₹20 for a Vada Pav.

Goregaon East, midday, traffic light. A confluence of worlds held together by red; an unlikely equaliser of haves and have-nots, and haves who think themselves have-nots – if only for 90 seconds. A golden Maybach lounges across two car-lengths (and tax brackets) with impunity, shutting down crevices where scooters lurk. A havaldar with arms flailing, herding drivers who think themselves beyond instruction. In the cracks, a platoon of boys breaks into frantic salesmanship. They flog wares for lovers – flowers. Wares for losers  – tissues. 

The Maybach is spared a knock on its tinted windows. Those doors open 4-feet wide, too large a gap for the boys to cross. No chance of a sale here, and one must use his 90 seconds wisely. Diamond-cut wheels slice through such hackneyed ideas as love or loss. Here, tissues don’t wipe tears. Only the occasional spot of mud off the chrome-plated tailpipe. 

Rickshaws are easy pickings. I’m in one. Nowhere to hide the shame of an averted gaze, or a sheepish wave of the hand imploring the boys to go away. I haven’t the poise to feign grace under pressure, not with a 10-year-old child pushing a packet of tissues into my lap. I was his age once – still in a rickshaw. But I was going to school. I’ve grown now, but those boys look the same. I buy my conscience back with a ₹20 note tucked into his hand. “Keep it.” 

Now, you must understand that ₹20 is no chump change. Back in my day, we scraped together ₹12 in forgotten coins to buy a single vada pav behind Mumma’s back. She would’ve bought me two had I asked, but where’s the fun in that? I remind her of it often. She still nods in disapproval, allowing me the satisfaction of mischief. The value of chillar is not lost on me. Even now, when I can add a few zeros to the price of a vada pav and call it a rounding error. A fair price, then – for a vada pav, and my conscience. 

He holsters the tissues, but shoots me a puzzled look. A stand-off ensues. His eyes meet mine, trying desperately to pull away towards the signal countdown. He doesn’t know what to do any more than myself. Now what? 30 seconds to go. He hasn’t got that kind of time, there’s work to do. He scarpers, I tune out – saving face by burying it in a daydream.. I  do hope he treats himself to a vada pav, I’d like us to have that in common. 

10…9…8.

Engines grumble, feet shuffle across pedals, fumes send our boys back to the dugouts. Twenty rupees can carry a boy far, but I should’ve given more. The ₹500s in my pocket sting my leg, but maybe that’s a bit too much. Pray tell, how much is too much to give to a child – this child? I don’t know, but whatever I have may still be too little.

In these moments, the mind is not an ally. It wanders where it shouldn’t – bringing back no answers, only new questions. Why even ask? This theatre plays for 90 seconds, then it’s someone else’s problem. 

7…6…5.

A crack of laughter punctures my thoughts. 2 seconds to go. The boy sprints past, back under the flyover for a brief recess. That’s the last I’ll see of him, his pink vest moving further away. I lean outward for a glimpse when my arm pushes against something that wasn’t there before. It makes a crinkling sound. A plastic packet slipped stealthily into my seat, lying in wait. Realisation arrives slow but sharp. His laughter echoes. I know I’ve been had. 

₹20 for a packet of tissues. You can keep your conscience for free.