First Dates

But Danesh and I found ways around it all. We wrote notes and passed them to each other while walking to class; we met after school or bunked classes; but our favourite thing was having plates of chaat at Boat Basin, opposite the school. Chaat was that in-between meal, not a starter or a main course, but that tease of your tastebuds, just enough to satisfy cravings of spice.

When you got to the strip of roadside restaurants and their outdoor stalls, the stench of the mangrove swamp, mingled with the aromas of barbecuing tikkas and sizzling beef burgers, would hit you hard in the face. We’d buy cold, piquant chaat from the makeshift rickety wooden carts laden with baskets and stainless-steel urns of ingredients. Not the most hygienic set-up, admittedly, but the chaat-wala, in his shabby shalwar kameez, would always assure us: ‘Don’t worry ma’am, I’ll make it fresh.’ He’d pile a plate with spicy chickpeas, boiled potatoes and garlic yoghurt – plus lots of tamarind chutney, at my request, and a final sprinkle of chaat masala and fresh coriander. Danesh preferred Karachi kebab rolls, greasy parathas filled with fiercely spiced strips of chicken or beef, coriander chutney, raita and raw red onions, tightly wrapped in greaseproof paper. He called chaat a ‘girly’ snack and always ordered a couple of kebab rolls for himself instead, laughing that his metabolism would melt away the calories.