“My buttons are not pushed like that.”
His mouth split into a grin.
“Dinner with Maya will happen, but what about a snack?”
Ritu hated that he was close to that button. That is why she rallied harder — “Where?”
“Not far from here.”
“How far?”
“Walking distance.”
“Our clothes?”
“Not exactly feasible but they will let us in.”
“How?”
“My face.”
“So obnoxious,” she muttered under her breath, following him. He continued to walk backwards, his balance perfect. Ritu observed it medically, and was happy to pronounce that he was already in far better shape than she had found him in.
————————————————————
The place that would allow them inside, dressed like they were, turned out to be a sandwich stall, and the man who saw Nilay Patel’s face and allowed them entry on his thin, broken wooden counter, was the sandwich seller. Raju Sandwichwala.
“You cannot eat this!” Ritu whispered to him.
“Why? Salad is healthy, bread is… almost healthy.”
“But butter is not. And this chutney is floating in salt and oil.”
His face fell.
“Dost, roz wala?[3]” The sandwich seller asked. He looked big and scary, with an ear pierced, dark skin stubbled on his muscled face. But his eyes looked bored and harmless.
“You eat this every day?” Ritu turned to Nilay.
“Not since… the last month.”
She sighed.
“Ok, I won’t have it. But you absolutely must. His sandwich is the real deal. The original Bombay Sandwich. Dost, ek veg sandwich.”
Ritu held back her smile at that switch from polished English to pedestrian Mumbaiya Hindi. The man dove into making the sandwich.
“Butter nahi, Bhaiya[4],” she directed him, arresting his hand that had already scooped up a mountain of butter on his knife.
“Pakka?[5]” He asked, eyeing the knife in his hand.
“Pakka. Aur, chutney ekdum kam. Ek hi side pe.[6]”
He glanced at Nilay like she was crazy, but continued making it.
“Aur kam[7],” Ritu peeped into his stall just as he lathered a generous amount of green chutney on one slice.
“Ab laga diya, Madam.[8]”
