Today was different. Sundar's pockets jingled with exactly five one-Rupee coins - the minimum autorickshaw fare back in 1996. He had spent all day at school checking his pockets to make sure they were still there. He hadn't ridden his Atlas city bike to school today, thanks to a flat tire. His dad had given him five Rupees when he had dropped him off at school that morning, with the intention that he would take an autorickshaw back home instead of walking. However, as the day progressed, alternate plans had brewed in Sundar's head. As the final bell rang, Sundar strengthened his resolve. Today was the day. He had had all day to work out the logistics. No one would know!, he thought to himself.
Without saying a single bye, Sundar left his friends behind and began walking in the direction of his home. He passed the autorickshaw stand. Rikshaw wale Kakas looked at him expectantly, but he wasn't going to take a riskshaw today. No sir. His focus was completely different today. Making sure no one was watching him, he quickened his pace. Within 5 minutes he reached the intersection, the venue for today's covert operation. He paused and took a moment to contemplate the scene. As always, the street sounds began to instantly fade out and time seemed to come to a standstill. The lone tapri on the corner began to get larger and larger in his frame of vision, sort of like the "dolly zoom" effect used in psychological thriller movies.
Snapping out of it, he began moving quickly toward the tapri. As always, the tapri looked discordantly serene. "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", the little chalkboard easel in front of it screamed. Cheap. Even in 1996. Notwithstanding the fact that not once had Sundar seen a soul around the tapri, munching on the said kachori, he started walking faster. The unpopularity of the kachori vendor raised absolutely no flags in Sundar's foodie brain. Besides, he was also incredibly drawn by the mystique that surrounded the tapri.
Sundar wasn't what you would consider overweight by today's standards. Mind you though, he wasn't a particularly lean kid by any standards either. In fact, back in the 90s, kids with his kind of BMI were a rarity. Heads usually turned, not in a kindly way. Kids like Sundar were usually picked on and hazed by the skinner ones. They were often chosen, rather callously, by physical education instructors in schools as exhibits of abhorrent body types. Thankfully, Sundar was pretty comfortable in his, what many Indians called, "healthy" body. He loved food. Homemade meals, restaurant fare, or street-side pick me ups, it didn't matter. He just loved food. His parents took pride in that he wasn't a picky eater. He took pride in that he never disappointed his friends' mothers when they offered him food when he visited them.
Every afternoon on his way back home from school, Sundar would always stop pedaling his bike when he approached intersection, and take a moment check his pockets to see if he had two rupees. He never did. Obviously. He was 12. He didn't carry money that his parents didn't give him. And his parents didn't give him money he didn't need. Today was an exception though. He had five whole Rupees in his pocket today. With that kind of money he could eat two kachoris! He had it all planned. He would buy one kachori first. He would first make a hole in the top layer, then ask for chutney. He would then pour that chutney into the hole and then sink his top teeth into the deliciously crisp and flaky kachori. After the first kachori, he would then buy a second one. This one would be sans chutney and "for the road". What a plan! He put his right hand into his right pants pocket and jingled the five one-rupee coins. Feeling wealthy and twitching with nervous excitement, he walked right up to the counter and squeaked, "Kaka, ek kachori dya na…"
Sundar then peered into the tapri. Something felt off at once. Tapri wale Kaka looked less like a kachori vendor and more like an investment banker. He was dressed in a crisp white dress shirt, blue silk tie, expensive looking trousers with a rather fancy leather belt, and shiny black dress shoes. Faithful to the 90s Indian male business fashion, he wore gold rimmed glasses, his beard was clean shaven, and his mustache was carefully trimmed. Sundar rapidly started becoming skeptical about his grand plan. Unlike typical vendors, there wasn't a single kachori in display. In fact, barring the chalkboard easel that said "Kachori - Rs. 2.50/- only", there wasn't a single indication that the tapri was a kachori store. All it contained was a singular table with a glass top and nothing on it, and an expensive looking chair on which Tapri wale Kaka sat.
Tapri wale Kaka slowly rose from his seat, and smiled at Sundar, revealing his perfectly white and even set of teeth. In a baritone and a totally unexpected British accent, he asked:
"Would you fancy one or two kachoris, kind Sir?"
Hearing the word "kachori" in a British accent made Sundar instantly panic. Instinctively, he turned around and bolted. The five one-Rupee coins jingled uncontrollably in his pocket as he went hell for leather. He ran faster than his legs could carry. Not once did he turn around. He didn't care for the traffic. He charged through the intersection, causing all the Baja Chetaks, Hero Honda Splendors, autorickshaws, PMC buses, and Maruti 800s to honk simultaneously at him. Sundar didn't stop. He cursed his Atlas city bike for having a flat tire that day. Had he biked to school, his dad would have never given him the five Rupees, and he would never have succumbed to the lust for the kachori. Panting his way to the sidewalk, he decided to hold his Atlas city bike responsible for anything bad that might happen to him today. Just as he thought he had abated danger and had begun slowing down, he heard the British baritone again behind him:
"Care for this awfully delicious chutney on the side, sir? It's bloody exquisite, I must say…"
Panic returned like the devil. Without turning and looking, Sundar simply started running and cutting through the wind like a bat out of hell. He ran and ran until he felt the ground give way under him. Then he felt himself fall into a never ending abyss. He wanted to scream, but his lips wouldn't part. He felt gagged. He tried vocalizing with his mouth closed, but there was no sound. It was as if his vocal cords had ceased to exist. He began flailing his limbs helplessly. Defying all laws of physics, he felt being drawn into the earth faster than terminal velocity. For some reason, he could also hear a distant beeping that seemed to echo limitlessly in the bottomless pit.
The alarm clock jolted Prabhakar awake. He sat up sweating and panting. Wasting no time, Prabhakar threw back the covers and ran out through the front door of the apartment and down the stairs. There was his teenage son Sundar's Atlas city bike, safely chained to a side rail and both tires nicely inflated!
