Hullo, Patel Sa’ab?

"Hullo, Patel Sa'ab? Haan... nahi, daaru chahiye tha. Haan, nahi – maloom hai, thoda late hai... par please... Patel Sa'ab? Haanji... ek khamba Old Monk. Haan OK... nahi paanch minit mein aa jaayenge. Haan pakka. OK Patel Sa'ab. Thank you."

On the bike and off you go. Late at night, and no traffic on the road. Pune is cold by night, and Pune is empty by night. You speed along the roads, your own shadow flitting by in rapid succession under the light of the lamp posts. Slow down at a crossing, and speed up on the straights. Over the bumps, and avoid the potholes. On and on, rider hunched up in the contorted, concentrated stance that only a drunk rider can attain, and pillion gaily drunk, bring up the rear by yelling and singing.

Past the residential areas, past the college, and past the hostel. Opposite the school, the bike is parked. Two rather tipsy souls clamber off and make their way to the door. A couple of soft knocks, made louder when no response is to be had from within.

The night is silent, save for the occasional bike that whizzes past. The insects valiantly chirp away, and every now and then you can hear a dog bark in the distance. The stars twinkle away up above – it is a moonless night, and the sky is clear. All the houses are barred shut, and there is no light burning within. Pune sleeps, but the two souls are awake. And knocking.

An answering grunt, and an exchange of relieved glances without.

The door opens and a sleepy moustached man stumbles out with a bottle wrapped in paper. The money is handed over, no questions asked. Two rather tipsy souls get back onto the bike and head back past the hostel, the school and the residential areas. Onto the main road, and whizz past it all. A brief stop at the usual place, just off the main road and then a right, for the cold drinks. Some chips for company, and you're back in the game.

The party continues.

Nal Stop, Comesum, Pyaasa, Kubera, the bakery opposite Pune Station. Patel Sa'ab and the cold drinks. The cigarette tapri just off JM Road and the cigarette vendor beside the railway booking counter at Karve Road.

And in fond remembrance, the back door entry to Lucky – may it's soul rest in peace.

And if, my friend, you've been reading this with a wistful smile and a heavy heart – why then, hail fellow, well met. You too have prowled at night.

Cheers.