Nimita's Place

  I didn’t understand the difference and told her so. She laughed. “When you’re older, then you’ll understand.”

  “So in that man’s house, you were acting?”

  “It’s your house now, you know, beta.” She stroked my hair. “Beta, it’s always best when there is no naatak, when you tell the truth. Always be genuine when you talk and people will trust you, give you more than they had planned.”

  “What if you and Dada had never seen that house, never talked about it? What then?”

  “Then? Then I wouldn’t have wanted to buy it, especially with this money. Or maybe I would have still seen it and wanted to buy it and I would have told that man another truth, that I had always wanted to live in a house with your Dada that made me think of Edinburgh.”

  “So you’ll go to Lonavla?”

  “No, beta.” She kissed me four times, forehead, cheeks, once on the nose. “You are here, where will I go? We’ll give the place out on rent or something. To a nice tenant, who will take care of the flowers, until one day maybe we can live there like I thought.”

  At six, I believed in that “one day” when we might move to Lonavla, to sit on the verandah and drink tea among the tea roses. Now, at thirty, I realise that even Dadi believed in that “one day”, which is why she spoke of it to me. She never lied to me, even if she also knew this “one day” was just a dream, a short truth.

  How can Mummy and Dad and Romy-Bhaiya want to sell that Lonavla house?

  There is a hollow feeling in my stomach that the tossed salad does not fill.

  After lunch, I don’t go home. I wander around and somehow find myself outside Not Just Coffee Café. It is the only café open on the street and the sign says it will remain open until 8pm today.

  The counter girl is the same who served us during Irving’s photo shoot. I ask her for Royal Himalayan Milk Tea. “Hot.”

  She says: “Cup or cone?”

  “No, I want the gelato, but hot. Like you made it that time for my friend’s photo shoot.”

  She looks at me. “Oh yes, that’s become one of our most popular items. We serve it hot but also in a cone. You want to try?”

  Hot gelato in a cone?

  “It’s good,” she says.

  “Is it hot?”

  “Very hot.”

  “Is it extra for the cone?”

  “A dollar extra but we give you two scoops. It’s a big cone.”

  “I’ll try the cone.”

  She rings up the order. “Please have a seat and we’ll bring it to you.”

  The cone is thick with a sugar coating. The gelato is properly hot, thick, sweet and good. It’s like having chai and biscuits in one.

  I look around. Mostly Indians or Malays in the café.

  One Indian is familiar. He sees me looking at him and waves, pointing to the Bluetooth headphone set he’s speaking into.

  I wave back and make the “relax, don’t worry” mudra of two palms pressing downwards.

  Gautam Bhatia finishes his call before I can finish my chai-in-a-cone. “Isn’t that great?” he says, nodding at my cone. “I had one too.”

  “Yes.”

  This time I do not have the seat near the wall so I do not need to do pranayama breathing.

  “So, no plans for Chinese New Year’s Eve?”

  “I have plans,” I lie. “I have to go to my colleague’s house later.”

  “Oh,” he says. “Otherwise, I thought a movie maybe?”

  I move my shoulders up and down.

  He looks at me without saying anything. So I say something.

  “How are things?”

  “Oh. Fine. Fine.” He does not look fine. “You know, just working some things out.”

  “Your Haanji app is very popular,” I say. “Even my brother in the US has downloaded it and is using it.”

  “That’s great,” he says but he does not look happy.

  We sit quietly while I finish my chai-in-a-cone.

  “I’m heading back to India next week,” he says.

  “Oh? Taking a break?”

  “A break.” He moves his shoulders a little. “I don’t think I’ll come back. It isn’t working out over here. It’s not like 2007 when I first came. Investors are not so ready to take chances. If you’re not a PR or Singapore citizen, there’s no real chance for you any more.”

  “Then apply for PR.”

  “It’s not so easy.” He starts tearing my unused napkin to pieces. “I was offered PR after my course, you know? Back in 2007? Stupidly I didn’t take it then because I had that Kotak Mahindra offer. And now for an Indian to get PR in Singapore is like getting to the moon. Too many of us are here already.” He laughs a little.

  I say the only thing I can. “Will you have something? Chai? Coffee?”

  He tears the napkin pieces into smaller pieces. “No, thank you. You have a million dollars?”

  “Sorry.”

  That makes him laugh properly. “You really don’t have time for a movie?”

  I take out my cellphone and pretend to check the time. “Really no.” I get up.

  He puts out his hand. What to do but shake it?

  “All the best, Gautam,” I tell him.

  He presses my fingers before letting go.

  5.

  Urmila Sachdev comes into the world on 1st of March, midnight Houston time. I get the phone call at 1.30pm Singapore time, my smartphone ringing just as I’m stripping off a pair of sterile gloves.

  Never touch non-lab equipment with gloves on, even if the gloves are new, Dr Savarkar always says. Otherwise one day you’ll touch your phone after working with radioactive material and end up with an ear tumour.

  When Romy-Bhaiya’s name comes up on the Haanji screen, I tear the rubber of the gloves in my hurry to take them off.

  “Nimmy,” is all Bhaiya says before he starts crying. He cries so long and so loudly that immediately my arm goes cold, my stomach hollows and I think, oh God, no, Divanka-Bhabhi. She has had high blood pressure and gestational diabetes for the last trimester.

  Then he says: “Eight pounds. So beautiful, Nimmy, she’s such a doll.”

  I burst out crying too. Siddiqui, Santha, Bala, all look up and even Dr Alagasamy comes out of his office.

  “Thank God, Bhaiya. Congratulations. Congratulations. Send photos, na? Lots of photos.” I disconnect the call and smile at everyone. When I open my mouth, nothing comes out.

  Siddiqui says: “Your niece?”

  I hold out eight fingers. “Pounds,” I manage to say. “Eight pounds.”

  “Congratulations,” says Dr Alagasamy.

  “Heartiest congratulations.” From the one corner I didn’t expect.

  I look at Bala and smile. “Thank you. Thank you.”

  Chia Ying is just taking her shift break and I pull her down to Tanjong Pagar to buy bunbelievable coffee buns. Two, no, three, no, a box of six for everyone in the lab and hang the cost. Another dozen for home as well.

  “I’ll treat you to anything you want to eat,” I tell Chia Ying and she laughs.

  “Just Salad Stop.” She pats her stomach. “Still recovering from reunion dinner.”

  By the time we have our buns and seats at Salad Stop, Romy-Bhaiya has sent multiple photos of the cutest red-faced kishmish ever. That’s going to be my name for her: little Kishmish, which means “raisin” and because she is the sweetest little miss you want to kiss.

  I explain this to Chia Ying who looks at the ceiling and shakes her head.

  “Nimmy in auntie mode. I can’t wait to see you with one of your own.”

  I shake my head. “That will never happen. Oh, Chia Ying, see this? She’s actually smiling in this. Oh and in this one, her eyes are open.”

  I can’t wait to show these photos to everyone in the lab. I hope Siddiqui won’t be jealous at how cute my Kishmish is compared to Meher.

  I share the photos on the Flatmates WhatsApp chat and Irving pings back: “Congratulations! When’s the party?”

&
nbsp; “Actually, Chia Ying, I wanted to ask you both. Can I throw a party? A dinner for my labmates?”

  Chia Ying transfers the onions from her sandwich into my plate. “Sure, no problem. When?”

  “I’ll ask around when everyone is free. Maybe in two weeks? Kishmish will be named officially by then. It can be her naming party in Singapore.”

  “I thought she already has a name?”

  “Yes, they have to have one name ready at the hospital so one of her names will be Urmila. But the pundit, you know, the priest, will also have to find out which are the auspicious sounds for her name and maybe she’ll have another one.”

  Chia Ying nods. “In my family, we use a poem. Every generation has to have one character from one line of the poem. Just the boys.”

  “Typical.”

  “What?”

  “I said typical, Chia Ying. Stop putting your onions in my salad. Why don’t you just remember to order the wrap without onions?”

  “Shy, lah. Here, I give you some tandoori chicken.”

  “Tandoori chicken must be eaten with onions. How can you enjoy your wrap like that?”

  I message Irving about the party and he immediately replies: “Sure!”

  Then his WhatsApp status shows “typing…” for a long time. Finally, the message comes: “I’d like to invite someone too.”

  I show Chia Ying the message. “Look, I think he wants to bring his special friend.”

  Chia Ying grunts, taking one last ring of onion out of her wrap.

  We take the train back one stop to Outram Park and then begin climbing up the hill, carrying boxes of vegan coffee buns. It’s very hot so we take the long way through the sheltered walkway leading through the main blocks.

  There are lots of people out even though it is 3pm. Many of them are probably here to visit the hearing centre. So sad. So many young men, so fit, but having to wear hearing aids.

  “What?” Chia Ying says. I point to the young men.

  “See, it’s so sad. They look so healthy but all have hearing problems.”

  Chia Ying stops walking. So do I.

  “What?”

  She shakes her head. “I can’t believe this. You really think these guys are patients?”

  “Then what? Look, they have all wires in their ears.”

  She comes closer and whispers in my ear. “Don’t you know who’s been warded in SGH for so many days now?”

  “No, who?”

  “Lee Kuan Yew.” She breathes the name so softly I can’t hear at first. “So poor thing. Warded in hospital before SG50 celebrations.”

  “Who?”

  “Lee Kuan Yew!” She jumps on hearing her own voice. “You know.”

  “The prime minister of Singapore?”

  “Wah lao, woman.” She starts walking. “His father.”

  “Oh. Poor man.” Poor prime minister. “What does that have to do with the deaf men?”

  Chia Ying throws her head back. “Wah lao! Those are bodyguards, idiot. Never watch movies, is it?”

  Bodyguards? Oh, for the prime minister’s father.

  Yes, it is sad when a family member is ill before a big celebration. The prime minister will not want to celebrate, even though he has to.

  Singapore celebrates its independence on 9th August, six days before India does the same.

  We reach the National Cancer Centre. Chia Ying walks me to the pantry. As we’re putting the buns away, she asks: “You do know who Lee Kuan Yew is, right?”

  “You just told me. Father of the prime minister.”

  She shakes her head. “I’ll send you the Wikipedia article. You are lucky there is no test you have to take before applying for PR.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” But she’s gone.

  I sit down on the pantry couch and check Facebook. Dad has already updated the family page and congratulations are flowing in.

  “Aunty would be so happy,” Pritty-Bua has written.

  The window from the pantry looks out onto the tops of the few trees left on the SGH grounds. With the air-con, I can pretend I am in Lonavla. I close my eyes and think of standing with Dadi on that hill overlooking her dollhouse property, the one on a rolling green hill, with a garden of beautiful cold-weather flowers.

  How can Romy-Bhaiya want to sell the house Dadi bought?

  I double-click on the Haanji app and tap on Mummy’s number. Then disconnect. There is nothing to say.

  6.

  At 4pm I realise we have no coffee cups or coffee to serve my guests.

  “Chia Ying!”

  She comes into the kitchen. “Relax, lah, I just put out your precious red serviettes.”

  I hold her by the shoulders and turn her left. “The saag paneer is ready. The dal and mattar aloo also. The gobi aloo is cooking in the kadai, stir every two minutes and turn off in fifteen.”

  I turn her right. “Raita is in the fridge. Pulao is to be made as soon as the first guest arrives. See, the rice is washed and soaking, the vegetables are all chopped up and I’m even putting the spices in the cooker and measuring out the water. Just turn on the gas, add the rice and water and put a lid on. By then I’ll be back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  I’m already out of the kitchen door. “We don’t have proper cups, na? No coffee also.”

  “Hold it, hold it.” Chia Ying grabs me by the shoulders. “What do you mean no cups? We have, like, twenty mugs.”

  How to explain to this person? “Chia Ying, mismatched mugs of different colour, which we got on free offer with dishwashing soap and all, are not considered proper cups, yah? I’m going to go buy some now.” Bukit Batok mall doesn’t have a good range so I’ll have to travel one station to Jurong East and see.

  She steps in front of me. “Nimita Sachdev. You better calm down. You are not going to go buy coffee mugs.”

  “Yes, I am.” I try to move around her but she is strong.

  “Wah lao eh, woman, can you calm down? Breathe with me. Do your pranayama breathing. Now, Nimmy! Breathe!”

  I do pranayama breathing because she is very strong. After six breaths, she lets go of my shoulders.

  “Now. Let’s review the situation, okay? You have eight guests—no, with Irving’s friend, nine—coming over. You have already spent over three hundred dollars on dinner plates and bowls.”

  “That is a good long-term investment, Chia Ying, just like buying property versus renting a flat. What’s the point of spending fifty dollars on good quality paper plates, which you will use once, when these can be used many times?”

  “Quiet! Let me finish.” She does pranayama breathing. “You, Nimita Sachdev, the most stingy person I know, you have spent over three hundred dollars on crockery for one dinner.”

  “I can reuse—”

  “You have made me clean and dust and decorate this flat. When I tried to put paper towels out—”

  “Didn’t I buy those nice red paper napkins? They go so nicely with the dinner set also.”

  Chia Ying shakes my shoulders. “I am going to strangle you. You are not going to spend any more money! You are going to calm down right now, this minute!”

  “But Chia Ying, my boss is coming with his wife and we have no proper cups and no proper coffee to serve them.”

  “We have a Nespresso machine.”

  “But Dr Alagasamy and Bala and Santha are South Indian! They will expect more.”

  “Wah lao eh!” Chia Ying throws her hands up and walks into the kitchen. I hear my phone ping.

  She has sent a message on the Flatmates WhatsApp chat group: “Siao ah your friend. Nespresso not good enough”

  Irving replies: “”

  Then: “N, relax. There will be proper coffee.”

  I breathe out. If Irving is on the case, it will be fine.

  I type back: “Ok Thank you”

  Irving has made dessert, proper coconut ice-cream—lactose-free sorbet, he calls it—to be served on a bed of ice-cold pandan jelly with bits of coconut cr
eam. He has told Chia Ying and me at least ten times that only he can serve it. Until he comes back, no one else is to touch the trays chilling in the freezer.

  Cool it, I told him and he said: “Cool It. That’s a great idea for the title. Cool It: Frozen Foods from Siberia to Singapore. Hold on while I WhatsApp my agent.”

  Irving has to pick up his special friend from the airport so he will be late for dinner. But he promises they will reach in time for dessert. I told Irving his special friend could stay with us but he said the friend has a place to stay already.

  He also said his friend was nervous about meeting us. How sweet, na? Like I’m really Irving’s sister.

  Honestly, I’m also a bit nervous about meeting Irving’s special friend. Like before meeting Divanka-Bhabhi. She was great but her existence meant Romy-Bhaiya would no longer be just my Bhaiya.

  Chia Ying comes out of the kitchen. “I think the gobi aloo is burning.”

  “Oh my god!” I rush in and save it. “Stir from the bottom, na, like I’m always telling you.”

  Chia Ying doesn’t reply. I come out and don’t see my flatmate anywhere in the living area. She must have gone for her bath.

  The place is looking nice. The living room tiles are sparkling clean, the PS4 is tidied away. There are actual flowers in actual vases and some of my embroidered sheets are acting as tablecloths and sofa throws.

  I sit down on the sofa and then jump up. No sitting until I also have my bath.

  Something knocks against the grille door. Chia Ying is balancing a big cardboard box. “Help,” she says.

  We put it on the table. Inside are ten neatly packed white china cups with gold rims and matching plates.

  “Chia Ying, how did you—?”

  “These are Hafeezah’s,” she says.

  I don’t say anything.

  Chia Ying says: “You didn’t invite her? She’s our nearest neighbour on this floor.”

  “It didn’t occur to me,” I say, going back into the kitchen. It really didn’t. Just as it wouldn’t have occurred to me to borrow Hafeezah’s cups. I’m surprised she even lent them to us.