The GPS assured that we had arrived: in place of the curving, lengthening arrow mark, there was the sprogged onion. The famous toddy shop was supposed to be on our left side. Instead of – as I imagined it to be – lit up like Merryland, parking attendants struggling hard to find space for customers coming in and harder to aid those leaving, lungis flying high mast, politics discussed in bigsie voices and people gathering around in an impromptu belching contest, it was a desolate stretch swamped in pitch dark.
The buzz you feel about a place is a collective one – it comes from within the heads of those around. Including your own. The shop had buzz. Talking buzz, loitering buzz, peeing buzz, wide-eyed, quiet, staring buzz, snacking, sneaking, ogling buzz, people-watching, jiggery-pokery, horny buzz. Violent buzz. I loved the buzz, I was the buzz. It was a mom-and-pop shop but a sexy mom-and-pop: a couple in their early 40s, good-looking, garrulous, perfumed, twinkle in the eyes, with a hot daughter. The sari hung to the missus reluctantly but
