Better if I give Hafeezah the $25,000 she wants and charge her 0.5 per cent interest monthly.
Like I said, I’m not doing charity. That is an extra $125 a month, fully legal. It’s equivalent to one return airplane ticket to Mumbai every four months, if I want. It will help with the extra rent I will have to pay once Irving moves out and takes his PlayStation with him.
Chia Ying signs both copies of the IOU. I give one to Hafeezah with the cheque. “Here you go. Withdraw any time.”
“I go tomorrow,” she says. Smart woman, that one. The interest is only chargeable after her salon starts operation. When I showed her the first draft of the IOU she said: “Oh, Nimita, you made mistake putting today’s date in interest line. How I can pay you until salon starts work, yah?”
I was also not born yesterday. I added a clause that states that the salon must begin operation within three months of the loan being made or Hafeezah would have to make full capital repayment with a month’s interest.
For some reason, this has made Hafeezah even more free with me. Looks like we both understand naatak-baazi and, frankly, enjoy it.
“Now we must eat something sweet,” she says, bringing out a box of kaju katli from her bag. Freshly air-flown from India and bought from Mustafa.
Chia Ying and I both eat a piece. Hafeezah says we must keep the box.
I give her the box of chocolates I had brought from my side.
On the way out, Hafeezah tells me: “For you, no charge, any facial or hair treatment. For your friends, I give good discount. Bring all your friends.”
I look back to see what she’s looking at over my shoulder. Chia Ying has taken two more pieces of kaju katli.
After Hafeezah is safely in her flat, I take the box away from my flatmate. “No. Bad Chia Ying, bad, bad. You want to get pimples?”
I put the box in the fridge. Chia Ying follows me in.
“So weird.”
“What’s weird?”
“You literally lent money to Hafeezah.”
“Yah, so?”
“With a contract and everything.”
“Yes?” I close the fridge door. “What, I should have just given it to her? Who am I, Dhirubhai Ambani? Billionaire Tan Ah Kow? This way it’s all clear and settled.”
Chia Ying shakes her head. She goes to turn on the TV.
If she thinks this was odd, wait till she hears my second plan. I go into my bedroom and shut the door. I put the IOU Hafeezah signed in the puja place, in front of the pictures of Shiva and Parvati and Rama and Sita and Lakshmana and the small statue of elephant-headed Ganesha.
I touch Ganesha’s round belly for luck and then sit in front of my desk.
I get up, turn on the air-conditioning and wear a blazer. Then I double-click the Haanji app on my laptop.
Gautam Bhatia picks up just before the call is about to automatically disconnect. “Hi,” he says, face very close to the screen. “My God, hi! Hi! How are you?”
“I’m fine. How are you? Where are you?”
He is in Delhi, which is going to be super-hot very soon.
It has been raining in Singapore, I tell him. “Any mangoes yet?”
“A few in the market. Not very good quality but you know, at least there are mangoes.”
I tell him about the Chaunsa I ate at Siddiqui’s place. “Almost as nice as Alphonso. You have had Alphonso?”
“Is that the one you suck? No, then I haven’t.”
I clear my throat. Enough hi-hello naatak-baazi. “Gautam, I’m actually calling for a serious reason.”
Now that I’m about to say this, I am very nervous. I have never done this before.
He sits up straight. His face moves a little away from the screen.
He also looks nervous.
“I have one proposal for you.”
He blinks. Then he nods. “Yes. Absolutely! Yes!”
“I am hoping you will consider my proposal from all angles before deciding,” I say and then I realise what I’ve heard. “You haven’t even heard my proposal. It’s for a partnership between us.”
He smiles. Such a big smile that I can see a chip in the front tooth that the dentist has filled in with the wrong colour of cement. Such good quality video Haanji has. This proposal is the right idea.
“I have been hoping and hoping you will say this,” he says.
Really? Things were so bad for him in Singapore? Poor guy.
“Okay. But for my idea to work, first you must tell me if you can do some cooking.”
He nods his head and crosses his arms. “Not just you Mumbai girls, Delhi girls also want this nowadays. Even if there is a bhaiya in the kitchen. When I was in Singapore to study, I cooked for myself, you know.”
“Haan? But I’m not talking Maggi-shaggi and omelettes, yah? Some special cooking. Something that will blow my mind.”
He stops nodding. “I can learn something,” he says, after a while.
“Very good. Because the success of our venture will depend on this.”
He starts nodding again. “I understand. Everyone wants this nowadays. Fifty-fifty partnership.”
Fifty-fifty? So generous?
“Gautam, that is too generous. No, I did my research. My share of work will be fifteen per cent, maybe, twenty-five per cent at most. See, I will be doing the social aspect, na? Social networking and all. Plus I have a full-time job, which I don’t want to give up.”
He moves closer to the screen. “I will never ask you to give up your job.”
“Wonderful. But I promise I will give enough focus to my role. I will add lots of value to your team.”
He tilts his head. “My team?”
“Haan, your Haanji team. Full research I did. You are CEO and MD, there is that Sinha who is Finance, Malkani who is R&D and Chhabria who is Marketing. But I think you need a lot more help with marketing. Help that I can definitely provide.”
“Haanji?”
“Haanji.” He’s holding the screen with two hands now. “Gautam, are you okay? Is the air-con on?” He looks very red.
He goes to get a glass of water. When he comes back, his face is wet.
“Sorry,” he says. “Can you start again? I didn’t understand what you were saying.”
I repeat it again for him. I think Haanji is a fantastic app. See how many downloads it gets in India.
Problem is, there is no visibility outside the country. Pakistanis will love it, Singaporeans will love it. I bet there is even a market for it in China.
“You need to raise your brand visibility and that is just what I can do for you.” Me and my friends anyway.
Gautam sits back with arms crossed. He is looking a lot more doubtful.
“You want to join my Haanji team. You want stock options. Nimita,” he smiles, “we have a paper value of three crore rupees.”
I know that smile. I hate that smile. I see it so often on Romy-Bhaiya or Bala or even Irving when they think I’m being unreasonable, like if I had all the knowledge they did, I would see things their way.
“Paper value, haan? And how many people in Singapore advanced you cash on the strength of that paper?”
Gautam’s eyes grow big. For a moment, I think I may have lost the deal.
“Listen, Gautam.” Quick, naatak-baazi. Use the name. Soften the body language. Uncross my arms, smile a little. “You have a great product. So good everyone I show it to immediately downloads and uses. What you don’t have is the reach that will help you achieve your dream of being listed on the stock exchange.”
“Actually, my dream is to sell Haanji to a high bidder, like Microsoft.”
“Haan, yes, that dream. I can give you that visibility.”
Ten more minutes and we have a verbal agreement, what they call a gentleman’s agreement—if I deliver a certain amount’s worth of publicity, I will get the stock options.
“I’ll basically track your efficiency by seeing how much money we raise on Kickstarter after you put your plan into action, okay?”
He opens his mouth to say something, but my finger is already on the red button.
Done. That’s done.
I do pranayama breathing to calm my heart.
Now for the hardest part. I send Irving a private message: “I need to speak to you.”
Two ticks show the message is sent.
“Where are you?”
Another two ticks show this message has also been delivered.
The ticks aren’t blue yet, meaning he hasn’t read them.
I go outside. Chia Ying is surfing channels.
“Would you believe it made the news?” she says.
“What?”
“The Labour Day protest.”
“What protest?” I put the laptop and my phone to charge.
Chia Ying passes me her phone. “See this? Hong Lim Park May Day protest. Singaporeans protesting foreign workers who take jobs from Singaporeans.”
“Another one? They are doing it annually now or what?”
She takes her phone back from me. “Hello, woman, are you paying attention? You know what they’ve been saying about foreigners coming here? You know it’s been getting worse?”
I hug her shoulders. “Why are you so angry?”
“Why are you hugging me?”
“Because you are angry for me.” I let go. “Relax. You want coffee?”
She calls as I go into the kitchen. “Listen, Lee Kuan Yew has died. Everything will change this year, you see. Singapore could—”
Water steams through the milk and I can’t hear her any more.
Singapore is a family that has just lost its father. When your elder dies, you want to preserve what he or she has built, not tear it down.
I should know. I feel that way about the Lonavla house.
Chia Ying takes my mocha so I have to make another cup for myself. We are halfway through the box of kaju katli—free facials I get, na? Chia Ying can do what she wants with her money—when Irving responds to my text.
“What?”
I don’t look up from my phone. “Irving. I messaged him.”
“And?”
“He’s at Changi Airport. Sending off a friend.”
His next message reads: “Terminal 1.”
Then: “Cathay Pacific flight, departing for Hong Kong 8pm.”
“Now what?” Chia Ying says.
I shake my head.
I put another piece of kaju katli in my mouth.
The time right now is 5pm.
I imagine things as they would unfold in a Bollywood film. I book a cab. It drops me at Changi Airport’s Terminal 1 in 25 minutes, maybe 35 if there is traffic.
I rush to the departure flight board and figure out the boarding gate.
I run, faster than I ever have, to the big glass walls that separate the check-in counters from the immigration checkpoint. I see Irving in front of me, he has his back to me, so he does not see me.
I walk behind Irving. There is a potted plant to his left. Airport security some distance to his right. I could step behind the plant or the security people.
Instead I stand on his right and look where he is looking.
There is a man as handsome as a Bollywood star with a few white hairs above his ears. He is smiling and joking with the person manning the immigration counter.
He goes through immigration. He turns around like everyone always turns around, for that one final wave which says: “I love you, thank you, I’m going now.”
He turns to wave goodbye to Irving and sees me.
His face—
That is where the movie ends in my mind. I can’t imagine the expression on his face. I can’t imagine my reaction to it either. What would I do if it is happy? And if it is sad, then what?
I swallow the kaju katli piece and nearly choke on the thickness of it.
“Oi, careful.” Chia Ying thumps my back. “Can die like that you know.”
I swallow. The sweetness burns down my chest.
I pick up my phone and tap the taxi booking app.
“Are you crying?” Chia Ying says. “Want water?”
I shake my head. “I’m going out for a bit, okay?”
4.
Vimla Tiwana insists on buying the drinks. “That’s two hot lattes, one espresso, yah? Some cakes, Irving?”
Irving shakes his head.
Vimla turns to her fiancé. “Jaan, why don’t you both catch places?”
“How will you carry everything?” Vicky Malhotra says.
“There are such things as trays.”
“At least take my wallet.”
“No, you pay for everything. Not fair.”
“Don’t be silly, jaanu, here.” He forces a leather rectangle into Vimla’s hand and takes her shoulder bag. “I’m confiscating this.”
Irving spots a spare table and leaves the couple to their cooing. He takes his phone out for the fifth time in a minute, sees the two blue ticks to his message and the fact that there has been no response.
Vicky joins him and he puts the phone away.
“Women,” Vicky says, smiling widely. “One day you’ll be a hen-pecked husband too. Then you’ll understand.”
He stretches his legs out. They brush Irving’s. “Sorry,” Vicky says.
Irving tucks his legs away. He is not sure what to do with his hands, or his eyes. It is hard looking at Vicky Malhotra, at his old school friend and former tennis-club captain, the lanky, athletic figure Irving has hero-worshipped for years.
He looks at his own hands folded in his lap, seeing another wrist, darker than his, more delicate than his, with a cord-like scar encircling the joint. His right leg begins to move of its own accord.
A touch on his arm and he blinks. “Sorry, what?”
“You okay, man?” Vicky laughs, pats him on the shoulder. “You’ve been working too hard, yeah? You’ve hardly had any time for me in the last few weeks.”
Irving tries to smile. “I’ve had to sort a few things out.”
“Yeah, how’s the university thing working out for you?”
Vimla comes over and Vicky gets up to take the tray from her. “Careful, jaanu, you nearly spilled this.”
Vimla hands Vicky his wallet and sits down. “What are we talking about?”
“Irving’s been too busy to hang out with me this week. Like you have.” Vicky takes a sip of latte. “What’s in this?”
Vimla smiles. “Sorry, jaan, they don’t have Sweet’N Low so I put Equal. The taste is funny?”
“Yes.” Vicky makes a face. “Give me yours.”
Vimla quickly puts a hand on top of her mug. “I’ve put Equal in this one also.”
“Damn it. Careful next time,” Vicky says, but he drinks his coffee.
Vimla moves her hand from her cup. Her shoulders relax.
The expression on her face is familiar. There were many times Irving felt like this too.
There is a hierarchy in high school. There are the unforgettable sunlit gods who excel in sports and studies, the knights who serve in either capacity, the failures so bad they are infamous and instantly recognisable.
Then there are the forgettable: mediocre toilers, backbenchers, another face in an army wearing the same white uniform with burgundy jacket.
Irving was among the forgettable. His brothers had not been, so the teachers had worn a permanent expression of disappointment midway through the year. Not as fast as his brothers at track and field, not as smart as his brothers at math and science, their eyes would say.
Irving’s sole refuge was his camera. He took moody atmosphere shots and pasted them obsessively into scrapbooks.
Then, one day, he was tracking nimbus clouds from the spectators’ spot above the playing fields when the sky opened in that sudden shout of rain peculiar to Hong Kong. Schoolboys scattered, the tennis team took refuge near Irving’s vantage point and Vicky threw his racquet on top of Irving’s camera bag.
“Hey! That’s
expensive!”
Vicky turned around slowly and Irving realised he might be in trouble. That Malhotra boy was an ace player, but he had a temper, had been known to backhand players—with his hand—for not pushing hard enough in a game. Never where a teacher or coach might see him, of course, and who would tell?
The face, the light, the expression against the glowering clouds—it was perfect. Without thinking twice, Irving took the shot.
When he lowered the camera, Vicky’s face was such that Irving almost raised the lens again. For protection.
Vicky walked over and took the camera from Irving’s unresisting hand. He opened the back and took out the film. “Get out,” he said.
Irving did but two days later, found Vicky at his classroom door.
“Some of those photos were good,” he said. “Want to take some of our team for the school newsletter?”
Irving’s shoulders relaxed.
To be part of Vicky Malhotra’s circle was to have sunlight illuminating your schooldays. No more lurking on schoolgrounds or reading photography journals alone in the library. Vicky was generous in his affection, showering his friends with treats, paying for illicit cigarettes and alcohol and taxi rides home after midnight escapades in Mongkok.
It was Vicky who first lit a spark in Irving’s affection-starved heart, with his casual arm around the shoulder, back pats and tight, beery hugs. Physical affection came easily to Vicky, but had been alien and therefore addictive to Irving. He had been brought up in a typical Chinese family, where his mother shovelled food on his plate to show love and his father used the cane to push his child towards good grades.
Vicky’s family embraced his friends too. His mother scolded Irving for tearing a button off his school shirt, but sewed it back on for him. His sister—but that way lay danger, for she was already engaged to be married. Dangerous to think of Aditi; as dangerous to think of her brother at night when no one saw, but surely the thoughts would show on his face in the light of day.
Irving spent four years being Vicky’s personal photographer and wingman in Causeway Bay hangouts and a few nerve-wracking nights in the seedier side of Kowloon. Four years being part of the golden circle in school that teachers tapped for school honours and juniors followed like lovestruck puppies. Four heady years that ended in unrequited heartbreak when Irving went to university.
Nimita's Place Page 44