It's pouring all round me as I sit by the window in Cafe Mondegar, watching Bombay whiz past me. I should be thinking about life, the universe and everything. But the facts are: I know the answer is 42; and having just ordered a pitcher of draught beer I am busy drinking to my health. Let me explain.Cafe Mondegar - considered a blot on the landscape by those who have not read Tom Sharpe - is to Bombay what Kingfisher is to Vijay Mallya. One without the other is like a fish out of water. ``Mondies'', as the initiated call it, is the centre for coaching classes that prepare you to play ball in a game called `Surviving The City'. For the locals, Mondies is just another hangout place, but for us, aliens - outsiders with our noses pressed against that window of lights called Bombay - it is the place that one goes for a crash course on how to cross Regal Circle during rush hour traffic.And it all begins inside Mondies, on straight-backed Irani chairs. You are surrounded by Mario Miranda-type cartoons ofbuxom women and smiling men raising their curly-haired arms in the traditional greeting of `Cheers!' In case you missed the point, there are signs that say: ``Beer is Best.'' East or West, you agree. So do the people around you and conversation starts to flow across tables - lesson one has begun: In Bombay, always talk to strangers because hiding under one is a drinking buddy for life. As the evening progresses, the colours of Mondies start to change. The city's nightlife is beginning to unfurl. A steady pilgrimage of people starts to pour in. Activity gets frenzied and Dr Alban's `It's My Life' starts to compete with the din of bottles being opened. People are singing along with the slightly off-key speakers attached to the slick new CD jukebox. And they are complaining that the microphone smells like a beer - what do you expect, they are using the beer bottles as mikes! Incidentally, let me share one of Mondies' best-known secrets: The juke box might be an updated model of the older,record-playing one but the flashing lights still spell trouble. It will swallow your five-rupee coin but even two hours later you will not hear your song.But after a while, nothing else matters. Two Dickie birds standing opposite a glass filled with red liquid - nectar, ambrosia or just the water from the nearby Arabian Sea - have caught your eye. They sway back and forth, in a steady rhythm, toward the glass. Suddenly, one bird lurches, dips its beak into the glass, stays there for a split second, and reels back. That's it. Now you know. The answer is clear.Unfortunately, by the next day you are not so sure. ``The early bird gets the worm.'' But you are vegetarian, so that cannot be right. ``A sip in time, saves nine.'' The word is ``stitch''. And then it strikes you that the answer is: It's time to go back! But you don't need to be in Colaba to learn the city. Bombay has a curious phenomenon, called the Beer Bar or Permit Room dotting its length and breadth. Drinkers' lore goes a bit like this:Permit Rooms were places only Permit Holders could haunt for a pint. Issued by the Government of Maharashtra - I think the department still exists - they were your passport to Bacchus. While I haven't seen one in years, my first Permit card went a bit like this: Name of drinker/Sharabi ka naam. Name of drinker's father/Sharabi ke baap ka naam. And the last line said: I hereby declare that I need alcohol for the maintenance of my health. And, listening to the good doctor's advice I find myself back in Cafe Mondegar, saying: ``Ek dawai ka bottle.'' And the waiter understands. It could only happen in Bombay.Nonita Kalra is Features Editor with The Indian Express
