The Tiffin (2 page)

chapter two

Thirteen years later

Kunal opened the first of the tiffin's compartments. Coal-black eyes stared at him — they were vaguely familiar. He set the box aside with trembling hands and peered into the second compartment. From the depths of the watery dal, a dozen eyeballs floated to the surface. They were all fixed on him, and glaring. Suddenly, he knew exactly whom they belonged to: Badri.

With a shriek, he flung the box away and jerked awake, his heart racing.

Thunder rolled across the sky. A jagged scar of lightning lit up his room. It was empty.

Kunal was bathed in sweat, yet unbelievably cold.This was the worst nightmare he had ever had! And it was all thanks to the new cook, Badri.

Within seconds Sethji was at the door, his face lit up with anger in the intermittent flashes of lightning.

“Who just screamed and ruined my sleep?” said Sethji. “Was that you?”

Kunal could still see those floating eyeballs, all of them fixed on him. He hugged the threadbare sheet tighter around him, even though the heat was stifling.

“Don't just sit there like an idiot,” bellowed Sethji. “Answer me!”

“I-I had a bad dream,” said Kunal, when he could find his voice. “It was horrible.”

“What?” roared Sethji, drowning out a roll of thunder. “For that you shriek like a girl and wake us all up? You're nothing but a sissy.”

Mrs. Seth peeked out from behind Sethji's ample frame, but said nothing.

“I'm sorry,” said Kunal, his voice catching in his throat.
I will not cry, I will not cry
, he repeated to himself fiercely, over and over again. “I've been having the same dream these past few nights, and it's all because of Badri. I don't like him. He's been acting very funny lately and staring, always staring at me. Only me,” he finished in a whisper. A flash of lightning illuminated Sethji's face. Was it shock that Kunal saw? Pity? Fear even? Was it possible that Sethji believed him? The very next moment he had the answer.

“Shut up, you liar!” said Sethji. “You've had a bad attitude towards Badri ever since we hired him and now you're telling stories to get him into trouble? He's my friend and he's doing me a favour by staying on to cook. Any five-star hotel would have hired him like that.” Sethji snapped his pudgy fingers. A soft, whooshy sound was all he could produce. “I'm not buying this faltu-giri. NOT AT ALL! He's probably watching you because you're lazy and a work-shirker.And I'll encourage him to keep at it.”

Kunal's eyes strayed to Mrs. Seth's white face. She knew he was telling the truth.
Say something
, he beseeched her silently. But she did nothing.

Sethji advanced on Kunal, wearing his usual expression; a combination of contempt and anger. “What really happened? The truth now.You're aware of the consequences of lying to me.”

Kunal nodded. He knew them only too well. And he knew Sethji, too, who did not like anything disrupting his carefully arranged world. Especially an inconvenient truth.

“I fell off the bed in my sleep and so I yelled,” said Kunal, in a flat voice

“That's better,” said Sethji. “Are you hurt?”

Kunal shook his head.

“Pity,” said Sethji, still glaring at him.

“At least leave him alone at night,” said Mrs. Seth, in a strangled voice. “Come back to bed. We have to get up in a couple of hours, anyway.” Her fingers fluttered up and down her thin plait.

“You wake me up once more and you'll regret it,” snarled Sethji. He shoved Kunal, who staggered backward. “And the next time you feel the need to scream like a girl, stuff a pillow in your mouth or I'll do it for you.”

Kunal stared at those piggy eyes that shone blackly in the flashes of lightning and wished he could poke something into them. Sethji plodded back to his room behind Mrs. Seth, muttering to himself. Another drum roll of thunder reverberated from one end of the sky to the other.

It matched the thunderstorm raging in Kunal's chest. Sleep was out of the question. He could not risk that nightmare again.

Kunal stood by the window, his thoughts as dark as the night outside. Sethji knew he was right about Badri but would never admit it. He needed a cook more than he needed a waiter and Kunal knew he would just have to endure the unfairness. But for a moment there it almost seemed like Sethji had believed him.

The skies opened up and rain came hurtling down. Kunal pressed his forehead against the cold metal bars on the window, angry at allowing himself to think this way, to have the slightest hope. He was on his own and had been since the day he was born; an orphan the Seths had adopted, and now a slave who was fed scraps and made to work without wages.

Kunal had no idea how long he stood by the window, staring at the deserted road and the dark windows in the buildings opposite, his mind churning with the possibility of escape. It was only when he heard Sethji clump downstairs that he knew another miserable day had begun and he was already exhausted.

Mrs. Seth banged on his door. “I want you downstairs in the next ten minutes.” And then she was gone.

Kunal stared at the rain beyond his window. The whole world was melting. The relentless downpour seemed to have washed away all colour, leaving it bleak and grey. He gazed at a tiny scrap of red cloth on a tv antenna in the distance — a smear of colour in the bland landscape. He had to tilt his head sideways to see it, past a jutting roof. Though sodden with rain, it fluttered each time a breath of wind flitted past.

“Kunal! Come down now!” Mrs. Seth called out from halfway up the stairs. “I know you're awake.”

He stood up, feeling his heartbeat quicken. He turned to go, his eyes still riveted to that brave scrap of red.

“Coming!” he said.

“Are your legs broken?” she called out again. “Can't you move any faster? You think the customers will serve themselves?”

Kunal slipped out of his room, which was barely larger than a closet, and closed the door. Its rusty hinges squeaked in protest. There was a hole where the lock should have been. Sethji had removed it years ago.When Kunal had asked about replacing it, Sethji had laughed and said beggars did not need privacy. He should consider himself lucky he had a roof over his head and three meals a day. Kunal had never asked again.

He padded downstairs noiselessly, but there was no need. It was like descending into a whirlpool of chaos, even though it was only seven in the morning.

Sethji was yelling at a fellow waiter and friend, Lalan, who towered over the proprietor and yet listened to the admonishments meekly. Their eyes met and Lalan winked, earning a parting whack from Sethji. Fans whirred noisily, churning up the humid air in the dining room along with dust, flies, dirt, and despair, and hurling it over the dozen or so sweaty heads of the breakfasting customers. There would be at least twice that amount at peak time, but for now, the cramped and grimy room was relatively empty.

Mrs. Seth frowned at him from the foot of the stairs.

“Why are you looking like a two-day-old chapati?” she said. “Look lively.” She slapped the back of his head with a bony hand. His brains scuttled to the front.

“I have a bad feeling about Badri,” said Kunal, searching her face. “There is something very wrong with him.”

Mrs. Seth, all jagged lines and sharp corners, stared at him. “What rubbish! Don't let Sethji hear you say that.”

“But it's true,” said Kunal. “You have to believe me!”

“Badri is a friend of Sethji's and you're an orphan.Who do you think we're going to believe?”

“Me, of course!” he said, and meant it.

“Don't give me any cheek early in the morning,” said Mrs. Seth, vinegar in her voice.Yet her eyes were soft, almost as if she were in pain. “Sethji is very upset about being woken up last night. You'd better not give him any more reason to be cranky.You know what's in store for all you waiters when that happens.”

“But really, Mrs. Seth, I'm telling the truth —”

“Enough,” she said. She glanced at some customers who had just walked in and were settling themselves at empty tables. “Vinayak has brought the tiffins. Take them to Badri and be quick. It's starting to get busy.”

Kunal's stomach clenched. He walked to the entrance of the dhaba where the neatly lined-up tiffin cases glistened with rain. Grabbing a couple in each hand, he picked his way between the tables and scurrying waiters and headed towards the kitchen. He hesitated just outside the door, his heart thudding, hoping Badri was so busy he would not have time to stop and stare. Kunal took a deep breath and pushed through the swinging doors.

Badri dominated the tiny, food-splattered kitchen moving nimbly between four large gas burners. Steam from huge pots of goat curry, sambar, and boiled rice wafted up and mingled into a fragrant cloud, almost obscuring the skinny cook, who was clad only in ragged shorts.

“Kunal, my friend, how are you this morning?” said Badri with a smile.Though his tone was casual, he was ogling in earnest.

“I'm all right,” Kunal mumbled.Around them kitchen helpers scurried to and fro, chopping, cutting, stirring, but Badri did not spare them a single glance. He had eyes only for Kunal.

“I'll save you some of my special goat curry for lunch,” said Badri. “I like to look after my friends.” He inched a little closer and winked. Kunal took a step back.

“Thanks,” said Kunal, “but that's all right.” He almost threw the tiffins in a corner and ran out to get the rest. Standing so close to Badri made him uneasy.

In the narrow passage connecting the kitchen and dining room, Kunal stopped for a moment and took deep breaths. This was getting unbearable. Even in the day he could not escape those eyes, those lewd looks! A waiter deliberately bumped into him, shoving him against the damp wall. Kunal glared at him, rubbing his scraped elbow.

“Hey, pretty boy,” the waiter said. “Why don't you watch where you're going? Or are those green eyes made of glass?”

“Why don't you watch it?” muttered Kunal as he wrestled to keep his temper under control.

“For a nobody, you're acting pretty smart,” said the waiter. “One day I'll teach you a lesson you badly need.”

Kunal should have been used to the taunts about his good looks by now, but he still felt like punching that smirking face. Just then Lalan ambled past with an armful of dirty dishes. Kunal pressed himself against the wall to make room. The other waiter stood his ground.

“What's the matter?” said Lalan, leaning towards the waiter, crowding him. “Did I miss something?”

The waiter took a step back, his face pale as he stared up at Lalan. “N-nothing.”

“If you bother Kunal again you'll have me to answer to,” said Lalan. His calm expression belied the menace in his voice.

The waiter ran towards the dining room.

“You'd better tell your friends, too,” Lalan called out. “This is the last warning.”

The waiter shot through the swinging doors without looking back.

“Thanks, yaar!” said Kunal. “I don't know what I'd do without you.”

Lalan winked and headed to the kitchen. Kunal continued on to the dining room.

Once all the tiffins were in the kitchen, he helped with serving breakfast to the masses of blue-collar workers who stopped by Bombay Bahar to gossip and fill their stomachs with greasy food before starting another day of drudgery. Kunal approached the fly-infested counter for the next pickup.

“Chai and anda bhurji for Vinayak are ready,” hollered the kitchen helper.

“I'll take it,” said Kunal, lunging for the counter, a few steps ahead of another waiter.

Kunal grabbed the tea and scrambled eggs cooked in butter, onions, chilies, tomatoes, and sweat — and worked his way to Vinayak, who sat at a table in a corner of the room.The dabbawalla, a regular at the dhaba, had an open newspaper in front of him. His shrewd eyes, which normally missed nothing, were glazed and vacant today.As always, something tugged at Kunal's heart whenever he saw this old man. He'd heard rumours that Vinayak had had a “major tragedy” in his life, but Kunal did not know what the tragedy was, and had not had the courage to ask him about it yet. The dabbawalla had been coming to the dhaba for just over four years, and yet Kunal felt he'd known him all his life and looked forward to seeing the familiar face every weekday morning.

Kunal placed the food on the wobbly Formica tabletop. “Good morning,Vinayakji,” he said, addressing the older man respectfully.

Vinayak snapped out of his trance and looked up at Kunal. His eyes were tinged with red, as if he hadn't slept all night. “How are you, my friend?”

“Okay,” said Kunal. “Is everything all right? You looked so sad a moment ago. Anything bothering you?”

“Just tired,” said Vinayak. He leaned back in his chair and glanced around him. “But thank you for asking.”

“You've helped me so much, Vinayakji,” said Kunal. “If there's anything a lowly waiter can do ...”

Vinayak shook his head and smiled. Kunal loved the way his eyes crinkled up at the corners. “I'll keep it in mind. And who are you calling a lowly waiter? You're a very good one!”

“I'd rather be a dabbawalla,” said Kunal. “It must be such fun. Being a waiter in this dhaba is really ... you know ...,” he lowered his voice and took a quick look around, “
painful
!”

Another bedraggled smile traipsed across Vinayak's face as he shook his head. “Drums always sound better from a distance.”

Kunal frowned. “Meaning?”

“Every job has its good and bad points,” replied Vinayak. “Ever tried to wade through flood waters up to your chest to do your job?”

Kunal shook his head.

“Ever had to navigate the roads during a strike?”

“No, Vinayakji,” said Kunal, gazing at the older man's face, which was a railway map of lines.

“Well then, my friend, you're better off here at the dhaba.”