2 rupees ka chutney pav

I used to go to this middle school when I lived in Mumbai. The middle school barely had any campus, but the kids were sharp and disciplined. Most of them achieved career success. A good chunk of them became drug addicts. I was friends with most of the kids; they loved gorging themselves at the canteen. The canteen was most crowded during the lunch break. It was full of kids shouting and screaming for what they wanted. They jumped in the rush, asked for the food they wanted, and rushed the money in the canteen owner's face. He kept his composure while a million kids screamed at him and waited for their tokens. Once the tokens were in place, the kids would move to the less crowded food counter to get their orders.

There was only vegetarian food served. Samosas, samosa pavs, vada pavs, Manchurian rice, fried rice, schezwan rice, and much more. The kids loved it, and the demand was booming. I loved eating at the canteen. I loved all of it. The variety of rice preparations, vadapavs and samosapavs, all of it. My parents never gave me a paisa, though. When I could, I would steal money from my parents to eat what I wanted. I didn’t do it enough for my own taste, though. Because there would be multiple days when I would be hungry, sitting with my friends, drooling over their food and hoping they would give me some. After a while, my pride made me disgusted with myself for wanting that food and for drooling over it.

That’s when I picked up a trick from god knows who. I would just hop into the rush, scream for an order I had placed with imaginary money, and eat what I got from the coupon. I stole a low-stakes item. I stole a chutney pav worth two rupees. Which was just a bread filled with sweet-and-sour chutney and green chutney. It was a small bite of pride I had while seated at the table with the kids who had ordered 30 rupees worth of food. That was all my pride and shame could allow me to do.

Once deep into my scheme, while hooting and shouting among the kids, the canteen owner slapped me. This time, I had been particularly belligerent with my tantrum over my coupon. He hauled me out of the line, and then I realised that I was fooling no one. I was just being pitied by this middle-aged entrepreneur who saw this kid stealing scraps and let him in the overwhelm.

I always imagine him pitying me and rationalising the loss of the 200 paise. He probably rationalised it by recognising how unloved and uncared I was. He must not have known that’s true, and this is just me imagining what he might have imagined. Maybe he just never noticed till then, or maybe he was just an employee and didn’t care beyond a point. But he just felt disrespected that particular day. Regardless, that day was hell for me.

I avoided the canteen for a while.

But a rupee meant a lot to me. Enough to steal it. Enough to scam the public bus system. Enough to relish the one-rupee flavoured water popsicle and cherish the two-rupee milk popsicle.