A HOST AT THE NICK OF TIME
A HOST AT THE NICK OF TIME The weather was hot as the summer had set in around a well to do suburb of Mumbai. The location was the narrow corridor of an apartment block, in a congested lane. A door of an apartment faced the corridor. Dimly lit by a bulb that had a thick layer of dirt covering its lower hemisphere. An otherwise busy bustling lane where vendors sold Vada pav, Behl and Pani puri. Where children played cricket and the ball managed to dodge Two wheelers and motorcars. Today it was deserted but for few sullen looking men, out on errands or hunting to buy bread and a policeman, who was bored stiff. Coronaji was hovering in front of the door of that apartment, facing the corridor. Anxious but relieved that he had managed to reach here after all the turmoil. Coronaji happened to be born inside a big fat bald and not so gentle a man , somewhere in the UK. A business man trader, he had made his fortune in UK . He was getting ready for his usual visit to his native country, India...