Before the Byline and Dubai and the world
Before I became a journalist at 21 and joining The Free Press Journal in 1979 I dreamt of becoming a chef. The hospitality industry had my heart. I loved food. Still do.Back then, in the very-little-or-no-money days (Wilson College in the morning, Zenith Tin Works for the 8-hour shift beginning 3pm) joy came wrapped in newspaper or served on grimy plates and pieces of old mewspaper; kheema-pav at Dadar Lucky's just across from our building. Wadapav near Kirti College, Crisp dosas at Visava, and burji-pav outside Dadar railway station: greasy, spicy and perfect. Food was both nourishment and occasion. You didn’t need an event; eating was the event.Dadar in those years was a living, breathing, hungry part of Bombay. People rushed to trains with a wadapav in hand, argued cricket over chai at tapris and built lives out of chawls and borrowed dreams. I was one of them. A young man with a tall frame, gangly limbs, and a stomach that seemed to growl on cue.Then came a little twist of fate. Toni Singh, my friend from the iconic Pritam Restaurant, had some labour issues and asked if I could help out for a few weeks. (How I got to know Toni is an interesting story for a later date! I did. Bunked college for 2 weeks, requested 15 day leave from Zenith Just like that, my eating was upgraded. Extra money entered the equation. So did chicken tikkas, butter chicken, mutton seekh kebabs and kulchas served hot after closing time. Every night before I would leave for home past midnight, Toni’s father, Kuldeep Singh kohli would hand me a neatly packed generous takeaway with a nod: “Give this to Aunty.” Kohli by the way, had just produced Pati Patni Aur Woh. I had no clue what a small legend he already was. He treated everyone with the same mix of discipline and warmth that makes good restaurateur. In the kitchen, I was in awe. I watched the Maharaj prepare masalas with reverence, cure meats like a craftsman, and rule that kitchen like a general. I learned the rhythm of a good kitchen: when to stir, when to wait, when to flame. There was no shouting. Only the low hum of focus, the sizzle of pans, and the occasional bark of urgency when an order had lingered too long.I wore a suit and bow tie, took orders from regulars who knew what they wanted, and admired the Bihari barman in crisp white shirt and a tie mix cocktails like a magician with a shaker. There was pride in every movement. There was theatre in every plate. And there was learning in every corner.I learnt how not to get irritable when customers took a long time to decide their order. How to anticipate what a table might want before they said it. How to respect every role from dishwasher to doorman. That restaurant floor taught me more about human behaviour, egos, and service than any management textbook ever could.
Yet like all good meals, that chapter too came to a close.Peter Rodrigues, my Hamzoo Terrace neighbour stepped in. He saw something in me, a spark, perhaps. A question always ready. He introduced me to S.K. Sham, the legendary sports editor of The Free Press Journal.That meeting changed everything.I swapped the KOT (Kitchen Order Ticket) book and clatter of dishes for the clatter of typewriters. The sizzle of the tandoor for the sizzle of a deadline. My fingers, once stained with food, now smelled of newsprint and carbon paper.And yet, that early brush with hospitality never left me. I still notice how a waiter places a napkin. I still respect a clean, hot plate arriving on time. I still feel at home in a kitchen with Alka, the executive chef!Sometimes I wonder: what if I had stayed? Would I have become a chef? Opened a small joint of my own? Written recipes instead of news reports? But then I remember: journalism, too, is hospitality. We serve stories. We plate up facts with flavour. We time our deliveries, garnish our headlines, and feed our readers.The hunger is the same. Only the ingredients changed.Epilogue: Of Tables, Typewriters, and Two Lives Intertwined.Years later, when I met Alka in the small bustling newsroom of Mid-Day, I often told her about those Pritam days. She would laugh at the idea of me in a bow tie, taking orders. But she understood. Alka loved food too especially when I cooked.Over time, it became our love language. A good plate of kheema-khubóos on a lazy Dubai afternoon. A shared dosa and Butter chicken after a late Channel 33 movie. Our life was built around moments like these. Delicious, fleeting and unforgettable. When we moved forward into a life of equal parts chaos and charm those early lessons from the kitchen held us steady. Service. Timing. Empathy. Anticipation and a respect for the daily effort it takes to create something meaningful.Now, in quieter times, when I make her tea or she smiles at a familiar aroma from the kitchen, I know that every step from Lucky's Kheema to Pritam's Rogan Josh to Free Press deadlines—led me here. To her. And to this enduring, flavourful, extraordinary journey we built together.
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