“Now we get lunch.”

I looked outside at the torrential downpour.

“Is there a drive-through option?” I scrunched up my nose.

“Not this time, but trust me, it’ll be worth it.”

* * *

We zigzagged through side alleys and small streets until the taxi finally stopped in front of a narrow structure wedged in between a bank and a shoe store.

“Here?” I said, pointing to the white sign hanging over the front door that read CANTEEN in handwritten black letters.

“Yup,” Hisham said, opening his door as I scooted out the other side. We grabbed all of our shopping bags and waddled up a narrow flight of stairs into a cramped dining hall on the second floor. Tables and chairs lined the peeling light blue walls, and a nineteen-inch television set was mounted in the corner playing slightly fuzzy videos of classic Bollywood songs. The kitchen was blocked off by a beaded curtain, and the smell of coriander hung thick in the air.

“Aaye, aaye,” said a craggy-faced uncle with tufts of orange-white hair sprouting around his balding, mottled scalp. He grabbed a notepad and led us to one of the many empty tables.

“This is the place you were talking about?” I sat down, dropping the bags on the floor and glancing at the chutney-stained menu in front of me.

“We don’t need these,” Hisham said, stacking the menus at the edge of the table. “We will take two orders of keema pau, ek kabab platter, ek samosa platter, ek order of chicken tengri, a plate of rumali rotis, and two rolls of mutton bhuna gosht.” The uncle nodded, quickly writing everything on his notepad. “And could you please bring us some extra lemon pieces with the bhuna gosht?”

“Is that all?” I asked, teasingly.

“Oh, and we’ll also take two special faloodas.” Hisham turned toward me and grinned.

“What makes you so sure I’m going to like everything you ordered?” I asked as the uncle walked away. “What if I wanted something else?”

“Leila,” he said with a serious look on his face, “you are about to experience the best street food in all of Mumbai. This is going to be a life-changing experience for you. A culinary journey of the senses, so to speak. The only question you should be asking is, ‘Am I ready?’”

I leaned in and stared directly into his eyes. “Oh, I’m ready,” I said, rolling up my sleeves. Normally, I would have been turned off by the idea of someone ordering for me without asking for my input, but I was attracted to Hisham’s confidence. He had proven he knew his way around the laddu shop; I trusted this experience would be no different.

“I knew I liked you,” Hisham said, breaking into a grin.

I blushed and looked away.

On the television screen, a song was playing that I hadn’t heard in years: “Tip Tip Barsa Pani,” from Mohra. The heroine, played by Raveena Tandon, looked sizzling as she danced through a rainstorm in a bright yellow sari while the hero, played by Akshay Kumar, chased behind her. As the two clung to each other in a passionate embrace, I couldn’t help but think how strangely similar it was to my daydream earlier. I wondered if it was a sign.