Rohit, the guy doling out gol gappas feverishly, is our age but looks significantly older. All that remains of his hair are thin wisps by his ears, fluttering in the breeze from the standing fans nearby. He’s squeezed into a tight Ed Hardy T-shirt that stretches taut over his belly, which is so perfectly spherical it seems you could calculate pi from its curvature. His broad smile reveals teeth stained from chewing paan.
We get in line and watch as others fail miserably.
It’s finally our time. Rohit sizes us up as we walk towards the stand. He looks at us with a big smile, and then hesitantly asks, ‘First time... or have you been here before?’
Saket shakes his head. ‘First time as a team.’
I look at Saket, who smiles back, ‘I came here to practise. Can’t lose, can we?’
Rohit laughs. ‘So trying to woo the girlfriend?’
Saket shakes his head. ‘It’s just a fling. We are just making out, having sex, that sort of thing. Nothing serious.’
I punch Saket in the arm.
Rohit laughs again, says, ‘Fine, fine. Are you ready?’
We both look at each other and then at him and nod. He starts whipping out plates of pani puri at an astonishing speed.
Saket and I start strong. The puris burst in my mouth, a flood of tangy, spicy and sweet flavours. It’s what I had been waiting for. I can feel the gol gappa-sized hole in my heart getting filled up with every plate I eat. When I look to my side, Saket’s having no trouble, he’s gobbling them down as if they are Cadbury Gems.
We’re in sync, reaching, popping and swallowing in a rhythm.
We are quickly on the late thirties when the crowd behind us notices that we are not to be trifled with. Very few complete the challenge, and it’s clear to them, as it is to us, that we are going to make it.
The crowd around us starts to cheer.
By the time the count reaches the mid-forties, there’s a rhythm to it—the crack of the puri as it’s punctured, the slosh of the teekha pani, the crunch inside our mouths. But then, out of the blue, my hand hesitates. A tiny shiver runs down my spine. The tang pricks at the back of my throat. I take a deep breath, willing my body to cooperate just a little longer. I throw a glance at Saket, who’s still going strong, his eyes cheering me on. It will be a shame if I give up.
As the next makes its way down my throat, my body’s rebelling. My eyes start to water, the crowds around blur into a sea of faces. The initial delight is gone. Fatigue’s setting in. With the twenty-fourth, each mouthful is a chore. All the nostalgia, flavour, it’s all gone. I can feel every eye on us, expectant, but my stomach is a tight, knotted fist. Sweat beads on my forehead. I blink slowly, my eyes catching Saket’s. He knows, even before the words form on my lips, that I’m bowing out. With a small shake of my head, I step back.
There’s a sigh from the crowd. I step aside.
‘I’m going on,’ says Saket, his mouth still full.
There’s another twenty-five to go. Without a second thought, he motions to Rohit to fill his plate. He doesn’t seem to slow down. With every gol gappa, the crowd comes alive. He’s at the home stretch.
Soon the crowd is counting down to 70. 65. 66. 67. 68. 69... 70! The crowd erupts! A sweating, triumphant Saket raises his hands in victory and staggers back, still trying to gulp the last of it. Rohit comes from behind the counter and asks us to pose. While I smile, Saket looks like he’s going to explode.
‘Chemist,’ he gasps, and we dart off, the victory short-lived.
I buy the antacids and a bottle of water while Saket leans against the wall, his face the colour of the teekha pani he had just had. The cheers are a distant memory as he bolts for an alley. Ifollow him and stand guard as the gol gappas come out way more quickly than they went in.
‘You okay?’ I ask when he’s done; the words unnecessary, but they’re all I have.
I pass him the bottle, and he rinses his mouth.
His eyes are bloodshot when he finally looks at me. ‘We won.’
I smile at him. ‘We did. Thanks to your preparation.’
We sit on a nearby pavement. He drinks more water and we both take an antacid. We wait till both our stomachs settle. Regret and cramps come to us in waves.
‘So,’ Saket says after a moment, ‘are we really doing this? Deleting our matrimony profiles?’
I take a deep breath, the weight of the decision settling on my shoulders. The correct question is, if not now, then when? This is what I wanted, right?
Saket and I found each other six months ago on the Bharat Matrimony site right when we both were about to give up. We bonded immediately over an endless stream of complaints about dating apps (too frivolous, too much choice, too manylies, too much talk of sex) and matrimony apps (too serious, no choice, too many lies, no talk of sex). He was so clear about what he wanted: I want to date someone with the intention of marrying her. I often tell him that it’s this sentence that made me share my number with him. Also, his pictures. I’m not a monk.
