Still in the Game: How creativity flowed in a watering hole

Early 2000s, Mumbai.

Tucked off the Western Express Highway in Andheri East stood Maharaja Bar & Restaurant—a no-frills quarter joint for sales folks in scuffed shoes. The air was always thick with cigarette smoke, sweat, chatter, and anticipation.

Here, Nagesh ruled the floor—always in white, patrolling tables like he owned the place. (He probably did. Never asked.)

When I arrived, so did my specials. Spicy boiled peanuts. Boiled eggs. Both not on the menu; compliments of the house.

Back then, Diet Coke wasn’t easily available in India. Friends from Dubai got me my stash, which I hid at Maharaja like my Rajapalayam, Rana, buries bones in the yard.

Nagesh guarded it. Like a… well, Rajyapalayam.

He’d pour the Diet Coke over my Old Monk drowning in ice—like a rum sommelier.
And if it was Royal Challenge, just the ice.
No questions. No fuss.

Between smoke rings, we made plans.
(I apologize to my then-lungs. And everyone else’s.)

This was our weekly sales offsite. Always mid-week. Never weekends.

I didn’t have an expense account. If I took my team out, it was on my dime.
So this wasn’t the Bali offsite with PowerPoints and guest speakers.

It was Cheap. Effective. Real.

Where a junior rep, after the third drink, would promise an outrageous number.

Where even a teetotaler, drunk on ambition, would overcommit.

Most would wake up to a hangover of regret.
But then—somehow—we’d actually do it.

When you stepped out of Maharaja, close to midnight, all was right with the world.

The Mumbai night nuzzled your face.

Cars were lined up at the petrol station across the road.

A giggly, much-in-love couple, late for the 11:40PM show, sprinted towards Cinemax. Hand-in-hand.

A cycle-on-stand sold chai, cigarettes, and paper soap strips.

A pushcart proclaimed: Mewad Ice-cream. Badam Shake.

My beloved city whispered—share your deepest desires, my love and I will make them true.

Mohanlal, Vivek Oberoi, Isha Koppikar, Ajay Devgan stared at me from a hoarding.
“Company,” it said

An auto slid up, purple lights flashing, Jhankar beats blaring.
“Chandivali,” I said

And then—the strays. Those wise old souls of the street.

They recognised me, trotting over, tails wagging, waiting for their head pats.
Before one melted into the night.

I don’t know what it is about dogs; their acknowledgment somehow validates your existence.
You feel special. Chosen.

Nagesh didn’t have an MBA, but he understood people better than most consultants.

He knew what mattered.
The drink. The routine. The mood.
And most importantly—how you felt after the purchase.
So that you kept coming back.

Trendy bars opened—shiny places with cocktails that took longer to explain than to drink.
If we had a good month, my boss approved dinner at a fancy place.

But we stuck with Maharaja.

Because here, failure didn’t taste as bitter, and success, far sweeter.
No matter how bad the month, it reassured us—we were still in the game.

And because our friends, the street dogs, waited for us.