Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (18 page)

“Hey?”
Kartikey opened his eyes. She was shaking his arm, her face full of ques-
tions. Kartikey nodded off, pulled back his arm and switched the track
on his iPod. Sigh. The next song was by Coldplay, and to tell the truth, he
always wanted to be Coldplay more than Metallica.

Nini drew back her hand.
God alone knows what goes on in his head
, she cast a
stray thought to her cousin before resigning to the menu in her hand. She
studied the menu, then gave it up and went back to the more interesting
subject in eyesight: a woman across them, glaring at her baby. She won-
dered if this would be her in ten years. Rakshit seemed like a good guy,
he didn’t even expect her to cook. He knew what he wanted in life, had
achieved most of it, wasn’t fanatic about cricket and shared her choice in
music. They both hated travel, and were only too happy to watch a movie
to kill a holiday. But she knew she didn’t really know him. She liked him,
but she didn’t love him. He wasn’t someone whose iris she would remem-
ber. Yet she had agreed to marry him.

Her parents had never asked her for much. They let her shoot down a
seat at Delhi University and learn ballroom at an academy in Mumbai.
She had stretched the limits of their beliefs and become non-vegetarian.
She wore rebellious low-cuts and off-shoulders and all her mother asked
was that she have pepper spray on her at all times. At twenty-six, when
her parents asked her if she liked a boy, she began to feel their concern
for her marriage. And in two months, she had been set up with Rakshit.
Nini didn’t hate arranged marriages for the sole reason that she didn’t
know otherwise. All uncles and aunts, as well as her parents were am-
bassadors of it, and they seemed to be doing fine. Kartikey’s mother
had in fact grown to love his father, even though she called him ‘Ji’ and
couldn’t bring herself to say his name. They were all living in wholesome
arranged marriages. But it still scared her in her bones. She had no reason
to distrust Rakshit, no reason to believe her marriage wouldn’t work.
But the future was a myriad of possibilities, and none of them were
comforting because they were all conditional. Would she be this woman,
in ten years? Living with a man she obviously had no love for, but stay-
ing just to raise his children. She had probably thought
it will be okay
too.
A sudden thought imploded. Nini didn’t know what Rakshit felt about
dance. Hush now, Nini told herself, as a tear slipped onto her cheek. You
can’t know what will happen.

Now what are you looking at
, the tears turned to ice as her eyes narrowed
on the man sitting across. The man who was staring at her. She cocked
an eyebrow, tilted her head and sat up straighter, threatening with all her
power:
WHAT are you looking at!

He took his time. Did that man have cheek! He just stared back at her,
unmoving, untroubled by her confrontation. Not even a whimper of
hesitation as he simply looked on. And then in flutters of effect, as if
a barricade of glass had suddenly gone down, he realised what he was
doing and pulled himself away. He bowed his head, a mixture of embar-
rassment and apology and bit his lip. He checked quickly to see that the
girl wasn’t still staring at him. She wasn’t. Lakshay kept his head low for
good, happy that he had saved face to continue sitting, sad that reality
was a slam in his face, even in this unfamiliar district. He fidgeted with
his watch, rose gold, like memories of childhood past.

Every evening around five, Lakshay and Kedar ran out in the barbarous
summer sun stinging their skin and half-shutting their eyes. If they could
tell time, they’d know it was actually four and as a consequence of their
hyena yells, many a neighbour cursed them in their fleeting sleep.

Kedar was usually the one who brought the ball. Their precious, frayed,
green Cosco, which they’d reject in a few years. It would be too used for
them and they would be too wealthy for it. Lakshay and Kedar were still
below the bar that divides pocket money age, you see. This was the side
that pleaded with their parents for ice cream and once bought, the whole
family had a party together.

The green ball was their little treasure, and Kedar safeguarded it with his
life. He kept it in an old show box with other assorted treasures: marbles
and broken yoyos, next to his shoes under his cupboard. Lakshay guarded
the bat, and on the distasteful occasion that his older brother found it and
took it (a bat is harder to hide after all) they would abandon two-player
cricket for an invention of their own. This invention was an inexhaustive
competition between the friends. They swore by it. It determined the
leader of them, the person who got to choose which video game to play,
who called the shots on whether they would play with a new kid or not.
In a gang of two, the leader was everyone except the loser. That was until
the other defeated him.

Lakshay and Kedar had devised the laws of international politics long
before they knew international politics existed: Fight to keep your place
or lose to the guy contending. It was democracy, fair and square. The
invention was like this: standing at any point behind the yellow line that
marked car park space, the boys had to each fling the ball into the sky
without quite flinging it into the sky. The ball was supposed to touch
the building in front of them at some point along its height. The person
who threw the ball highest became king of the universe. Kedar usually
won. He was an inch taller, which made all the difference when he bent
at his waist to increase momentum. Lakshay had understood this strategy
and copied him but biology played to his disadvantage. He rubbed his
palms now, flexed his fingers. The ball itself just fit his hand. Sometimes
when he swung his arm upwards, he was afraid it might slip mid-throw
and fall like a rock on his face. As precaution, Lakshay stepped a bit out
of range of his own swing. That didn’t help lift his odds from their cur-
rent place at the bottom bench at an air show. But he went for it anyway.
Lakshay grinned, as the aroma of hot coffee escaped in the air.

He had managed to fail miserably that day, and Kedar had managed to
hit a notch above the third floor window. Lakshay doubted he had ever
beaten Kedar. On days that they got close results, they would repeat the
procedure enough times until both had a unanimous victor in mind.
Sometimes, they repeated it anyway. It had something to do with the
man who lived on the third floor. Kedar usually threw that high, and
after seven or eight times that the Cosco bounced off the wall of glory,
the bald man of floor three came shouting onto his verandah, swinging
his fists and swearing upon God. Apparently it was the outside of his
bedroom wall that Kedar had perfected his target at. The bald man’s ap-
pearance was the ultimate victory, much like what a scientist would feel
on discovering aliens. It didn’t matter if the aliens wielded guns. Success
was sweet and definite.

Lakshay smiled faintly, despite everything. It was this childhood friend
he had buried yesterday. Today, he had learnt that Kedar left his widow
with loans. Kedar’s widow looked like that girl in the café, the one he had
stared at shamelessly. Resemblances aren’t resemblances when they are
ghosts one is trying to escape. It was getting harder for him to forget the
expression on her face when she got a telephone: the loan sharks had
smelt blood. If only Kedar was here now, with his perfect swing, ready
to help them tussle with the Bald Men of the Third Floors of this world.
But Kedar was gone, and Lakshay had decided to help his widow till the
very end. He sat now, nibbling a Napoleotano cheese sandwich wonder-
ing, how.
“This isn’t what I ordered dear…” an old lady said with a toothy smile.

“Oh? Oh yes, sorry, I’m sorry.” Preity had been pulled from her dish
duty because there were more orders than Meera could carry, because a
kid had spilt water, because Table 3 had changed their order right after
it was half cooked, because- because it was rush hour Sunday. And that
explained everything.

Sundays were God’s curse on mankind. Sundays were the illusion of rest,
of holiday. They were like sea foam on beach pebbles. You could run
with a grin trying to catch it but it would tease right out from between
your fingers.

“Dearie, will you bring me my order then?” The lady asked.
“Yes, yes ma’am. One moment.”

Preity delivered the burger to its rightful owner, and dashed back to the
kitchen for a Paneer Tikka and Chai. She apologised for the delay, and the
confusion. She gave her best At Your Service smile. The lady smiled in
return, and clasping a wrinkled hand over the tray, said “It’s okay, dearie.
I understand.”

Oh. You do? What do you understand? Preity wanted to ask, and might
have but Table 3 had another idea about their lunch.

 

“Yeah... I’m not so sure about the pasta anymore.”

“Sir, I’m-” but her insincere apology of how his order could not be
changed again was stifled before it began. Table 3 was still staring at
her lips. He was at it the last time and he didn’t stop now. Meera hadn’t
warned her and it had caught her off guard before. He wouldn’t even
look at the menu, or her face or just some point in the cafe. He would
fix his black pea eyes right at her lips. Last time she went to the kitchen,
disgusted, and in the mind to clean her fingernails in his pasta. This time,
she wanted to turn the plate over his head. But think of the salary, Preity.
Think of the job. As any Delhi girl would know, it was easier to ignore it
and run away as fast as possible, than confront and expect to be treated
with respect. “I’m sorry the order cannot be changed.”

Preity turned and charged for the kitchen. The lechers of this world! Her
feet pressed on the ground as if trying to bore holes in it. Preity cursed
him with death wishes, looked for his pasta sauce in the kitchen and
found that it was already cooked, unfortunately. Grumbling about the
missed opportunity, she grabbed a glass of water and threw it down her
throat. She imagined him now, sitting in the café like he owned it, with his
checkered shirt two buttons down, probably happy now, having made a
petty waitress’ day all the more worse.
Calm down, my furious heart, before we
both light up on fire
. Preity closed her eyes.

The old woman continued to throw smiles around the café. The young
mother caught one, mistook it for a jeer at her condition and turned away.
A young boy moving his lips to unheard words caught one and offered
it right back. The man in the checkered shirt sitting a table ahead of her
averted his eyes as he saw her turn towards him. The other man sipping
coffee at the very end was too far and too young to be looking at an old
woman passing smiles on a pleasant afternoon. She wore a pale blue
cotton suit, adequately reflecting the calm of her thoughts. With time
came understanding that rushing was a fool’s errand. With age came the
experience of slowing down. There were divots in her memory that she
conveniently filled with maybes. For the young, maybes caused panic.
The elders had another advantage there: they had meds against panic.
The woman had two aching knees, that caused her to hobble and left
creases on her kurta, and her voice wasn’t what it used to be. Her hair was
a puny wrap on the back of her head, with glaring streaks of white run-
ning telltale into the centre. But her heart was strong as ever, and many
suspected it should remain that way until it just shut shop. With the zeal
of her youth, she still treated herself out to cafés and movies, alone if
everyone else was busy. Today was one such lovely afternoon.

She’d left her husband staring impassively at yet another cricket match,
and her son’s family was there to watch him. If he went into another
cardiac arrest, even the granddaughter knew what to do before emer-
gency services arrived. Too bad her husband didn’t like paneer-tikkas.
This place roasted them crisp to perfection.

Lakshay watched the noisy family escape the cafe. The children ran out,
dragging their father by his arms, causing him to stumble down the steps.
The mother followed, kissing her sleeping baby. He saw a sparkle in her
eyes, bright as the moon. He was glad Kedar didn’t have a child, or it
might not have seen as many of his mother’s smiles as this baby did.

Meanwhile, Table 3 was served his meal: Pasta Arrabiata, with French
fries and Coke. For a frequently altered meal decision, one would think
Table 3 had trouble choosing between a selection of delicacies. Yet there
was nothing exquisite about his meal choice, and he had simply under-
gone a dilemma between the ordinary. Meera delivered his lunch on an
ink blue tray. He shifted it away from him, perhaps fantasizing about his
third and final decision, the one he had been denied. As Meera turned
to leave, Table 3 stopped her. Though she had more patience than Pre-
ity, Meera was prepared to tell him he could have another meal but he’d
be paying for both, when Table 3 said something that had nothing to do
with food.

“Do you know Preity well- Meera?” He finished his question with a quick
glance at her breast pocket, picking her name off the badge.

Meera wanted to see where this was going. She was no stranger to flirta
-
tion, but this would be the first time she set Preity up. Table 3 had nice
hair, even if he had a nervous glance, which he didn’t hold stable for too
long.

“Well, yes. Is there something you need?” Meera shot off with standard
lines.

 

“Okay. Could you pass on a message to her from me, please. I would be
very grateful.”

Meera wondered idly if he would show gratitude in monetary value. She
had no way of knowing if he did, and decided to roll with it just for a
good story on a Sunday.

“Ok. Tell me.” Standard lines didn’t cover such conversations. Meera
adapted quickly. His message to Preity was a story better than all this
month’s and Table 3 checked that she understood before she left to pass
it on.