“There’s no need to rush with the kheema-pav, beta, but eat the caramel custard quickly; or this Bombay heat will melt it in minutes,” advised the affable, silver-haired waiter, attending to my table. I had just wrapped up a story in the neighbourhood on a balmy Saturday, and was re-looking at my notes.

The Irani cafe around the corner seemed like the best bet for a quick working lunch and respite from the rising mercury levels. Around me, I spotted checkered tablecloths atop wooden tables, framed remnants of treasured vintage, decadent walls, varying decibel levels of chatter, including orders routed into the kitchen, honking of cars in the distance, and a general sense of non-stop activity.