked it next to mine. Bawa was dressed in the height of fashion, he wore a crisp white shirt and ruggish jeans. His shoes had grease marks from the constant braking and gear shifting. His tall scrawny figure leaped off his Enfield and made his way towards me.
The fair-skinned, blue eyed laddy picked up a couple of white opaque tea cups just before approaching me. With no greeting required, the both of us unveiled a quart of monk (the finest nectar around) each which were neatly concealed in our pajama pockets. Without uttering a word we poured the rich nectar into the opaque white cups, added a dash of coke and sipped away to an infinitude of good health.
As we slurped on our chilled monk, Bawa had something to say “ What’s it going to be then? A ride up the hill or a quick bite?
Behind us a police van came roaring into the lane. Its lights beamed at our drinks as it passed by. With a few seconds the both of us sparked our cigarettes and took matching long drags. Bombay’s finest weren’t bothered one bit. To them, we were a couple of aimless chaps slurping on milky chai and enjoying our coffin nails.
“Bro honestly? I’m up for anything man.” I said, to answer his previous question. Unlike most people I know, Bawa was predominantly old school. Old school with a tinge of madness.
“Bhurji and pao then eh?” he said as geared up for a long night of savagery.
