A relative I can’t remember meeting before, asks us out to dinner.
He’s suave, confident and slightly brash.
And very obviously from New York.

The guy has done it all. Made a big business out of nothing, married a princess, traveled the world, met heads of state, and made heaps of money. And therefore, with good reason, he believes he can do anything! And tonight he’s in Bombay. How hard can that be...

The guy is dying to eat good Indian seafood and after much debate, we decide on Trishna. This awesome no-frills-attached seafood joint is hidden in the filthiest by lanes of Bombay, near the only synagogue I’ve ever been to.

We squeeze our way through narrow gallis and past the remains of the day. Tired people, dogs, heroin addicts and rubbish fight for space with my battered little Santro. Most shops have their shutters down, yet the place is buzzing with life.
The corner paan shop is full of people. Picking up cigarettes, kalkkatta saada kimam and the latest gossip. Old dusty chandeliers throw their dim light on men downing hot mutton biryani in a faded green Irani restaurant we pass.

After a couple of wrong turns, and up the wrong way of a one-way street, there it is. In all its shady glory. If I didn’t know the place well, I’d think it was one of Bombay’s seedy dance bars. With no windows and gaudy neon signs seductively blinking – bar & restaurant, bar & restaurant.

We park, dodge a dead rat, and hurriedly enter the place. Instantly, the delicious smell of spices, garlic and crab hit us. Visions of prawn koliwada, butter pepper crab and hyderabadi fish tikka’s swim before my greedy eyes. Our mouths are watering. As are the mouths of 23 other people waiting ahead of us. If you listen hard enough, you can hear the water gushing, flooding up inside and being swallowed noisily.
Ooh I can’t wait to eat.

You’ll have to wait saar, just 30 minutes, informs the ‘man with the list’.
To call him maitre de would be too up-market for this place.

Don’t worry - says the confident relative - I’ll take care of this. There’s one trick that works around the world.

From the back of the crowd, he makes eye contact. In his hand, there is already a crisp hundred-rupee note folded and waiting. He gestures to the guy, I’ll take care of you my friend he says with his eyes, in his smooth New Yorker way.

The man frowns slightly and looks away. Our friend makes his way to the front. He glides through the people and sidles up to him. He mutters in his ear, and shakes his hand.

By now I’m pink and hot with embarrassment. It can’t be. I live here. I eat here often. These guys know me. He can’t bribe them. What’ll they think of me? It feels very dirty.

Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it. Please don’t take it.

Our host turns to us with a smile on his face. Oh God no. Is nothing clean anymore? I’ve lost my appetite. I want to stand far away from this guy. I don’t want to eat with him. He can’t be related to us. We don’t do this kind of thing. And then I hear him say - I can’t believe it. It’s the first place it hasn’t worked. Now I’m really embarrassed I tried to bribe him!

I try to keep a straight face, try to stop the smirk. Inside I’m soaring. I want to hug the ‘man with the list’. I want to hug our host too. There’s hope. There are people who can’t be bought. This country may be poor and corrupt but as long as there are exceptions, there is HOPE.

Suddenly I’m ravenous again.