Four anna adventure

There was a time in our young lives when the humble 25 paise coin was king. Elders called it 'char anna'. For us kids, the miracle coin did wonders. It got us a 'big' paper kite or a top with a 'latti' at shops in the market. Or a bicycle on hire for two hours at two annas an hour. Two days of tuck, the delectable jaggery-coconut-peanut treat, in the school canteen was just a 'chawanni' away.
When broke, we'd earn it the hard way. Doing chores. Clearing the garden for neighbours or singing carols. We'd form a group and descend upon the cottages of unsuspecting gentle old Anglo-Indian couples. There we'd stand by the gate and belt out, 'Come all ye faithful' and such that we were taught in school. If lucky, a lady would emerge from the house and say, "Isn't this rather early for Christmas, dear? Why, it's just November!"
And then seeing through our game, she'd smile, and press 25 paise coins into our little hands. Happy as Larry, we'd put out a hearty, "We wish you a Merry Xmas," and scoot to the nearest ice-cream parlour!
There were other things we discovered that the money could buy. Adventure. For that we pre-teenagers forayed into "strictly forbidden" territory. The legendary New Taj Hotel in the market area. Visiting service-providers such as the carpenter or plumber to our household would rave about it in their chats with the driver and cook. Overhearing the talk, and fascinated by the food and place, we'd be dying to go there - of course, without the knowledge of family elders.
Our chance came one afternoon after school. We made our way through the crowded market area and were dumbstruck by what we found. The small Taj had a crush of people, inside and outside, waiting to get in. An old radio over the cashier's head at the entrance blared old Hindustani film songs. Old wall-fans whirred noisily. The sounds of clattering plates and crockery and a sizzling kitchen could be heard at the entrance. As we found our way in, Shamshad Begum was going great guns on the radio. People laughed or conversed at high decibel. The honking and rush of traffic outside apparently required pumping up the volume.
Topping the cacophony were the shouts of the waiters. There was repeated yelling when placing orders to the kitchen. And more yelling, over the heads of diners, to the cashier telling him amounts to be collected from exiting customers.
As soon as we managed to get seats at a table, a waiter slid four glasses of water and a plate of biscuits and samosas to the centre of the marble-top table. After taking the order from people sharing our table, he turned to us. Nervously, we said, "Tea." "With 'malai' or without 'malai'?" he asked impatiently. Nervously we said, "Cream", and reached for the snack plate. By then, two burly men with bad tempers came up behind us, starting to talk and argue. As the expletives flew fast and furious, we rushed through our tea and made for the exit. By then a stentorian yell stopped our hearts from beating.
Our waiter was calling out to the cashier. A grey-haired gent in front was referred to as "Lal topi wallah, khuska aur paal aur chai, att anna." We were the "Chikkne ladke. Samose-malai chai, chawanni."
Novel and awesome as the experience was, we just couldn't wait to get home, to tell and retell the story. What if we were pulled up for the act of defiance? Never mind, the adventure was worth the money - all chawanni of it!