The Emirates flight from Dar es Salaam to Mumbai includes a six-hour overnight layover in Dubai, which is a royal pain because it messes with my sleep pattern. Adding to my woes, the Dubai-to-Mumbai leg is delayed by two hours after the cabin doors close. This has been a regular occurrence lately because of the ongoing restricted air corridor in the Gulf. By the time we land in Mumbai early in the morning, I am knackered and in a snit. The Mumbai immigration system seems to have a bug, as it takes about five minutes to process a passenger. There are about fifteen people ahead of me in the queue.

I have an early flight to New Delhi and a five-hour drive to Sirsi tomorrow, so I just need a cup of elaichi-free chai and a clean bed fasta-fasta. My hotel is very close to the airport in Mumbai, but I am made to wait because the room isn’t ready. The young, pudgy receptionist, heavily made up with fluttering false eyelashes, offers a wonderfully rehearsed meaningless apology.

After the cup of chai and some shut-eye, I’m hungry. The nearest halal restaurant is miles away, and even the closest option would require a potentially maddening rickshaw ride. Mumbai’s traffic remains horrendous, and navigating the city during the evening rush hour can give you instant ulcers. I decide to walk to a Subway restaurant that Google Maps says is about half a mile away. It is one place where I can get a halal chicken sandwich to sate me.

After maghribein, I put on my shorts and set out. Ten minutes later, I am hopelessly lost. Google Maps can be a royal pain, especially when road construction and new developments make its directions confusing. I eventually learn that the restaurant is inside the airport terminal! By then, I have wandered in the wrong direction and found myself in a sprawling, low-income settlement.

The area is dimly lit, with occasional street lamps competing with the glow spilling from small homes and makeshift stalls. Vendors sell everything imaginable, from bars of soap to dubious new mobile phones. People weave through the narrow lanes, and the jumble of lights and shadows gives the place an eerie feel. I decide to give up my search and head back to the hotel. Perhaps I will settle for an overpriced vegetarian meal at its restaurant.

Then I spot a man vending vada pavs near a run-down grocery shop. There is a queue for his vadas, always a good sign. He sits cross-legged on a raised platform in a tiny makeshift stall, presiding over a large cast-iron vat like a deity. A faded, greasy sign above his stall reads in Marathi and English:

Karim Bhai, The Vada Pav Kaka – food made with mineral water.

Pots and containers crowd the stall. Karim Bhai works at astonishing speed. He drops portions of vada mixture into the bubbling oil, flips a pav from a nearby tawa, slathers it with Amul butter, sandwiches a fresh, simmering vada inside, adds green chutney and two menacing green chilies, and hands the plate to the next customer. My stomach rumbles and my mouth waters.

I am tempted, but the thought of Delhi Belly on a busy travel day the following morning gives me pause. The vadas are freshly fried, the bread is toasted, and the sign assures me the chutney is made with mineral water. I decide the risk is worth it. I join the queue.

For reasons I cannot fathom, the people ahead of me make way, ushering me to the front. Is it my clothing? Is there something unusual about my appearance? I have no idea. I feel both embarrassed and surprised, but soon I am facing Karim Bhai. He gives me a gap-toothed grin, revealing several missing teeth.

Karim Bhai is a commanding presence, reigning over his tiny stall in a colorful, sweat-stained kurta-pajama. Sweat glistens on his face as he works furiously at the blazing stove. He says something in a language I don’t understand, so I shake my head and point to the vadas sizzling in the vat. He understands. Moments later, I have my two vada-pavs. I pay fifty rupees, roughly fifty US cents, and step aside to eat.

The evening is warm and humid, and the chutney-spiced, savory vada has me sweating almost immediately. There are no tables or chairs. Everyone eats standing up, and some customers balance their paper plates on their motorbike seats. Noticing my discomfort, a young man offers me a seat on his motorbike.

His name is Sachin, a software engineer who works nearby. He tells me he comes here at least once a week to eat.

The uncle’s vadas are the best in Mumbai, fresh, clean, and affordable.

He studies me with curiosity.

Which movies have you acted in? I haven’t seen you in any.

I stare at him, bewildered.

Movies? What movies?

The mystery is solved. Sachin explains that he overheard some girls whispering that I was a Bollywood actor, which explains the preferential treatment. Is it my shorts, perhaps the earring in my earlobe, or simply the way I look? I am not young enough to be cast as a hero, but I hope they don’t think I act like a Bollywood villain. I cannot wait to tell my daughter, Maaha Zainab, about this; she’ll have a blast.

I wash down the delicious, spicy vada with a cup of karak masala chai from a nearby hawker. The chai vendor runs a makeshift setup much like Karim Bhai’s. Sachin gabs about everything under the cloudless Mumbai sky; by the time we finish eating, I feel like I know half his life story. He then offers me a free ride back to my hotel, which isn’t far.

The Delhi Belly I feared never materializes. The chutney, however, exacts its revenge with spectacular heartburn at night.

But for fifty rupees and its superb taste, the vada was worth every bite.