The Cambridge Curry Club

by Saumya Balsari

  Diana travelled to India when she was twenty-four. She had originally planned a visit to Brazil, fired by a previous encounter in London with a man of mixed German and Amazon-Indian blood, who smoked thin, twirled cigarettes of dubious origin, brushed his teeth with bark and wore no underwear. She soon tired of his caveman looks, halting English and neat bottom shaking to the samba beat.

  India and a people’s raw display of emotions left her wary of the depths of dark, warm eyes. A hurried coupling with the Rajasthan tour guide would have been a mistake, and she had been wise to ignore his boyish charm and reject his gift of a sandalwood elephant, as she did the advances of the suave, handsome businessman at the Taj Hotel bar overlooking the Bombay harbour.

  She had strolled out one evening from the air-conditioned splendour of the hotel lobby and into the world outside. A sticky blanket of heat had clung to her bare arms and legs as she walked under the arch of the Gateway of India, where King George and Queen Mary had once been welcomed with pomp and ceremony. Assailed by postcard-sellers, chattering footmen behind a queen’s train, she finally sat on a parapet overlooking the harbour with its bobbing boats and grey water that never turned blue. Beside her was a family of Indian tourists, and the children chattered excitedly, pointing to various landmarks. A toddler in a woman’s lap entwined his fingers into Diana’s scarf, imprisoning the tassels in his little fist, and she stared solemnly into his brown eyes before disengaging her scarf. She rose and walked back to her air-conditioned room. Diana had learned at an early age that attachment, especially to pets and parents, led to heartbreak. IndiaNeed was born twenty years later as Diana’s apology to the country of her father’s birth.

  ‘How many times have I told her my name’s not “Helen”,’ stormed Heera, after Diana had abruptly terminated their conversation. ‘You know, girls, I don’t understand – what’s this English problem with names? I have a cousin, Ashok Binani, who lives in Edgware. He’s become quite fat now, but anyway, he used to be in the British Army – he was in the Falklands War – and d’you know what those English Army blokes called him?’ She paused for dramatic effect. ‘Bill.’ She repeated, ‘Bill. Now you tell me, d’you see any connection between “Ashok” and “Bill”?’

  ‘Well, Army Bloke Ashok didn’t have a choice, but what about the Asian population in Cambridge? Half of them call themselves Bill or Barry, Jill or Jane, and the other half’s like me, putting up with ridiculous versions of our names. I’m Der-ger, Dugga, Dooga or Dergay, take your pick and mix,’ laughed Durga, as she offered the other women a bar of Cadbury’s.

  ‘I just realised your husband’s a plumber, Eileen, and his surname is Watts. He should have been an electrician,’ teased Heera.

  Eileen put away the basket of assorted skeins of wool and muttered as she munched a piece of milk chocolate, ‘He should have been a lot of things.’ She did not elaborate further on what might have been, nor on what might have been left.

  ‘Except for Lady Di, no one has problems with my name. How about you, Swarna?’ asked Heera.

  ‘People usually call me “Sara”’ admitted Swarnakumari. ‘But what to do? If they can’t say my name, they can’t, na?’

  ‘Or won’t?’ said Durga, licking her fingers. She loved chocolate with the passion that some women reserved for lipstick.

  A name was nothing, thought Durga. She herself was nothing like her namesake in Hindu mythology – the Goddess Durga, protector of the good and the pure, and destroyer of the evil demon Mahishasura. According to legend, the combined energies of the gods created the feminine form of a ten-armed yellow-clad woman riding a lion. They hastily supplied her with weapons of destruction against the demon and she became Durgashtini or a mother goddess who destroyed evil and offered her devotees protection.

  Names could be misleading; Durga’s aunt, whose skin was the colour of milk with a spoonful of honey, had been superstitiously nicknamed Kaali, ‘The Dark One’, as the first surviving child after three stillbirths. Was a name an identity, an anonymous cloak or a terrifying emptying of self? The extra ‘a’ that her Gujarati neighbour Anal Shah had hastily inserted between the ‘n’ and ‘l’ of his name after receiving a scholarship to Harvard was the linchpin between respect and ridicule, but Ajay Dikshit at Trinity, a Cambridge friend, had succeeded in solemnising a marriage with Emma Cockburn in front of an audience too solemn to titter during the exchange of vows.

  Durga said, ‘So you mean Ashok is told, “Shoot the enemy, Bill!” and when the job is done and Ashok gets a medal, it’s “Well done, Bill!” and pat, pat on the broad back.’

  Heera continued, ‘Exactly. I don’t think I told you about Seema Tipnis; she was a receptionist to an eye specialist called Ramsbottom. Poor thing, she was so embarrassed to say this man’s name. After all, she’s Hindu – how could she refer to Lord Rama’s bottom fifty times a day? She told us his name was Dr Ramsey, but I found out, anyway.’

  ‘Naturally,’ said Durga.

  ‘Talking of names, funny how Asians born here just can’t pronounce Indian words the way we do,’ remarked Heera. ‘I once challenged a young Punjabi fellow to say “Pandit Ravi Shankar”. And do you know – each and every word sounded so strange from his mouth. I said to him straight, “If you can say the ‘a’ in ‘another’, why do you have to say it like ‘ant’?”’ Heera paused, puzzled. ‘But you don’t talk like that, Durga, and you have lived here all your life,’ she remarked. Distracted by the sight of Eileen carrying a pair of longjohns, she continued, ‘Arre, I thought I asked you to throw this pair of men’s thermals away. Why are they still here?’

  ‘But they are new. Someone can use them, na,’ protested Swarnakumari reasonably.

  ‘Who do you have in mind? Darling Rupert? Have you seen how long the fork is? It can lift a truck,’ observed Durga.

  ‘I have a funny story to tell you about thermals, girls. My cousin Viju came to stay with us. Smart chap, he cracked the ticketing system of the London Underground by the second day, so he stopped buying a ticket. When his wife smiles, you see her large pink gums first, then her teeth. Anyway, you know how many of these first-time Indians are: he wore sweaters here even in the summer. Such a smell of mothballs! White thermals under his shiny suit on a Sunday, can you imagine, and we went to the Natural History Museum. I think the thermals had a very long fork, because it was looking so bunched up under his belt, I knew it couldn’t be natural. Oh, and one trouser leg of his suit was longer than the other, so I asked him why. He said the Indian tailor told him he should continue wearing the trousers and it would be all right in time. Arre, what a funny thing for the tailor to say!’ roared Heera.

  Durga interrupted, ‘Viju could grow a longer leg. It’s never too late.’

  ‘Anyway, we saw specimens of those reptiles in the museum, and then his thermals started itching, so we couldn’t go to the Imperial War Museum. We had to come back to Cambridge. I finally told him straight, “Enough of this nonsense!” I made him change into a white kurta pyjama and Bata rubber flip-flops, and he was so happy. I saw his suitcase later. My God, so many Ludhiana Mill woollies, strips of Saridon, Vicks inhaler, cough drops, Johnson’s turmeric bandaid, Madhiwala ointment, clove oil for toothache, Amrutanjan pain balm, Jeevdaya Netraprabha for sparkling eyes, safety pins and a bandage, even that anti-flatulence stuff, you know, Havabaan Harde. I just couldn’t believe it. Was he preparing to go into an English jungle, or what? And when he was leaving to go back to Delhi, he gave me five packets of rose incense sticks. They are so strong, I get an instant headache.’

  ‘Then you should have kept his Amrutanjan pain balm also, na,’ advised Swarnakumari.

  ‘What to do? I usually get very boring gifts from India,’ shrugged Heera.

  ‘Like oil-shedding mango pickle,’ contributed Durga moodily.

  ‘Or twenty sandalwood paper cutters. I tell you, I have some strange guests in my house, and where they all come from, God only knows! I once came home to find strangers waiting outside my front door. He w
as a software consultant from Birmingham and his parents had just arrived from Delhi. They knew a friend of mine in Hyderabad, that’s how they’d heard of me. They made themselves comfortable, drank my tea, ate my biscuits, but his ma was so tired, he said, jetlag continuing from two days ago, could she lie down somewhere for a few minutes, so I showed her to the guest room. Then he said, Ma and Baba must be so hungry, not used to this cold, could I suggest some place they could eat, but Ma was a pure vegetarian and already tired of eating bread. After her nap, Ma suddenly sprang up full of energy like a toddler with a dry nappy, and got busy in my kitchen, helping me cook rice and dal. Then the son announced he was on a carbohydrate-free meat diet to control his diabetes without medicine, did I have any lamb or chicken, and look how Ma is shivering, how is she going to make it back to Birmingham, it is already so dark, and she had wanted to see Cambridge. As soon as he said that, his mother immediately went all floppy. So they stayed the night. On top of that, I had to lend the whole family their nightclothes. The son is a little taller than Bob, and he complained, “Oh look, these pyjamas of your husband are too short for me.” Arre, was he waiting for designer Burberry made to his size, or what? I told him, “As long as Bob’s pyjamas cover your bits, that’s all that should matter.” Then he asked if I had thought of breakfast, because Ma liked apple juice, orange juice was too sharp for her teeth, and Baba liked white bread for toast, and did I have enough milk? Ma awoke at five and started moving around noisily, so I had to get up too. She asked me when I went downstairs, bete, how do you boil the water here, I want to make chai, and can Baba do his yoga asanas on your carpet – no hurry, whenever you are ready. Can you believe this behaviour? And no Diwali card, no thank you letter from these strangers afterwards,’ concluded Heera indignantly as the shop bell tinkled.

  A toddler on a leash dragged his mother towards a Lego helicopter that he instantly dismantled while she looked apologetic. An expensively dressed woman entered a moment later with a tiny shaggy dog clinging to her bosom.

  ‘Where’s Diana?’ she demanded sharply.

  ‘Mrs Wellington-Smythe is not here, she has gone riding,’ answered Heera. ‘I’m sorry, but no pets are allowed in the shop.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. Phoebe wouldn’t hurt a flea or a fly. She stays right here with me, and you may tell Diana I said so,’ the visitor retorted firmly. ‘Well, I haven’t driven all the way from Latham Road for nothing. I’ll give her a ring, but if she isn’t going to show up, I’d better look round the shop myself.’

  The woman advanced, tenderly stroking the pet with her red nails. Swarnakumari froze as she met the creature’s penetrating eyes. Guru Ma’s prayer book had contained no references to pets.

  ‘I’m the manager. Why don’t I show you around?’ suggested Heera.

  ‘Not much to show, is there?’ said the woman. ‘Who do you get in here, or daren’t I ask? Let me guess – dear old ladies with their knitting needles, dirty men in raincoats, impecunious students, mothers looking for next year’s Christmas presents in January?’ The woman smoothed her hair thoughtfully. ‘I’m amazed Diana has kept this outfit running so long. About two months, isn’t it? She’s right – it does need a complete makeover. She can’t keep asking Board members to send in the stock and buy it back, too. What do you get in here?’ She stopped at the window display. ‘I mean, really! An assortment of Wedgwood teacups and saucers, Indian trinkets, wine glasses, Jane Shilton handbags, Crabtree and Evelyn bath salts, lavender-scented candles, a china plate, the Queen’s framed photograph. What is this, a shop for geriatrics?’

  She looked disdainfully at the shelves and the racks. ‘Where is your designer collection? Jaeger, Betty Barclay, Krizia? Handbags, shoes? Prada, Gucci, Fendi, Burberry? I thought not. Absolute rubbish in here. I’d say those Indian beaded necklaces are pretty, and the scarves and bags too, but this shop needs quality. It has to be trendy, chic.’ As she turned, she tripped on a piece of Lego that had detached itself from the child’s fingers. She ignored the mother’s hasty apology and wagged a stern finger at the boy. ‘That’s very dangerous, young man! Your mother should really keep you – oh, I see, you already have a leash.’

  She turned to Swarnakumari. ‘Well, clearly, even if you did run an upmarket charity shop, it’s in the wrong location. Ideally, you should be somewhere like Rose Crescent. And it is absolutely pointless having Postman Pat and hot-water bottles in here; you are simply turning away the well-heeled clientele you need.’

  Swarnakumari agreed, nodding her head in bewilderment.

  ‘Did Diana tell you about the new animal charity she wants to set up here? We are going to protect a rare species of Indonesian fox. It really is a most amazing animal, and it is being hunted for its fur, but anyway, I’m trying to convince Diana that this place would be just as marvellous as a trendy little French coffee shop instead. Monet, Manet, Matisse on the walls, croissants, pain au chocolat, café au lait – that sort of thing. It’s a good size of room, bigger than the Salvation Army shop,’ she said consideringly. ‘It would be an excellent place for the school mothers to meet. Parking is such a chore outside Browns – I’m always afraid I’ll get my wheels stuck in those ridiculous gutters of Hobson’s Conduit. It’s an absolute nightmare. Not that you have a great deal of parking here, either. None, in fact, as far as I can see. Anyway, I suppose Diana will explain it all to you. Now I simply must give her a call.’

  The woman rummaged in her handbag for her mobile and placed the dog on the floor. ‘Di? Vicky Bartlett. Where are you? I thought we were meeting at your shop. Anyway, I’m here, and I’m through, so if you want to meet up after lunch instead … Not Browns again, sweetie … Oh well, all right, I suppose we could collect the children directly afterwards. See you in twenty minutes? Ciao.’

  It happened very quickly. The dog, unaccustomed to exercise away from Victoria Bartlett’s sedentary breast, took a wobbly step forward. The child stamped on its paw. The dog yelped, Victoria Bartlett screamed and bent to scoop up the dog and glared into the child’s eyes, and the child screamed back and threw up over her Prada shoes. Victoria Bartlett left holding her dog and her temper.

  ‘What a time we have had, baba. That naughty child, the dirty vomit, cleaning,’ sighed Swarnakumari, a quarter of an hour later.

  ‘You didn’t clean up the mess, Eileen did,’ contradicted Heera. ‘And I could have kissed that child, if he hadn’t thrown up. I gave him a free lolly from the till,’ she confessed.

  ‘I slipped him one, too,’ confided Durga. ‘Three, actually. I hope he does throw up again; that child will go far. If his mother gets rid of the leash first, that is. He’s a strategist displaying precision timing.’

  ‘How come I never see you doing any cleaning up, Durga?’ Heera asked suddenly. ‘Too many posh madams in this shop?’

  ‘Forget it, na, Heera. The truth is the truth: we all know that Indians from good families are not used to cleaning up the vomit of strangers,’ appeased Swarnakumari. ‘Now tell me, what was the friend of Mrs Wellington-Smythe saying about the fox she was carrying?’

  ‘She wants to save it. Lady Di, not the friend. The fox, not IndiaNeed. The friend wants a coffee shop, not a charity shop, and it was a dog she was smothering like an asp to Cleopatra’s breast, not a fox,’ explained Durga.

  ‘It was not a fox,’ confirmed Eileen. Negation came easily.

  ‘Oh, I was wondering, because of course I knew it was a dog, but then I started thinking maybe it was a fox, because otherwise why would the poor child be so scared, na?’

  ‘Arre, dog, fox, does it matter? That La Di Da woman is going to shut this place down and doesn’t have the courtesy, the decency, to tell me?’ raged Heera.

  ‘You don’t have to believe what the friend says,’ said Durga comfortingly. ‘She could be as truthful as her blond streaks.’

  ‘What is going to happen to those villagers?’ asked Eileen, turning to the photograph behind them.

  ‘They’re so last season, darling! Not in
fashion any more. Next, please,’ said Durga.

  ‘The friend wants a coffee shop here. For what? As a meeting place for private school mothers to chit chat and find out if the other brats are doing more classes after school than their own. Ballet, martial arts, piano, swimming, drama, tennis, chess and Kumon Maths aren’t enough, you see,’ informed Heera. ‘Don’t think I don’t know about all these things just because I don’t have any children. I know many of these independent school mothers who drive up and down in big four-wheel-drive cars; they are on duty even on weekends for more lessons and sleepovers. On top of that they bake cakes for the school fairs and sew costumes for the plays. Arre, the poor things are so slim watching the League Tables and their own diets of ambition through the windscreens of their shiny cars, they live in a different world.’

  Italian opera soothed Diana’s nerves as she drove into Cambridge every morning from the countryside surrounding Haslingfield. Imogen was hunched, silent, on the seat. She would go clubbing and stay over at Izzie’s, and she didn’t care what her mother said about Izzie’s brother David not being a Perse or Leys or King’s boy. She was fourteen and old enough, and he was seventeen and old enough. Her silence grew, swelled until it was a crashing cacophonous wave, beating a plaintive crescendo of rage. It was the hormones, soothed Diana’s mother.

  Rupert stared out of the first-class window as the train sped past Stevenage to King’s Cross. He took a sip of Perrier to calm his dry mouth, dabbed at the tiny egg stain on his crisp Paul Smith shirt inside his navy Paul Smith suit and arranged the papers in his monogrammed leather briefcase. A knot of tension gathered in the pit of his stomach and spread down to his brown Hackett shoes as he thought ahead to the takeover bid and the auction in the afternoon at Sotheby’s, but instead of the old surge of excitement all he felt was dread. Each day hammered the same dull beat of predictability.