Of golas, gaalis and crushes in gallis of Amritsar

Amritsar, mid-80s. Fog thick as rabri. I was riding my cycle from Green Avenue to St Francis School in Rani Ka Bagh, my best friend Happy yelling from behind, “Oye, slow down! You’ll run over a cat!”

“I already did,” I shouted, as we crossed Government College for Women.

School was basically a food court in disguise. Samosa, 25 paise. Put it between bread slices—boom—samosa sandwich, 30 paise.

One winter morning, we spotted Pinky, the girl who made my stomach feel like butter popcorn popping. She stood near Babaji’s legendary rehri right there in the school between the junior and the senior wings. Happy nudged me.

“Go show her you’re rich. Buy imli.”

I puffed my chest, fished out 5 paise, and approached Babaji. He squinted, beard trembling.

“Aeh dekh lo! Vadde gharan de Sardaran de bache, te panjh paise de rahe ne!”

Pinky giggled. I wished Babaji would combust. But he handed me the imli, still muttering.

We decided to avoid Babaji the next day. After school, Pinky passed us just before hopping on the rickshaw on way to her ancient house in the walled-city, licking a red gola. Happy elbowed me.

“Ask her out. Offer her some bheega kulcha.”

I did. Only the kulcha, soaking wet, leaked chhole down my shirt. Pinky screamed, and the arts teacher appeared from nowhere like a horror movie jump scare.

“Oye, lovers!” she snapped. “Clean this mess!”

Till evening, we were scrubbing the courtyard, reeking of onion and regret. Happy grinned, “Worth it?”

“Totally. Even Babaji’s gaalis can’t ruin true love.”

We didn’t have McDonald’s or KFC. We had bheega kulcha and baraf ka gola. Bun-tikki, our good old desi burger from the kiosk near Bijli Pehlwan Mandir, was for special occasions.  Paneer pakodas from the shop in narrow lane near Novelty Sweets was for evenings out with parents. If you had ₹5 as pocket money, it made you royalty. And Babaji’s mutterings were our background music.

And honestly, I’d trade a bucket of KFC for one of Babaji’s ‘gaalis’ even today.

Those were the best of days, the worst of days — but mostly the funniest of days.

I miss you, Amritsar — in the same breath as the ‘80s, when 5 paise could buy you imli and a lifetime of memories.

Saurabh Malik, Chandigarh