Nimita's Place

by Akshita Nanda

  “So what vegetarian food are you making?”

  “The usual dal—the heavy black dal you get in all the restaurants here, but this is flavoured with real cream and yogurt. Pulau, you know, rice with vegetables? Saag paneer, that’s spinach with cottage cheese. And my personal favourite, poori channa—that’s curried chickpeas with a soft, fried bread. We’ll fry the bread only when the guests start coming.”

  There are kebabs, grilled paneer with vegetables and Chinese pastries dusted with sugar or full of peanuts or topped with pineapple jam, for starters.

  Hot and bored—Chia Ying is as fascinated as Irving—I escape to the air-conditioned sitting room with a glass of water. I roam around so I don’t cool down too fast.

  Siddiqui and Rehima must have bought this place. It’s very well-kept; there are framed family photos and fabric hangings on the wall. Landlords are very particular about nails. Ours, for instance, insists we stick up things only with Blu-Tack or double-sided sticky tape, otherwise we will have to pay for replastering the holes when we leave.

  Most of the photos show a much younger Siddiqui and Rehima with a baby, another with a boy, and another with a teenager. He must be studying overseas? Everyone in India and Pakistan wants to send their child to study overseas in the UK or America. In our family, Romy-Bhaiya had to take a full scholarship and work through his degrees, but if these people have enough money for a condo twice the size of Hafeezah’s flat, they must have enough money to put their son in boarding school. Like Harry Potter.

  Siddiqui comes in with big bags of ice from 7-Eleven and a plastic bag with two-litre bottles of soft drinks. I take a bag from him and we go back into the hot kitchen. He empties the ice into two buckets and sticks the soft-drink bottles inside to cool. “That should be enough, yes, jaan?” he says to Rehima. “Five young people are also coming and I forget how much teenagers drink.”

  “A lot,” she says but looks over and nods. It’s enough.

  “This is a very nice flat,” I tell Siddiqui. “You have lived here long?”

  “About nine years now.”

  “It was very expensive?”

  He whistles. “Very expensive then, but very cheap when I see the prices now. We could have bought a smaller unit but you know, our houses back home, we get used to having space.”

  I nod. I miss my garden in Modern Colony where you can step out and smell the mogra bushes or sit on the grass and play games. And the garden in Dadi’s Lonavla house with the beautiful cold-weather flowers. One day, Dadi used to say, one day we’ll have tea on the verandah and smell our own roses.

  “This place is a good size for a family,” I say and Siddiqui nods.

  “Yes. Though of course we weren’t thinking of that then.” He stops speaking.

  Irving is showing something to Chia Ying on his handycam so only I see Rehima’s expression as she turns off the gas. I hold my breath until Rehima speaks. “This place is the right size for us now.”

  Siddiqui smiles and I exhale.

  Rehima moves us to the sofa in the sitting room. “Enough now, you are guests, sit and relax.”

  Irving looks around the room. “You have a son?” he says.

  Again I have to hold my breath until Rehima says: “Ishaan is not with us any more.”

  “Overseas?” Irving says what I was thinking earlier but, stupid idiot, didn’t he realise in the kitchen that this is no longer a thing to say?

  Siddiqui makes a sound that could be a cat crying. “I wish,” he says, then again. “I wish.”

  Rehima puts her hand on his arm. “He died in 1996. A cycle bomb in the market. He’d gone out to eat burgers with his friends.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I say, all three of us say, and Rehima nods.

  We sip our sherbet in silence. Thank God the doorbell rings.

  First come Santha and her husband Krisna, then Bala and Letchemi. Dr Alagasamy was supposed to join but he is overseas again. Santha is wearing a glittery yellow sari that looks okay on her, but Letchemi is wearing a red-green weave that is totally wrong for her skin tone. As she moves, the sari changes colour and I can’t decide which makes her more sallow, the red or the green.

  “So nice, this place,” Santha says.

  “So nice of you to come,” Rehima says. “Some sherbet? The snacks are vegetarian and the food later on the side table will be pure vegetarian also.”

  “So nice, so nice,” Santha says, moving around the gathering. I introduce her to Irving.

  “Teaching at NTU? Wah!” She looks him up and down. “So you stay in the university residences? I hear they very nice.”

  “No, they’re still constructing the residences so I’m sharing a flat with N—with Nimita and Chia Ying.”

  The sherbet tastes a little sour in my mouth. I know that at some point Irving will leave to go and live on the university campus, just as at some point Raymond will come back and Chia Ying and he will want their honeymoon flat back. Why am I feeling sad?

  By then I will also settle down. Definitely.

  “Very nice place. Very expensive, ya?” Bala says. Letchemi pulls his arm.

  Siddiqui smiles. “Not so expensive nine years ago. But you also just bought a flat, yes?”

  “Oh yes.” Bala’s chest swells. The oil begins to drip off his hair and onto his red kameez. The colour is just as bad with his skin as Letchemi’s sari is with hers. “We bought a new development. Three bedroom, right next to the MRT. A condo.”

  I know, I know.

  “Where is that? Near work?” Siddiqui asks.

  “A bit far for him but near for me,” Letchemi says. “Kovan. Also near our parents.”

  Kovan? Not Yew Tee?

  Letchemi turns to me. “Hi, Nimita, how nice to see you.”

  She puts out a hand. I put my sherbet down and fold my arms around her in a Punjabi hug. “So nice to see you again. What a lovely sari you’re wearing. I’m green with jealousy—or is it red? Gorgeous weave.”

  More guests come in, some Chinese, some Malay, most Indian or is it Pakistani? I can’t tell unless I ask.

  Some of Siddiqui’s neighbours turn out to be from Nepean Sea Road, the most up-market area in Mumbai. They know Anand-Bade-Phupha’s house in Malabar Hill and are big fans of Itty-Bua and Pritty-Bua. They even know my buas’ real names.

  “They should come give a concert in Singapore,” says Mrs Kapoor, a woman wearing a black-and-grey patterned sari and a string of giant pearls. “Sunidhi Chauhan and Asha Bhosle come all the time. There’s a big market for Hindi film songs here. Those Malays love them too. We didn’t get good seats for the last concert because all the Malays bought tickets.”

  “Oh, were you also at the Asha Bhosle concert?” says a man who looks Sindhi. He and his wife are Singaporean Malay. Both are doctors at KK Hospital, where Rehima works.

  I find a chair to sit and quietly drink my sherbet and watch the tamasha.

  Chia Ying is comparing radiotherapy horror stories with someone from KK Hospital. “I know, the barium right? They never do!” she says and both burst out laughing.

  Santha has figured out that Irving is behind IWan2Eat. “So good, your Instagram!” she says. “Hashtag VegWatch really saved us in Hong Kong, right, Krisna?”

  “Right,” says her husband. “Very difficult to get good vegetarian food in Hong Kong. Now we know all the places. You must do VegWatch for more tourist destinations.”

  “And hashtag halal as well,” says the Malay doctor, whose name I forgot.

  “Beta, you must come home during Diwali time,” says Mrs Kapoor. “You can shoot an authentic Punjabi Diwali feast.”

  “And come to me at Pongal,” Santha says.

  “You know, Singaporean Chinese New Year is celebrated differently from Chinese New Year?” says some other colleague of Rehima’s. “You’re welcome to come and see my family’s celebration. You’ll find it very interesting because my father is Teochew and my mother is Cantonese.”

  Irving is turning his head from side to
side like a confused chicken. “Thank you. Thank you very much. Oh, N calls and I must obey.” He escapes to the stool at the foot of my chair and looks up at me. “Save me.”

  I finish my sherbet. It is really very tasty. “What?”

  “Another glass? Be right back.” He goes, gets two refills and comes back to the stool.

  Handing me the glass, he bares his teeth. “Keep talking. Engage me. So no one else will.”

  He looks like a harassed chicken.

  “What are you so worried about? Go to all those people’s houses. You’ll get even more followers. What was it? Expand your potential market base.”

  He shakes his head. “I choose my own subjects.”

  “You let me choose tonight’s subject.”

  “That’s different.”

  “Why?”

  He shakes his head. “The point is, I’m not a commercial photographer to be ordered here and there. I don’t just take pictures of ordinary food and make it look good.”

  “You don’t?”

  He waves his hand, nearly spilling sherbet. “No, I seek out new cuisines and culinary arts. I boldly go where no food blogger has gone before.”

  His words sound very familiar. Wasn’t that what Amitabh Bacchan said in the super-hero movie Ajooba?

  “Did you just quote Amitabh Bacchan?”

  He shakes his head again. “N, N. Why do I waste myself on you?”

  “I really don’t know.” I stretch out my feet. They brush his knees. “Sorry.”

  He stretches out his legs, diagonal to mine. Then kicks my chair with his foot.

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry.”

  I stretch my leg to kick his and he grabs it. His eyes are very big and dark.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me!”

  We turn to look at Siddiqui, who is tapping a glass with a spoon.

  “May I have your attention, please? Also, my lovely wife, Malik, give her back.”

  Irving lets go of my leg as Rehima comes and stands next to Siddiqui. Suddenly I feel very cold in the air-conditioning. Where is my shawl? I put it around my shoulders and stand.

  Irving stands too.

  Siddiqui is still holding his glass up, so I lift my sherbet as well.

  “Friends, colleagues who are also friends,” Siddiqui says, “thank you, all of you for joining us at this Eid Mubarak party. We are honoured by your presence.”

  Next to me, Irving clears his throat. I could use a sip of sherbet to clear mine, but it doesn’t seem right to drink until Siddiqui finishes talking.

  “It has been almost ten years since Rehima and I moved to Singapore. Some of you know why.” Ishaan? But why is Rehima touching her side? “Some of you know what we have left behind.”

  Everybody is silent. Like me, Irving is holding his breath.

  “All of you have helped make this foreign country feel like home for us. So because you are our family,” tears are rolling into Siddiqui’s beard, “we wanted you to be with us at this very, very special Eid, when we welcome a new member into our family.”

  Rehima turns and says something. The servant, Asiah, comes forward holding something in her arms. I stand on tiptoe so I can see better. Rehima takes the bundle from Asiah and puts it against her shoulder, gently. “Our daughter, Meher,” she says. “Please join us in celebrating her birthday.”

  “Eid Mubarak!” Siddiqui says.

  Everyone bursts into applause.

  Irving is digging into his backpack. “Hold this.” He gives me his sherbet glass. “Where was it? Now hold this.” He gives me a flash and looks around. “Quick, this way.”

  We move forward to Siddiqui and Rehima, pushing as hard as we dare through Santha and Krisna and Bala and Letchemi and all the other guests who want to see the baby. People laugh and shout congratulations as I hold the flash at the right angle so Irving can take photographs. When my right arm hurts, I switch to the left.

  “Just one more,” Irving says and Rehima laughs.

  “She’s getting cranky.”

  The baby yawns, and then scrunches her little face into a scowl. She starts crying and Rehima swings her up to her shoulder to pat her.

  It hits me, a soft, ripping pain in the centre of my stomach. I should do pranayama or something but the pain is so sudden it just takes my breath away. I stand useless, the flash pointing at the ground, suddenly hearing the comments from the same guests who congratulated the new parents seconds ago.

  “…in their fifties, no? Very brave.”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “…adopted, from one of those places in Pakistan. No wonder they decided to give her a birthday today.”

  “…son? Oh yes, very sad. And after that, she had that accident while working with the Red Cross. You don’t know? They fired on her truck. Not the militants, Americans. Friendly fire, they called it but she nearly died.”

  Irving takes the flash from me. Chia Ying has a hand on my shoulder.

  “Isn’t this amazing?” she says.

  I have no words but she’s reaching past me to the baby. “Can I hold her?”

  The pain subsides as I watch Chia Ying coo and cuddle the baby. “Your turn,” she says, passing her to me.

  I feel huge and awkward, but the moment the soft sausage of cloth is in my arms I know how this should go. I jiggle her a little and her big black eyes open. Her mouth curves into an O.

  “She smiled at me!” Scientifically, though, it was more like a burp.

  Irving shows Siddiqui the photos he took. “Oh, this is wonderful,” Siddiqui says. “Please will you send them to me?”

  “What is her name?” I ask Rehima, who is waiting like a lioness to take her daughter back from me.

  “Meher.”

  “Meher.” I cuddle the baby and bring her close to my face. She smells sweet, like milk and Johnson & Johnson baby talcum powder.

  I hold my breath so no germs will infect her and whisper very softly near her ear: “Happy birthday, Meher. Happy, happy birthday.”

  5.

  “I will have a cup of tea please,” I tell the girl behind the wooden counter at Not Just Coffee.

  “Earl Grey, English breakfast, lemongrass, peppermint, rooibos, green tea, jasmine green tea, orange pekoe or silver tips?” She pushes a fake-leather folder towards me. “We have our own house blends as well. Or you could try our coffee. Our bestseller is the single-origin Kenyan. Some people like it better than Blue Mountain.”

  This is my first time at Not Just Coffee. Irving is doing his evening shoot here.

  “I would just like some tea. What about this Royal Himalayan Milk Tea?” It sounds like a good strong cup of chai.

  “Good choice! Will you have it in a cup or cone?”

  “A cup? Tea comes in a cup. Why would I want it in a cone? Won’t the cone get soggy?”

  The counter girl laughs. Her earrings tinkle. “Oh, sorry. Royal Himalayan Milk Tea is our top-selling flavour of gelato. For hot drinks, it’s this menu.”

  I was looking at the desserts menu. The drinks menu is another ten confusing pages.

  Freezes, smoothies, espresso, French roast, tea, chai—aren’t tea and chai the same thing? Even the Chinese—no, Mandarin—word for tea is “cha”.

  Finally, some familiar names. “Darjeeling. I will have some Darjeeling tea.”

  “In a pot or a cup?”

  “Just a cup. Thank you. Oh! Please make sure the water is boiling.”

  The girl’s smile loses some sparkle. “Oh, our hot water comes from the machine. But it should be pretty hot?”

  “How hot?”

  She asks someone over her shoulder. “Ninety-five degrees. Ninety degrees? Oh wait, eighty-five I think?”

  “Should be ninety,” the boy behind her says.

  “Centigrade or Fahrenheit?”

  “Fahrenheit,” he says. “Oh no, sorry, Centigrade.”

  It will be like drinking tea in Simla then. Except in Simla, Dadi could keep the water boiling for longer
to extract the flavour from the tea leaves. “Okay. All right.” I hand over money.

  The cup holds about as much water as my two palms cupped together. The water is not boiling-hot so the teabag floats on the surface. A trickle of brown swirls slowly downwards thanks to Brownian motion. It will take minimum five minutes for the tea to brew and by then it will be even colder and more disgusting to drink.

  I could have just sat here without buying anything but that wouldn’t look nice. Also, I need something warm to hold my wrist against. It hurts because of the air-con.

  It will be this cold in Mumbai when I go back for Diwali. How am I to face the buas? I haven’t told my family that I might lose my job in Singapore. I won’t need to, they will know because I have nothing to boast about. Itty-Bua and Pritty-Bua will text good friends with eligible sons. Dad will show me vacancies in pharmaceutical companies in Mumbai. Mummy will say nothing so loudly that I will have to run to Dadi’s room.

  What would Dadi say if she could talk to me?

  Chia Ying plonks herself on the wooden bench in front of mine. “What’re you having?”

  “They call it tea.” I take a sip. “I call it disgusting.”

  She pats my hand. “Irving is shooting today, right? Must be something good here.”

  I look around. He is at the counter, joking with the girl. She’s laughing and tossing her hair. Why do so many girls here bleach their hair? I would understand if the dark-skinned Malays or South Indians want to look a little fair and lovely but even Chinese and North Indians all like to have really blonde hair. Like Western people.

  Light hair doesn’t suit this girl at all.

  “Hi, guys.” Irving brings one tray, then goes back to get another. The counter girl follows him with a steel mug full of napkins, forks, knives and spoons. So strange. Such an up-market café and the place setting is like some roadside dhaba in India. They should charge dhaba prices then, cheaters, instead of four dollars for cold water and a teabag.

  “Can I help you with anything else?” The girl is hanging around Irving, who is hanging over the trays arranging the food.

  “No, thank you. You’ve been a big help.”