It's around ten thirty. I'm getting back from a nice evening at Kala Ghoda. Didn't do much there. Just caught a Spanish film at Cama Hall, roamed around a little bit along the pretty stalls, and headed to Bade Miya.
Bade Miya now has a stall that sells 'pure veg' food. From what I tasted, the vegetable sheekh kabab is quite tasty. They're a little stingier with the chutney and onions than the meat counterparts, but still. I appreciate its presence. I'm thankful. I'm the only one at this stall.
We take our kabab rolls back to our trains. My friend and I generally chit-chat about the city and the 'scrapers and the awesome new building at Peddar Road - the one that has a beautiful jacuzzi lined with silver and gold tiles, etc. We get silent for a bit. I buy a shiny, bronze rubber-band to tie my hair with. She pulls it out and picks out a sober green one. I don't like sober.
I get off at Bandra and feel a little excited about Friday. I want to spend a long, long while at Kala Ghoda on Friday morning. Some people are milling around vegetable stalls near Bandra Station, making emergency purchases of tomatoes and laukis. A couple of fat, lazy dogs are hanging around, trying to find a safe spot to sleep.
I see a child, an eight or nine year old boy, trying to feed a tomato to a white sloppy canine. The dog makes a big show of waking up from his position of pure sloth, attracted by the red, round thing, no doubt. He sniffs it and turns his face the other way. And slumps back into position.
The child turns and tells his mother, "Dekho maa. Yeh nahin kha rahaa. Main kyun khaaoon?"
I can see this kid twenty years down the line. Wearing white and black, bowing before an illustrious bench and saying stuff like, "The defence rests."