IDHAR UDHAR KI BAAT 115- BADMASHI Brig PS Gothra (Retd)

“Aa ja… I’ll send you the sponsorship and an air ticket. We’ll roam around in Manhattan,”

said my father’s cousin on the phone. He is just an year older than me and was my classmate till Class 5.

The offer was tempting. But temptation has a memory.

The last time we landed in the same college, he stayed in the hostel while I rented a room outside. Three months later, he was thrown out of the hostel and landed in my room. We got along well, despite having ambitions that couldn’t have been more opposite.

I wanted to join the civil services. He wanted to own a horse—to smuggle opium and illicit liquor after college.

Simple dreams never excited him.

In 1983, we decided to watch highly subscribed movie 'Betaab'. Seeing the long queue, I said,

“Pinke, let’s go back.”

“Don’t be a coward,” he said calmly.

“I’ll arrange free tickets and snacks. You just stand near the ticket window and be ready to buy four tickets.”

Before I could ask how, I found myself standing near the ticket window.

Suddenly, I heard Pinka slapping people at the end of the queue, shouting,

“Line mein lago!”

As he came closer, he barked at me—as if I were a total stranger,

“Why are you standing near the window?”

“To buy tickets,” I said.

“Then stand in the queue,” he said, and physically pushed me into the first position.

No one objected. I bought four tickets.

We sold two at a premium and recovered money for snacks.

I had many such entertaining encounters with his badmashi.

But then came October 1984—the one that nearly ended badly.

One evening, while returning from Telloo da Dhaba, we saw local gundas thrashing a horse-cart owner. His cart had accidentally brushed against some cold drink crates kept outside a shop.

Pinka, bizarrely dressed in a blue blazer and a flimsy lungi, turned to me and asked,

“Tipu, maza lena hai? (want some fun?)”

“Yes,” I said—without understanding the plan.

“Then don’t be afraid,” he said, and without waiting, walked up to the gang leader, tapped his shoulder politely and said,

“Bhaji, tuhade naal ik gall karni hai.” (Brother, I want to talk to you.)

“What?” the man said arrogantly.

“You’re beating a poor fellow. He can’t retaliate. That’s unfair.

We are two healthy men standing here. Beat us. That will be a fair match.”

The leader looked Pinka up and down. His arrogance visibly drained. He signalled his boys to stop beating the cart owner and said politely,

“Bhaji, sadda tuhade naal koi punga nahin. (We have no issue with you.)"

But Pinka wasn’t done.

“Don’t worry,” he continued cheerfully.

“If you want to bring more men, we can fix a duel later.

If you want to bring _asla_ (weapons), I’ll enjoy that too.”

I could see the man turning pale.

Externally, I maintained a brave face. Internally—apni phati hui thi.

My main worry wasn’t injury.

It was my spectacles. If they broke, I’d have to ask my parents for money and explain why. So I quietly removed them and slipped them into my pocket.

Unfortunately, that was interpreted as readiness to fight.

The leader quickly grabbed my arm and said nervously,

“Bhaji, tussi jyada naraz ho gaye… chai peete hain.”

Ultimately, to buy peace, the gang gave us a tandoori chicken.

“And so,” Pinka continued on the phone, dragging me back to the present,

“when are you planning your trip?”

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I asked, “Are you still running that Indian restaurant in Manhattan?”

“No,” he said. “Sold it after my open-heart surgery.”

“What do you do now?”

“Badmashi.”

I went silent.

Some friendships are best enjoyed on the phone —

at a safe distance, in different continents.

Jai Hind