Shilpa RaoA thundery, lightning struck, rainy evening. Water flowing from everywhere; the skies, water rankling the asbestos roofs of houses and pouring onto the streets, the gutters, the drains, the potholes on the roads …. And in that loud, furious melee, I spot a bhutta wala, with a humongous plastic sheet thrown carelessly over his shoulder, hiding under a dilapidated, broken remnants of a concrete ‘has been’ building, trying to protect his coal burner and the dying embers from dousing.
I am glad I spotted him. It was a tough day at work. I was so busy that lunch time came and went. And the office was at such a forsaken place, that I had no chance of a quick bite.
I make my way gingerly to him, wading through puddles. I identify the best-looking corn on the cob with some help from the dim light of his lantern. I hand it over to him with the money. The embers on his coal burner suddenly perk up into stronger and more visible red coals. I put my hands too, close to the burner as it was very cold and some warmth was welcoming.
It was seven or eight minutes of long, painfully excruciating wait, to bite into the juicy corn. I licked my lips and was almost salivating, thinking about my fist bite. After waiting an eternity, the baking was done. The bhutta wala expertly held it downwards, holding on to the short stalk, and slathered it with lime juice and masalas and handed it over to me. One bite into it was purely orgasmic. Thought I’d died and gone to heaven.
