would not rest until he cracked it. It was a childhood affliction. Once he decided on something, he would not rest until he accomplished it. And because of this undying grit, he had not failed at a lot of things. He did fail to find his father after his mother killed herself, but one could argue that he was thirteen when he went to Pune and beyond in search of his father.
Prakash blamed his mother for the hardship and emotional suffering that he and his father had to go through. He still wanted to find his father someday and console him that his decision to stay back in Pune without his wife was correct.
When he finally reached home, it was almost time to leave for work again. He did not fancy living at home anyway. There was no one to come home to. No one boundhim there. He took a generous shower, bowed to a picture of his parents taken in happier times and got ready for work.
Prakash had never been into a serious relationship. He never had the time. While growing up, he worked three jobs simultaneously and when he finally did have some time, he had lost most of his hair, thanks to genes from his father. He then started climbing the police hierarchy rapidly. It never occurred to him that he was getting old and not before long, he would need company.
Just when he was about to step out, he got a SMS from Rujuta, asking if he’d want to meet over breakfast. Prakash had hazy recollections of the night gone by and he thought this would be a good opportunity to pick her brains again.
∗∗∗
They decided on Shabri, a small Udipi restaurant close to the police station.
“How are your injuries?” Prakash asked, settling into a booth. Udipi restaurants, as a matter of policy, had fixed tables that could seat four people and required you to share your table with strangers. The rule did not apply to Prakash, however. He was a regular, and more importantly, a policeman.
“What injuries? They were just scratches and I am fine. Thank you for asking,” Rujuta beamed. She then asked, “How is Payal? Nidhi? Others?” She was wearing a pair of blue denims, a white polo tee, and her trademark Kolhapuri Chapal.
“I don’t know. I haven’t checked. I am sure that by now they would have an entire panel of doctors tending to them.” Prakash ordered a Dosa. Rujuta settled on an Idli. These Udipi restaurants, apart from old Irani cafes, were the lifeline of Mumbai and Mumbaikars. Even in these times when everything was expensive like gold, these eateries offered cheap, reasonably hygienic and tasty food. And like Irani Cafes, these Udipi restaurants have been around forever. Shabri was relatively new, for it was just twenty odd years old while most others could claim a 60-year-old legacy. The oldest Irani cafe in Mumbai, Kyani’s, near Dhobi Talao has been in operation since 1904.
Rujuta laughed heartily at the comment. “Why are you so bitter towards the filmwallahs Prakash!?”
“I don’t have anything against anyone. I just don’t like anyone interrupting when I am working. These film guys are really nosy and have egos bigger than the cricket maidans ,” Prakash was getting restless. He hated to explain himself to anyone. He had stopped eating and was churning Sambhar with a spoon. Apparently, the recipe of Sambhar , a stew made from vegetables and pigeon pea, is a closely guarded secret and is passed down the generations. A true Udipi restaurant owner takes as much pride in keeping this recipe a secret as he takes in his being the major benefactor of his brethren.
Rujuta noticed Prakash’s reaction. “OK, OK. Sorry I asked.” She looked into his eyes and said, “Change of topic. It’s a personal question. You may choose to not answer it.”
Prakash looked up. He could not guess what was coming up next. He simply nodded.
“How the fuck do you manage to stay awake, and look this sharp this early in the morning, after you had half a bottle of JD just a few hours ago?” Rujuta spoke with exaggerated expressions
Prakash blamed his mother for the hardship and emotional suffering that he and his father had to go through. He still wanted to find his father someday and console him that his decision to stay back in Pune without his wife was correct.
When he finally reached home, it was almost time to leave for work again. He did not fancy living at home anyway. There was no one to come home to. No one boundhim there. He took a generous shower, bowed to a picture of his parents taken in happier times and got ready for work.
Prakash had never been into a serious relationship. He never had the time. While growing up, he worked three jobs simultaneously and when he finally did have some time, he had lost most of his hair, thanks to genes from his father. He then started climbing the police hierarchy rapidly. It never occurred to him that he was getting old and not before long, he would need company.
Just when he was about to step out, he got a SMS from Rujuta, asking if he’d want to meet over breakfast. Prakash had hazy recollections of the night gone by and he thought this would be a good opportunity to pick her brains again.
∗∗∗
They decided on Shabri, a small Udipi restaurant close to the police station.
“How are your injuries?” Prakash asked, settling into a booth. Udipi restaurants, as a matter of policy, had fixed tables that could seat four people and required you to share your table with strangers. The rule did not apply to Prakash, however. He was a regular, and more importantly, a policeman.
“What injuries? They were just scratches and I am fine. Thank you for asking,” Rujuta beamed. She then asked, “How is Payal? Nidhi? Others?” She was wearing a pair of blue denims, a white polo tee, and her trademark Kolhapuri Chapal.
“I don’t know. I haven’t checked. I am sure that by now they would have an entire panel of doctors tending to them.” Prakash ordered a Dosa. Rujuta settled on an Idli. These Udipi restaurants, apart from old Irani cafes, were the lifeline of Mumbai and Mumbaikars. Even in these times when everything was expensive like gold, these eateries offered cheap, reasonably hygienic and tasty food. And like Irani Cafes, these Udipi restaurants have been around forever. Shabri was relatively new, for it was just twenty odd years old while most others could claim a 60-year-old legacy. The oldest Irani cafe in Mumbai, Kyani’s, near Dhobi Talao has been in operation since 1904.
Rujuta laughed heartily at the comment. “Why are you so bitter towards the filmwallahs Prakash!?”
“I don’t have anything against anyone. I just don’t like anyone interrupting when I am working. These film guys are really nosy and have egos bigger than the cricket maidans ,” Prakash was getting restless. He hated to explain himself to anyone. He had stopped eating and was churning Sambhar with a spoon. Apparently, the recipe of Sambhar , a stew made from vegetables and pigeon pea, is a closely guarded secret and is passed down the generations. A true Udipi restaurant owner takes as much pride in keeping this recipe a secret as he takes in his being the major benefactor of his brethren.
Rujuta noticed Prakash’s reaction. “OK, OK. Sorry I asked.” She looked into his eyes and said, “Change of topic. It’s a personal question. You may choose to not answer it.”
Prakash looked up. He could not guess what was coming up next. He simply nodded.
“How the fuck do you manage to stay awake, and look this sharp this early in the morning, after you had half a bottle of JD just a few hours ago?” Rujuta spoke with exaggerated expressions
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