Gokul Highway Dhaba was nowhere near a highway. But then it was much more than a dhaba too. It was first and foremost a landmark (Take the third lane from Gokul’s, my house is the fourth one with a ‘Beware of dog’ sign…don’t worry there’s no dog). It was also a meeting point to discuss matters of national importance (Let’s discuss the team composition at Gokul’s – but I am definitely going to open
the batting). And lastly a rickety bamboo shack where the staple fare of piping hot rotis and plates of tadka dal served with chopped green chillies and peeled onions helped satiate hunger pangs. Only on Sundays, and only during lunch, a thick curry of soya bean nuggets with potatoes would be prepared. Gokul Dhaba had a strict vegetarian food policy and a limited menu thanks to the limitations of the cook. Steaming cups of kadak chai kept tendrils of sleep from snaking over bleary red eyes of the students from the nearby Ajanta Boys Hostel as they got ready for yet another all-nighter before the exams.
Hanging out at Gokul Dhaba was a sort of dream for a group of us. Pranab and I were almost 12 and took most of the decisions for the group. Rintu and Naren were almost six months younger than us. Their opinions didn’t count much due to the age difference. It was sort of an unwritten rule that only boys above 16 were welcome at the dhaba. A rule enforced by the proprietor, Gokulda. ‘The language used here is not always right’ was the reason given. A college drop out, Gokulda never failed to ask us about our grades, as we slowly walked past his dhaba. ‘If you don’t study and you’ll end up like me.’ We nodded our heads. Though we felt his life was more than a bit complete. His cook Rahman, and his assistant, Prahlad, would shop in the morning for the essentials and prepare food for the day, except for the rotis. They were always freshly made. Gokulda would make an appearance around 11 and then sit behind a counter all day long exchanging jokes with customers; watch cricket matches and movies on a battered TV set and sleep whenever he wanted to – his portly frame balancing precariously on a narrow bench – something straight out of Ripley’s Believe it or not. A good life? No, it was a fantastic life.
Three years before I turned 16, I found myself being uprooted to another city. And by the time I was 16, I was in a different universe altogether. Like most memories of childhood, Gokul Dhaba became a pleasant but distant memory. But even today whenever I am home, I often find myself heading to a roadside dhaba for a quick roti-tadka dal meal. With each bite, I find myself becoming a 12-year-old again. Which is not necessarily a bad thing