Mission Mumbai

by Mahtab Narsimhan

  “I don’t want to wait, Ma. I’ll drop dead.”

  I nodded, pointing at Rohit. “What he said!”

  A tall man with greasy hair, wearing a tight-fitting black vest and tighter pants, came up to us. “How many pliss?” he said in a hissy whisper.

  “Three,” Mrs. Lal said. “How much time before we get a table? The boys are very hungry. If it’s going to take long, we will go elsewhere.”

  He scanned the crowd near the entrance and kneaded his forehead with a theatrical air. I had a feeling he had done this loads of times before.

  “Pliss to understand, madam, this very busy time. But for you”—he checked his watch, frowning—“thirteen and a half minutes.”

  “And if it’s more than that, is our lunch free?” I asked.

  The man inserted his pinkie into his ear, shook it vigorously, pulled it out, and took a sniff. “Funny bwoay! Nothing in India is free.” I hoped he stayed far away from the kitchen.

  “Thirteen and a half minutes,” said Rohit. “Whoever heard of a wait time like that?”

  “What a weirdo!” I said, counting down the minutes in my mind. “I’m sure he’s lying. It’ll be half an hour at least and by that time I’ll be dead.”

  Mrs. Lal leaned against a wall at the side of the entrance. “Wait and see. They’re quite accurate.”

  In ten minutes we were seated. A boy who looked a little smaller than Ro, dressed in frayed shorts and a white shirt, came to take our order. I watched him in surprise. I’d never seen servers this young in a restaurant before. You have to be at least fourteen in New York to work. Dad may be on my case about some things, but at least I didn’t have to have a job.

  Note to Self: Be thankful you don’t have to earn a living yet!

  “What would you like to try, Dylan?” Mrs. Lal asked as we all studied the single-page menu.

  “Try the plain dosa with coconut chutney and sambar,” said Rohit. “You’ll like it.”

  “What’s sam-ba, Mrs. L?” I wasn’t about to forget the toilet trick he’d pulled. I’d decided it would be safer to double-check with Mrs. Lal in case he was planning on tricking me again by suggesting something gross.

  “What’s the matter with you?” said Rohit, frowning.

  “No offense, but I don’t feel like being the butt of another joke. You’ve been kind of whack-a-doodle on this trip. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  “Whatever,” said Rohit, his voice cold. “There goes a dosa, just behind you.”

  I turned to look, feeling like crap for dissing my best bud in front of his mom. But it was hard to forget how he’d rolled on the ground laughing at me just a few hours ago. I wasn’t going to give him another chance to embarrass me, especially in a packed restaurant.

  A huge golden wafer folded in half seemed to float past, bigger than the tray it was on. Only skilled maneuvering enabled the waiter to carry it to the table without bumping into anyone and shattering it.

  “Is that it, Mrs. L?” I asked to make sure I wouldn’t end up ordering fried snakes or monkey brains. I’m always up for trying something new, but that’s not what I was in the mood for right now.

  “Rohit’s right, Dylan,” she said, smiling. “And by the way, this is a vegetarian restaurant so no matter what you order, you can’t go wrong.”

  I was seriously beginning to think she was a mind reader. Her mom-antenna was always up and alert. Rohit wouldn’t be able to keep a secret from her for long. Not a good thing most of the time. In contrast, my mom mostly left me alone unless I wanted to talk to her, and then she did try to listen. Mom came out way ahead in that respect.

  It was weird how I kept making these comparisons between Mrs. L and Mom. And even though Rohit’s mom was cool, spending so much time with her made me realize how much I liked mine. I missed Mom more than ever.

  “Yep,” I said. “I’ll try a do-sa with some sam-ba.”

  Rohit ordered idlis and his mother ordered a thali. Everything looked so unusual, I had to take pictures. At first I stuck to taking pictures of the food going by our table. I stood up and took shots of the dishes served to other people in the restaurant. Mrs. Lal asked me to sit down but I was having too good a time to stop. Encouraged by the other patrons who were grinning and hamming it up for the camera, I walked around taking close-ups of them eating an array of colorful foods. I even asked our kid server to pose for me and he smiled willingly.

  Someone tapped me on the shoulder. I whirled around. Greasy-Hair, who’d met us at the entrance, frowned. “Pliss to go back to table and eat fast. No loitering and no wandering! This not park, funny bwoay.”

  Our food had already been served. Now I understood how Greasy-Hair could promise customers a table in thirteen and a half minutes. It was order, eat fast, and get out.

  My dish turned out to be an awesome choice. The plain dosa, a large, crisp wafer made of rice batter, was accompanied by green chutney, coconut chutney, and a sweet-and-sour tomato dipping sauce. It was so incredibly good. I tried not to inhale the food, forcing myself to chew before swallowing.

  I tried a bite of Rohit’s idli, which was a steamed rice cake. It was awesome, too! Mrs. Lal’s thali was a rainbow array of foods served on a silver platter. In the center was a mound of steaming white rice surrounded by gleaming silver bowls filled with vegetables and lentils. I couldn’t identify most of them, but the aromas of ginger, garlic, and fresh cilantro made my mouth water. I wanted to dip a bit of my golden wafer in each of those bowls but held back. Rohit was fine with me tasting his food but I felt shy doing the same with his mom.

  “That wasn’t too bad,” said Rohit with a deep sigh after he’d polished off his third plate of idlis.

  “You’re crazy … this was amazing,” I said. I’d scarfed down another plain dosa and a portion of idli with sam-ba and was pleasantly full. “Sure beats mac ’n’ cheese and hot dogs.”

  Mrs. Lal excused herself from the table.

  “You could have trusted me, you know,” Rohit said the minute Mrs. Lal was out of earshot. Obviously what I’d said earlier was bothering him, like I knew it would. “You didn’t have to check with Ma when I recommended a dish.”

  “Bro, trust has to be earned and on this trip your bank balance is a big fat zero,” I said. “I know you’re angry about Boa but don’t take it out on me! I’m only trying to help.”

  “Interesting …” a gruff voice said. “Very interesting.”

  Together we turned to look at the speaker. A white-haired geezer in a dirty white kurta-pajama sat at the next table toying with a steel glass filled with a brown liquid that was either coffee or masala chai.

  “Excuse me?” said Rohit. “What’s so interesting?”

  The old man stared at us without saying a word. His large, bulbous nose looked like it had been stuck on his heavily lined face as an afterthought. Blossoming on his left cheekbone was a bruise in every shade of purple. He’d definitely been on the wrong side of a fist.

  My gut clenched as our eyes met. He looked like a cross between the evil wizard Saruman, from LOTR, and Hannibal Lecter, the deranged psychiatrist and serial killer from The Silence of the Lambs. I’d snuck Silence of the Lambs from my parents’ DVD collection on a lonely night, despite being grounded once for watching an R-rated movie. I had nightmares for a week. Not the smartest thing I’ve done. I turned away, my heart pounding, my hands clammy.

  “You two,” he said, his black eyes still scrutinizing us.

  “Whacko,” whispered Rohit under his breath. “Ignore him.”

  “You bet,” I said, turning away from that laser-beam gaze. “Hate to run into him on a dark night.”

  “Don’t say a word to Ma about this geezer trying to talk to us or she’ll freak,” said Rohit. “She won’t let us out of her sight.”

  “Got it,” I said and slurped the last of my mango lassi. Even though I liked Mrs. L, I couldn’t imagine spending every minute of my trip under her scrutiny. I’d go nuts.

  Rohit fiddled with his cel
l phone while I scrolled through the pictures I’d taken, as we waited for Mrs. Lal to return. A hand landed on my shoulder and I almost dropped my camera. That old man had a lot of nerve. First he freaked us out with his psycho talk and now he was touching me. I’d had enough of aggressive beggars, scootie drivers, and other complete strangers manhandling me. I’d show him!

  I put the camera on the table. With a bloodcurdling yell (all Bollywood movie actors did this before being heroic) I shot to my feet, grabbed and wrenched his arm off my shoulder, and tackled the geezer to the ground.

  Our kid waiter stared up at me from the floor, eyes wide with shock and horror. “Your bill, sir,” he said and burst into tears.

  A shocked silence fell over the restaurant. None of the patrons were smiling now. Greasy-Hair was livid that a foreigner had attacked his waiter. Mrs. Lal had to do a lot of explaining and give them a hefty tip so they wouldn’t report me to the police. I’d apologized profusely to our waiter but he wouldn’t even look at me. He zipped straight into the kitchen and didn’t show his face again till we left.

  Just as we stepped out the door, Greasy-Hair called out, “You are banned from this restaurant, madam, bwoays. Do not come back to Sagar or I will call pohleece.”

  Rohit was chuckling, muttering under his breath. “Let’s see … cows, kids, and now Sagar. I wonder what else you’ll be banned from before this trip is over.”

  Both Rohit and I were yawning our heads off, so Mrs. Lal suggested heading back to the flat for a short rest before exploring Deolali. Neither of us put up a fight.

  A few hours later, refreshed and fortified with snacks Mrs. Lal had packed, we set off to check out the main street.

  Rohit wasn’t too keen, but I agreed. After Mrs. Lal saved me from jail time earlier that day, I wasn’t going to disagree with her about anything.

  The sidewalks thronged with pedestrians as goats ran between them, dropping dainty pellets of crap. Jaywalkers dodged the slow-moving traffic as they crossed the street. Loud music blared from speakers set up on the sidewalks as each shopkeeper tried to drown out his neighbor. Stray dogs slept wherever they could find room. I shot dozens of pictures, experimenting with different angles and trying to frame the subjects creatively.

  “Can we go back now?” asked Rohit after a few minutes. “I’m beat and I want to chill.”

  “Let’s go till the end of the road,” I said, still clicking away. “Come on, Ro, stop being a party pooper. I need some exercise and so do you.”

  “You don’t have to agree with everything Ma says, you know,” Rohit snapped. “And if you want the truth, I think you have a long way to go before you can win this competition.”

  I gave him a dirty look. “So you mean I’m not good?”

  “I mean, you’re not too bad,” he said and looked away.

  Was he lying just to hurt me because I’d sided with his mom again? What if I really wasn’t good and Dad had been right all along?

  “Don’t say that, Rohit,” Mrs. Lal piped in. “I’ve seen some of Dylan’s pictures and they are superb. You do what you have to, Beta. Don’t let anyone interfere with what your heart says.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. L.”

  Saturday morning at Chez Moore. Dad had just gotten back from playing tennis with a friend and was lounging by the pool reading the Wall Street Journal. Even at his age he was in real good shape.

  “Dad?”

  His blue eyes locked with mine. “Yeah, son?”

  “Could you order the soft-filter lens for me before I leave for India? I’ll pay you back from my allowance.”

  Dad’s face tightened and he looked away. Silence except for the pool filter whispering softly.

  “This is all such a waste of time and money,” Dad finally said.

  The sunlight seemed to dim. The green of the trees faded. Even the pool filter hiccupped and fell silent. “I don’t agree, Dad.”

  He stared at me for a long moment. I met his gaze, forcing myself not to look away first.

  “All right, Dylan,” he said at last. His words were soft and low, tinged with deep disappointment. “Send me the specifications and I’ll order it. But this is the last one. If I’m going to pour money into this hobby, I’d like to see concrete results.”

  “And if I win a competition, no matter which place, you’ll get off my case?”

  “Yes.”

  “We have a deal,” I said, feeling elated and depressed all at once. I wanted to be a photographer, but not with this kind of pressure. But I’d have to do it, and win, to shut him up once and for all.

  Rohit’s words cut deeper than Dad’s. But I was going to prove them both wrong. When I held the camera, Dylan the clumsy guy melted away and someone else took over. I really liked being a photographer; it made me feel good about myself.

  The air was still and thick, as if a thundershower was imminent. Rohit marched ahead, his back straight. I followed, determined to talk to him at the flat. I was getting tired of our constant arguing and his mean jabs.

  I also wanted to explain why winning was so important to me but a thought nagged at me. Why did I have to explain anything at all? Why couldn’t he just be my friend and go with what made me happy, like I did with him? Resentment bubbled up and made me feel twisted up inside. I tried to focus on my surroundings as I snapped a picture of a kid nestled against a sleeping goat. Definitely an unusual friendship. I looked at the shot I’d taken, my heart beating hard. It looked good but the reflection of traffic in the window behind them marred the picture. I couldn’t use this one. By the time I raised my camera for another shot, the goat had woken up and wandered away.

  It was dark by the time we got to the end of the main street. Only a few lights illuminated the deserted road beyond. There must have been houses past the lights but it felt like we were near Mordor.

  “A bustling main street behind me, and up ahead, nothing,” I said. “It’s like we’re at the edge of a vast wasteland teeming with wildlife.”

  Mrs. Lal laughed. “Good imagination, Dylan, but there’s no wildlife here except rabbits, squirrels, an occasional fox, and plenty of snakes. Since this is a military base for the Artillery Division of the Indian Army, building permits are rarely given. The residential area starts beyond this point and is, unfortunately, not very well lit. This small town goes to sleep by ten in the evening at the very latest. It wouldn’t be fun getting lost, so promise me you won’t venture there after dark?”

  “You got it, Mrs. L.”

  “Can we go now?” asked Rohit, sounding utterly bored. “There’s no chance I’ll be wandering around after dark. I’d rather read a book.”

  “Just a little farther, boys,” said Mrs. Lal. “There’s something I want you both to see.”

  Rohit huffed and strode on ahead while I followed at a leisurely pace with Mrs. Lal. We walked for another couple of minutes, leaving the main street behind. Around us the darkness gathered, a light or two twinkling through the tree-lined streets.

  “Where are we going, Ma?” asked Rohit. He’d stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. “I’ve had enough. I’m going back.”

  The air was thick and heavy. Mosquitoes buzzed around my eyes and ears. I slapped a couple of them and felt something wet against my cheek. Gross.

  “Look up,” said Mrs. Lal.

  We looked up at a black canopy, every inch studded with stars. A pizza-crust sliver of moon hung between bright jewels. I wished I had a lens powerful enough to capture it. I focused on enjoying the view instead.

  “Awesome,” I breathed. “Back home you’d have to go pretty far outside the city to see a sky like this.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “That’s why I thought you’d like to see it.”

  For once even Rohit was silent.

  “A shooting star!” said Mrs. Lal. “Quick, make a wish.”

  I wished I still had a family when I got back home and concentrated on the star till it disappeared.

  As we walked back to the flat, I wondered what R
ohit had wished for. First, he’d probably wish to go home to New York. Or maybe he’d wish for everything I had: lots of money, a big house, and a pool. All the stuff that made life comfortable and you could grow to love. But could never love you back.

  BY THE TIME WE GOT BACK I WAS DRIPPING WITH sweat, as if I’d had a shower with all my clothes on. I needed to rinse off before bed, but Rohit cut me off as I reached the bathroom.

  “Hey, I was here first!” I said, wiping my face on the sleeve of my T-shirt.

  “Why? So you could check to see if the toilet was returned?” he said and slammed the door in my face.

  It was such a sad joke, I couldn’t even muster a smile. I was seething but, with Mrs. Lal there, I couldn’t knock any (literal) sense into him.

  Note to Self: If Rohit wants to see mean, it’s time to show him mean!

  Mrs. Lal shook her head. “Sorry, Dylan, I don’t know what’s gotten into him. Maybe Anjali is right. This whole immigration thing was a very bad idea. He might be better off in India.”

  I stared at her, my heart racing. Rohit was playing right into Boa’s coils with his moodiness. If he didn’t stop now, he was staying.

  “He’ll be fine once we get back to New York,” I said, watching her face. “You know that, don’t you?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know anything at the moment, but I’ll talk to Rohit’s father before making a decision.”

  “He’s the best friend I have and I don’t want to lose him,” I said. Though, right this minute, I could have cheerfully strangled him.

  “Goodnight, Dylan,” said Mrs. Lal. She walked into her bedroom and shut the door softly.

  Rohit was already asleep (or pretending to be) when I got to our room after my shower. I turned on my laptop, hoping I’d be lucky enough to piggyback on someone else’s Wi-Fi so I could check if there was a message from Mom.

  I did, there was, and it sucked. Mom and Dad had finally agreed on a trial separation but they still loved me a lot. Mom would move to an apartment just before school started in September, and Dad would stay in our brownstone. I could choose who I wanted to live with. I read the words again and again, hoping I might have made a mistake the first time. They hadn’t changed and neither would the situation waiting for me in New York.