'A safe dawn for Bhukkads'

The evening breeze and drizzling rain was a welcome sight as the raindrops played it part in reducing the heat by atleast a couple of degrees. The sun was cut in half, forming a semicircle in the horizon as the sky taking on a tinge of orange hue was a sight to behold. The drizzle had already invited a lot of the locals towards their kitchens, frying up sizzling hot fried fritters. 

The aroma of the bajiyas and kebabs filled the air as I decided to enjoy the weather with a walk, something I had not done for quite sometime. Well, my brain felt like it was a good explanation to mask the cravings for 'chatpata food' and honestly, I could hardly blame it. The first wave of COVID-19 was a recent memory. While the government was postive that it had managed to keep the virus at bay, the corona scare was still at large. The times were such. Street food that was a staple in a foodie's life had suddenly turned into a luxury one couldn't afford. 

But, there was something different about the rain. That day, "Mausam bhi tha, mauka bhi tha aur dastoor bhi..." I immediately picked up my phone from the bedside table and called Mark, a perennial bhukkad friend of mine, one of the few I consider a bigger foodie than me. Just in case I fall into the 'Guilty conscious mode' while eating, this way I could always blame it on him. Precaution is always better than cure. 

Twenty minutes later, I heard an old patpati scooter pull up near my gate. The engine sound of Mark's Bajaj Chetak was a crystal clear hint that it was on a ventilator, waiting for some kind and considerate person to pull the plug. But, Mark was adamant on keeping it alive. "Sentiment" he called it. As if his weight was not enough, he dismissed my idea of a walk and asked me to hop on his already overburdened Chetak. I hesitantly followed and thus began our food trip.

Dust combined with the vapours from the sun baked concrete had given the streets a divine look of heaven where it appeared as if people were floating on white smoke. For a person who loved the peace and quiet of the forests, appreciated the beauty and mysteries of nature, the buzz of the city was a slight discomfort even though I had lived there for a long time. The road was slightly wet from the drizzle and small pools of water had filled some of the potholes on the road. The vehicles desperately trying to avoid these potholes ended up splashing water on the pedestrians, thus receiving a few animated faces and colourful curses in return.

Adjusting on Mark's scooter as he suddenly pushed for some extra power, while his scooter almost felt it's last breath leave the already overworked engine, was much easier than both of us concurring on a good place to quench our food urges. When I said Tikki, he said shawarma, when I said chole, he said kebabs... This process went on throughout our 10 minutes ride during which we had something interesting to discuss about every eating joint we could lay our eyes on. The funny part was that, we had eaten in all of them at least once and still considered that we were yet to survey the eateries of our area. Poor gourmands!

By the time we parked in front of Mathu's chat shop, Mark's Chetak had twice knocked on the gates of heaven and returned owing to admission issues. The sun had already hidden behind the trees and the streetlights were, as usual, performing their duty of illuminating the otherwise dark roads of the city. The traffic was at its peak with the regular hardworking people of our area, trying their best to reach their homes at the earliest. The honking and the vrooming of cars, combined with the thick cloud of smoke emerging from the vehicle exhaust had already started countering the pleasantness of the evening drizzle.

With his right hand casually buried in his pocket, Mark walked towards the shop and ordered a couple of extra spicy samosas with four double malai lassies, one each for before and after the meal. Precision in ordering food was his forte. What a talent!

While waiting for food, our so-called intellectual conversations would usually be in the realm of, "Macha, how many potatoes do you think is required to fill a thousand samosas?" And while we wondered about such world changing topics, our food would make way to our breadbaskets until it felt that it has stretched to its limit. But, that day it was different. Mark shot a straight question at me that I struggled to dodge. "Macha, do you think we could survive the pandemic to tell the tale one day?" he asked. I was taken aback. The question caught me on the wrong foot.

This kind of seriousness was unheard from Mark, who was a happy go lucky food blogger. A person, after eating a whole rack of lamb on December 20th 2012, said to me with a ear to ear smile, "I do not care even if the Indian Ocean gobbles me up tonight. I'm ready." A person who had put food on the tables of hundreds of people during the COVID lockdown with a simple mantra "If you can eat, then I have food for you..." I was caught in the hop. Recovering well, I joked, "My lifeline is very long. I don't think it's time for me yet..." The samosas arrived just in time to save me.

On the way back, Mark's question refused to leave me. I had known Mark for a very long time. This 5 foot 11 inches,119 kgs, big burly bear of a man with a heart of pure gold, was always happy as a clam. A person who refused to let situations bog him down, a strong and firm voice who fought some of the established societal beliefs head on at times. He neither interfered in others business nor waited for time to heal his wounds. A person who believed in challenging life for the fun of it.

If the pandemic could instil the fear of death in the heart of such an ultra optimistic individual, then I wonder the plight of a common man. Is there a ray of hope lurking somewhere? Can he pray to witness a safe dawn in the future?

Well, he is left with no other choice I guess!!

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