It's a family frolic kind of place. Open air, chairs and tables. They haven't been replaced in years. The lighting is that Phillips tube: dim. The locale is a watering hole for the retired and all things decadent.

 

In walks Mac. He walks upto the table and sits down. Rests his frame into the plastic chair. Shrek like head indeed, I mutter to myself. He rests his hand on the table, the kada on his hand clashing with the ancient formica. "Are you relaxing?" he asks, massaging his kada. "No, I'm Milkha Singh" I reply, muttering under my breath. "You remembered the joke!" he says.

 

Of course I did. I remember the shenanigans of the sardar clan, the butt of all jokes. I remember when a bad joke can be a good one, and some bad jokes can be really bad. I've had a bad day leading upto this point.

 

I say, "a man watching television, dreams that he's falling asleep. Later, he wakes up…only doesn't remember the dream." Shrek is bewildered.

 

He rolls up his sleeve and gives me a joke about the rakhelis and biwis of another man's world. It's time to order a drink.

 

This isn't the place for a bourbon. It's as far as you can get from any Irish watering hole. This is the land of DSP and RC, the kings of Bandra. Quite hopeful though, yet knowingly, I order an RC. Shrek orders one too.

 

By this time walks in Khojack. Khojack sits down, resting his lean, mean dancing machine into the plastic chair. He orders the DSP.

 

Drinks arrive. Ice, water, soda and whisky. And that staple Indian cigarette is lit. Classic Mild. Hale fellows well met. All is well.

 

As the smoke wafts in front of my face, I look at Mac. By God, he does look like Shrek! Bald pate, the eyes and the V-frame.

 

You see, Bandra is the queen of the suburbs, a place where the decrepit, the rich and famous, the catholics, the hindus and the muslims, intermingle. Bandra "Gym" is the kind of place where they drown their retirements.

 

I've had a bad day and can't put up with much more. So I guzzle the first one and order a second RC. I take off my sun shades and wake up to reality. I can't help but notice that this place stinks. Phenyl and katka, swept over days and years have left a border on the tiling. The fans are old, reminiscent of the Voltas days. I can't help but think of the Voltas days all evening. And the caked dust on the blades. And that arcane music played at all Bandra events….somehow, I doubt this is the queen of the suburbs. But never mind. Where else can you get a drink for 50 cents? This place makes Olive seem like The Plaza Hotel.

 

As the pungent whisky gleans my throat, I think of the next best thing. Kababs. But they're so salty and caked that I can't help but feel that Kareems must be heaven. Not to miss the toothpick put there by Famous caterers, reminding me once again of the Voltas days.

 

There I go again. God, how I hated the Voltas days! Voltas and everything it stood for. Airconditioners, fans, fridges and bad electronics. Everytime I think of those electronic days of egotistical managers and HLL like oddball FMCG companies selling anything under the sun, my skin crawls. I've had a bad day you see. And I have this bad memory. A memory of the Indian days gone by. When everything needed a signature. God, how I hated those signatures! Those signatures sucked this country dry. Made it stagnate. Created the abyss of katkas and formica and bad service.

 

"What are so preoccupied with?" says Mac. "Don't think too much in life, he says" with the assurance that it's worked for him. What can I say. I am a thinker. All my life I've been thinking. It's what I do and what I'm paid to do. If I don't think I starve. My mind and wallet will dry up. But then, again, I think of those Voltas days. Oh, those Voltas days. I could hit someone.

 

"Zindagi mein zyada sochne ka nahi!" he retorts once more. That does it. I could be like the tourists of 1992, banging my water bottles at the customs people and slamming everything down in disgust. Why can't this country progress beyond ablutions and small egos puffed up by the system. My rage is surging. I feel like slamming my glass into the nearest retiree, holding him by the collar and yelling, "It's your fault Goddammit!" But I don't. I remain calm, take the toothpick out of a kati roll slice, swallow it whole along with my pride, brace the salt, praise the IT companies in my mind, sip the RC…and smile.