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Having no money to eat was a daily phenomenon for us. There was a time when I was with Ghannu in Vanrai and even he was in the same boat. He could not even get groceries on credit from the local grocer because his bills there were already overdue and he had no way to pay him. We put our minds together to devise a meal. A boy called Rakesh had recently come from NSD to Mumbai. New arrivals always had a bit of money. We called him Rakesh Kaala—the surname bestowed lovingly by his friends as an ode to his skin colour. Ghannu called him to congratulate him on his arrival and asked him that since he was now in Mumbai, should he come and meet him? And Nawaz Bhai was with him as well, so should both of us come? Our phone call was made strategically at lunchtime. ‘Come, come, please come. I will make you a wonderful dal you’ll never forget. And steaming hot rotis,’ he said. ‘No! No! Don’t go into so much trouble. We were simply calling to congratulate you,’ said Ghannu. ‘No! No! You must come. My dal is out of this world,’ he insisted to our concealed delight. And so we went to his house.
As we chatted, he put the lentils in the pressure cooker and all of us went to the living area to continue our conversation. Fifteen fretful minutes of hunger passed. ‘Bhai Rakesh, your dal is cooking and yet there is no sound of a whistle from your cooker. What’s wrong?’ I asked him. ‘Arrey, Nawaz Bhai, I am cooking, right? You don’t need to worry at all. You please relax. Sit here comfortably. And tell me, what all are you up to? We have so much to catch up on. Your picture is coming, right?’ he said and we got talking about Sarfarosh.
Half an hour passed, without the whisper of a whistle. Again, I asked him. Again, he replied, ‘Arrey, Nawaz Bhai, I am cooking, right? You relax. Trust me.’ I was dying of impatience but, of course, my impatience could not risk exposure. ‘Should I help?’ I volunteered. ‘Please let me.’ He got up, ‘Arrey, Nawaz Bhai. No! No! No way! You sit, please.”
An entire hour crawled by, the only sounds were those of our voices. Again, I asked him. Again, he said, ‘No! No! You are my guest. Sit!’
Some minutes later, I could take this polite torture no more and furiously stormed into the kitchen to investigate. And guess what I found? The gas stove had not been turned on in the first place! No wonder there were no whistles. It was like a story from a Chacha Chaudhary comic, only our brains did not work as fast as his.
‘Kameena (Rascal)! For one entire hour you made us sit and wait!’ we wailed.
Finally we cooked together, then ate as much as we could—who knew when the next meal would be? But, for now, we felt like kings, and then surrendering to food coma, we took a peaceful siesta. When we woke up, Rakesh Kala said that he had gotten a particular address and a phone number and he had to go there. ‘Ghannu, Nawaz Bhai, please, both of you also come.’
So the next morning at around eleven, we went with Rakesh Kala to look for this address in Yari Road, near the Mandir Masjid area. We spent all morning hunting. Morning turned to evening but we could not find the place. Only after snatching the paper from Rakesh Kala did we realize why. It turned out that he was looking for Bihari Road, not Yari Road! So he was looking for an address that did not exist. I whacked him under the ear. ‘Saale, Bihari Road will be in Bihar or in Maharashtra! Use your bloody common sense!’ After an entire day of futility, we returned to our respective homes.
Religious differences did not matter to us. Near Shirdi, which is famed for its temple of Sai Baba, is the Shani Shingnapur Mandir. Once, a whole bunch of us—Rajpal Yadav, Sanjay Sonu, Vijay Raaz, Ghannu and myself—went up there together to pray for luck. Whoever entered the temple must wear new clothes, bathe as per Hindu rituals, and then wear the attire they give you at the temple. All of us did this with full faith; it did not matter what conservative religious upbringing we had.
Religion never divided us. Our debates were more creative in nature. Ghannu’s little room was a hub for these hot discussions. People would burst in at odd hours to find the place already teeming with mates engaged in passionate debates. ‘What do you know about acting?’ That was often the spark to start it all. Fights would happen. Phone calls would be made. That day, when all these artistes were swimming in mutton, one friend, Joshi, called a friend, Yogesh, to discuss this subject. But partially due to the heat of the moment and partially due to the fact that he was tipsy, he dialled Yashpal, another friend who lived in Delhi. He abused him for almost an hour before finally allowing Yashpal to speak and enlighten him that he was Yashpal and not Yogesh. And every fight would wrap up with concerns about food and what we should cook.
Once, Hemant Mishra and another member of our tribe called Jarnel had a massive quarrel. Jarnel had cooked some mutton. He then asked another friend to go to Hemant’s house to deliver it. He rang the doorbell. Hemant opened the door. ‘Jarnel has sent this mutton for you,’ said the friend. Hemant slapped him so hard that the bowl of mutton fell to the floor. ‘Beta, I did not slap you. I slapped Jarnel. Go and tell him that,’ he said and slammed the door. The poor boy, beaten up for no reason, began to cry badly.
Another time, I followed a girl,
