My kingdom for a vada pav

Do you know the kind of cold that hits your face when you step outdoors?
It is like a thousand pin pricks on your face. It is shockingly cold, and it awakens your soul. And in anticipation, there appears a smile on your face.
There is a moderately stiff breeze, and you can hear the rustle in the trees. It's just about going to be dusk, and you know the night is going to be cold. Even though you have a sweater on, you know it'll take a while for the warmth to accumulate. And the anticipation of the warmth suffices for the moment, while the cold makes itself felt.
Your shoes crunch gravel as you walk away from the building. There's not too many people left around, but you're all right with that. You walk under the streetlights; they're just about making their presence felt. It is a cold wintry evening, and life could not be better.
And you walk towards the tapri. There's a small crowd there already - residents from nearby apartments, collegians, people coming back from an evening walk, regular all sorts. They're all huddled together in a loosely knit group, adorned with sweaters, jackets, scarves and mufflers, making inconsequential conversation as they wait.
You join the group, nodding to acquaintances, smiling at the regulars. And you wait.
The first splatter of water hits the oil that has been heating up in a large black vessel, the sound immediately focusing interest on matters at hand. The kindly old man at the vessel smiles a little, indicating that business is now under way.
One by one, little patties of boiled, mashed potatoes, interspersed with finely chopped onion, green chillies and garlic are deftly coated with besan, and slipped into the hot, spluttering oil. Turning rapidly golden, the little patties puff up a little, immersed in their own little sea of foam in the oil. They're overturned once, before the entire batch is taken out of the oil, and onto an old newspaper.
Another man takes each one of these, and puts them in fresh pav, applying green chilly chutney and tamarind chutney on the one side, and a fiery red garlicky, dry chutney on the other.
These are then deposited, in rapid succession, either singly or in doubles, on small multi-colored plastic plates. For company, there is a lightly fried green chilly, coated with salt.
And then you take your garma-garam vada pav, with the chilly by the side, and you walk a little to the side. You hold it in your hand, and you take a little nibble. Extremely hot, you blow on the little morsel in your mouth. The vada in your had exudes steam, and your palate is a confluence of varied spices - the chilly and the tamarind and the potatoes; all commingling wonderfully. All set off by the soft chewy pav, and a better combination is not be had on Mother Earth.
And then you partake of hot chai in a chipped glass. At three bucks a glass, the chai is warm in the palm of your hands. You stand by the road, watching the world pass by over the rim of your glass. There's elaichi in there, and there's cardamom. Hot and strong, the tea has been bubbling over for ages before it has finally been wrung out into the copper kettle, and then into your glass.
 The spices have not yet left your tongue, and each sip of the strong milky tea scalds your taste-buds, still alight from their battles with the vada pav. You take a sip at a time, involuntary tears springing into your eyes, while a wonderful warmth settles in your tummy.
And finally, you sit on your bike, the evening's repast done, to head away from the tapri. Night has fallen while you were engaged otherwise, and it is colder still.
You, however, are impervious.
You've just had a Puneri vada pav and chai.