Bhatiyaar Gali

An evening in a centuries old street of dilapidated shops in an Islamic residency dating right back to Ahmed Shah's times, where silk and gold trade flourished in a once upon a time posh market place, the orchestra of the bargainers' choir echoing to this very day; soaked to the bone by the surprise shower of tears by the gloomy evening clouds, feeding on the all night boiling gelatinous flesh of buffalo legs and tongue inside a dingy candle lit cellar of a room that was Hotel Baara Handi.

All that eluded was that chhoti gold flake for dessert which my uncle - the guide, merrily puffed after the meal, oblivious, to the lustful desire of my lungs to kiss the aroma of the burning honey-dew and the desire to get intoxicated, of those few lungfuls of curry flavoured post-meal breath.

Pretty much the Ian Wright experience.

like a rolling stone

And after a while, you realise,

time flies..

and the best thing that you can do,

is take whatever comes to you,

cuz time flies..

We had arrived. finally released from our homely prison cells. eyes brimming with innocence. tidy hair, neatly brushed backwards. the sincerity in our

manner reflecting our hard working, god-fearing families back home.

decent kids, we were, happy to have found each other.

footy filled evenings on the ground and not so senseless blabbering sessions on the basketball court made the day. and maybe a trip to the old night canteen

to not end the day on a starved stomach. though it required quite a bit of courage to go to that little shop between H3 and H4, and come out with food for

a whole block, successfully dodging curious and sadistic glances of the then huge seniors. neither did the canteen, nor the galla exist in our leisure

maps, for they were even bigger dens of seniors preying for us.

come second year and complete freedom dawned. the canteen doors opened. doors to an all new society that existed there and doors to the

most faithful alternative to bad lunch in the mess. its here that this place would feel like a college. alive like a pigeon cage. sipping appy and frooti,

the lips won't stop. through the break and beyond at times. CS to the next CR, football to rock, who's hot and who's a rot, "she loves me

she loves me not"..staring at the beautiful ladies and at times simply dying for a glimpse of someone beloved. and so would time cruise past,

gobbling and giggling.

the simplicity and innocence soon gave way. we were open minded kids. curiosity boiled inside. we were born with a sense of adventure. ready to try.

rebellious and open to change. the 'hippie' life beckoned. spontaneity overcame schedule. squeezing into rickshaws and packed trains we roamed around.

to the seashore one day. to a concert in bombay on another. like rolling stones we treaded down the stream of good times. a rendezvous with the police

one day. sleeping on the railway station on another. laughing at, being laughed at by 'the surti dude' we wandered on the streets of surat with our long

flowing locks. maybe looking for a damsel in distress. or fantasising of being picked up by a hot chick in a sedan.

soon there's a welcome addition to our 'hangouts'. its this little spot, beside the gate we dreaded to go to and at times thought below our dignity

to. Panditji's galla, his lifeline and also ours. a social hotspot in the evenings, where public relations blossom over a tobacco bonfire. there's an air

of brotherly love to this place. daily news and gossip to plain senseless chat. wonderful evenings begin and end here. so do wonderful plans.

and at other times, in the smoke we simply see ourselves exhale, the dissatisfaction and frustration of our now complicated lives.

Be it anything, the sweet smell of tobacco still drives us here.