With a Little Help from my Friends

From Eros Cinema, the first building on Mumbai’s Back Bay Reclamation, a black market ticket seller and a vada-pao vendor hatch a plot to help their childhood friend, a dabba wala, woo the girl of his dreams, a water seller at Andheri station platform.

Sunil Kamble tugged the rope to make sure the warm dabbas on his cart were tied tight and did not move, “next stop, Sameer Kunj building,” he muttered to himself, “twelve dabbas, then Andheri West platform 7 for the 10:15 fast to Churchgate.”

It was a long route—Nav Neelima apartments to Sameer Kunj building—with a lot of dabbas for pickup, but he would have enough time to stop and drink water at Andheri station near her cold drinks stall. The golden brown flecks in her eyes sparkled when she smiled. His heart beat faster when she laughed with her hand in front of her mouth. One day he would talk to her, one day he would walk by her side to her house near Mahakali caves. It was on his route.

“Hey! Can’t you see where you are going!” yelled a rickshaw driver.

A startled Sunil gripped the handles of his cart tighter and dragged his mind back to the task of weaving his way through the crowds swirling all around him.

She was there, looking radiant in her blue sari, smiling as she handed a customer a bottle of Bisleri. Sunil did not even pretend to drink water. He just stood mesmerized.

Blood rushed to his face when she turned to see him staring at her. He started fumbling with his dabbas, nearly dropping one on the floor. Her hand touched her lips as she covered her mouth. Her soft laughter swirled around his ears all the way to Churchgate.

“Hello! Romantic hero!” Sunil heard Salim’s voice call out to him from Nandu’s vada pao stand on the footpath across Eros cinema.

“Black marketing and food poisoning again?” Sunil shot back as he approached his neighborhood friends.

“Black marketing!” exclaimed an aggrieved Salim, “I am doing public service, helping public see the kung fu moves of San Te in Shaolin. Last week I was showing them the fight scene in Coolie where Amitabh Bachchan got hurt. Next week I will help them see the original Don in Godfather. I already got twenty upper stall tickets for first day, first show.”

“She will be yours in two seconds,” Nandu said confidently, “if you give that water fairy, your jalpari, one taste of my vada pao.”

“How can I give her a taste,” sighed Sunil, “I don’t even know her name.”

“That is why you have friends like us, my friend,” said Salim, “her name is Sushila Barve. Here, give back all this; her bag is torn,” he continued, holding up a neatly tied up checked handkerchief bundle.

“Where did you get this,” Sunil asked suspiciously, “did you snatch her bag?”

“Snatch her bag!” Salim protested, “I am an artist, dost. People don’t even feel it when I take their bag. But I did this for you to find out her name. Look! I got you this brand new, genuine Gucci bag from Dharawi. You can give it to her also. Women like pink bags.”

“There,” said Nandu, making place for the pink bag on the cart by tucking two dabbas and the checked handkerchief bundle into it, “now you can carry it back, no problem.”

“Don’t be shy,” Salim advised, “and don’t get scared. Remember what Gabbar said in Sholay, ‘Jo dar gaya samjho mar gaya’.”

“We only want to hear you say, ‘mere paas Sushila hai’, just like Shashi Kapoor in Deewaar,” Nandu added.

“He said ‘mere paas ma hai’,” Sunil retorted.

“Change the dialogue!” Salim exclaimed, “you saw how they changed to kung fu fighting in Deewaar? It became a super hit, yaar!”

“How can I give her a brand new Gucci bag,” Sunil protested, “and what do I tell her about her about all this?”

“Arey hero! Tell her you found it lying on the platform,” Nandu explained patiently, “then give her a new bag. Simple.”

“Now go!” Salim said biting into his vada pao, “I have to do public service with my lower stall tickets before show starts.”

“Remember, Rajesh Khanna time is gone. Now is Amitabh Bachchan time. Don’t only look from far; you have to become action hero to get the girl.” Nandu called after him as Sunil walked away to start his deliveries, looking askance at his two friends.

After he had delivered and picked up all the dabbas, Sunil caught the 3:15 fast to Andheri. She was not at her stall. At 5:30, Sunil completed his dabba return, parked his cart at the stand, and fought his way back to Andheri station through the rush hour crowd, clutching the brand new pink Gucci bag with the checked handkerchief bundle inside.

She was sitting on the ground near the stall, her back to a wall, head down on her knees. From the heaving of her shoulders, Sunil could make out she was sobbing.

He sat down next to her.

“This is yours,” he said, holding out the checked handkerchief bundle. “I found it on the platform.”

She went still.

“Your bag was torn” he went on, “I got this for you.”

She looked at him holding a checked handkerchief bundle in one hand and a pink Gucci bag in the other. Her eyes were red from all the crying.

She got up, poured the contents of the bundle into the bag, tucked it under her arm, and stood there with her eyes looking down at the ground.

“Come,” he said in his softest, gentlest voice as he stood up, “I will walk with you to your house.”

Salim and Nandu were in fine form at the carrom table that Saturday night.

“Al Pacino in Scarface is genius,” Salim said with awe, “‘Say hello to my little friend’, I would also pay double for the ticket.”

Sunil placed the striker on the board and pocketed the queen. Then, as he took aim to take the cover, he looked up and, to the delight of his two friends, announced in his best Shashi Kapoor acting voice, “mere paas Sushila hai.”