Bombay hasn't met Bloody Mary. Yes, the famed entity that's supposed to spice up your meals, however plain. Here in Bombay, people make their BMs plain as routine. It lacks the spice. The Tabasco seems amiss. The BM is truly characterless here. It has no body. No zing. No kick. It does not make you wanna finish it n then want some more. It makes you wonder, for a city that rapes and kills its women so keenly, so skillfully, they do a bloody bad job of the ooze. Of what's bound to splatter. Of what separates one's own from others, of what is thicker than water, of why step ones are always loathed.
Food, it seems, is only second to leave its imprint on a city's visitors. In a metropolis as frequented as Bombay, it extends to its drink. Still, in the quest for the perfect Mary. Like a whore, like a lover, like a thief, like some fever, like dope mid-week, like a prisoner with cheek, like dreams gone awry, like a muffled scream.
That'll be my Bloody Mary.