We waited in a small tea shop across from the station. It had precisely five rickety tables with cracked and dirty plastic tops. The blades of the ceiling fan rotated sluggishly, its wire guts spilling out the sides. I expected it to crash down on my head at any minute. The place had a strong smell of fried foods and the shop’s special cardamom tea.
Mrs. Lal ordered bottles of Thums Up for Rohit and me, and a tea for herself, explaining that drinking something hot on a scorching day was actually very cooling. I assumed she was suffering from a touch of sunstroke, and nodded politely.
“How do these people have the stamina to work in this heat?” I said, taking a long slurp of my Thums Up.
“They have to make a living and feed their families,” said Mrs. Lal. “They can’t stay home complaining about the heat or they’ll die of starvation. And anyway, they’re used to it.”
No wonder I’d never heard Rohit complain about the heat in New York. After living through these temperatures, a hundred degrees must be a joke. I never did understand why he’d roll his eyes when the Weather Channel issued a heat alert. Now I knew. I was melting by the pound and seriously contemplating sneaking into the kitchen and climbing into their freezer.
We sat in silence for a couple of minutes while I examined my beat-up glass bottle. I wondered if there was any more news from Mom and made a mental note to log in when we got back to the flat. I didn’t want to, but knew I had to. I was desperately hoping they would change their minds. I was surrounded by people but, with no one to confide in, I’d never felt more alone in my life.
“Is there a place I can make a long-distance call from?” I asked Mrs. Lal.
She took a sip of her tea, thinking hard. “Yes, lots of them. Why?”
“I thought I’d say hi to my mom,” I said.
“Good idea. We can call right after we pick up Rohit’s dad. Would you like that?” Her eyes bored into me and I wondered how much she knew or guessed.
“Thanks … maybe tomorrow,” I replied. “Just show me the place and I can call on my own.” I wanted to hear Mom’s voice but I didn’t want to make the call with Rohit’s family watching. Maybe I’d go tomorrow and make the call while he was sorting out his own problems with his parents. I had more than enough rupees with me.
“Ok, Beta, I’ll have Uncle show you the phone kiosk later,” she said. We all lapsed into silence.
I was gazing at the passing traffic when the back of my neck prickled. I turned to look. A couple of tables away sat an old man with snow-white hair and dirty white kurta-pajamas. It took a split second to place him: He was the same guy from Sagar. The man poured tea into the saucer and slurped it unhurriedly, his black eyes studying me over the rim. In spite of the heat my arms were covered in goose bumps. An icy hand squeezed my heart. That crazy dude was stalking me and I was really creeped out. With a population of about fifty-four thousand (another little stat I’d found on Google), I’m sure there weren’t many foreigners in Lolly-land. I must stand out like a scoop of vanilla ice cream in a chocolate sundae. I wondered if I should mention it to Mrs. Lal? Would she think I was paranoid? I wanted to catch Rohit’s eye to ask if he’d noticed the old man but Rohit was studiously avoiding looking at me.
“There’s Papa,” said Rohit suddenly. He thumped his bottle on the table and stood up, his chair grating across the concrete floor. “Let’s go.”
Mrs. Lal paid for our drinks while I surreptitiously glanced at the old man. He was still staring at me. My heart lurched and I turned away. He’s just a stranger who’s never seen a foreigner before, that’s all. The shopkeeper, a soccer ball with legs who reeked of curry, took our bill and money, all the while scratching his hair and showering his black kurta with dandruff. We hurried out of the shop while I tried to forget about the creepy Hannibal Lecter slash Saruman look-alike.
Rohit’s dad, a slim, balding man with a slight stoop, crossed the road and hurried up to us. “Hello-ji,” he said as he gave his wife a peck on her forehead. “Hi, Dylan. Enjoying Deolali?”
Up till a few days ago the trip had been awesome. It had gone steadily downhill since then but I wasn’t going to say anything.
“It’s been swag, Mr. Lal, thanks,” I said, smiling. After years of practice, I’d become exceptionally good at hiding my feelings.
“And you, Rohit? Feels good to be home, doesn’t it?” he said, thumping his son on the back.
Rohit gave an inaudible response. He acted tough with his mother but he didn’t dare dis his dad. I was relieved Mr. Lal was here, but I had a terrible feeling that it was too late. Even if we made up, our friendship would never be the same again. Frodo and Sam had not endured.
“Ate those excellent vadas at Igatpuri station, Priya,” Mr. Lal said. “Oooof, they were too good,” he added, kissing his fingers with a loud smack. “And what delicious memories they brought back. Ahhh … too much!”
I smirked, knowing exactly what came next.
“Nothing in New York comes close to the taste of home,” said Mr. Lal, shaking his head sorrowfully.
I snuck a glance at Rohit. We’d always laugh at this point in his dad’s predictable lament but Rohit was looking straight ahead. My gut clenched. Fine, two can play this game.
“Let’s go home, Arun,” said Mrs. Lal. “I’ll make tea while you have a shower. We have lots to discuss.”
We hailed a scootie. I looked forward to another wild ride sans seat belt. The driver zoomed up and stopped in a cloud of dust.
“Where to?” he asked.
Mrs. Lal gave him our address, which, once again, I could barely pronounce let alone memorize.
“Get in,” he said, turning the ancient meter to the right. “All of you.”
“What?” said Mrs. Lal. “Are you mad?”
“Three in back and this gora baba in front,” he said, pointing to me. “No problem!”
He wanted me to ride up front? And where was I supposed to sit? On the floor or on his lap? Gross!
“No way,” Mrs. Lal and I said together.
She snapped her fingers at a passing scootie, which screeched to a halt millimeters away from her foot.
“Look where you’re going, pagal,” she yelled.
“Sorry, madam,” said the second scootie driver, not looking the least bit sorry.
Mrs. Lal and I hopped into one. Rohit and his dad took the other.
Both drivers had, in an unspoken agreement, decided to race. We narrowly missed colliding with a cyclist transporting cages of screaming hens, a vendor with a tall stack of egg trays on the carrier behind him, and a lamppost. It was scary and thrilling all at once.
“Slow down,” Mrs. Lal yelled at every turn. It had the reverse effect on the driver, who took it as an invitation to speed up. I grabbed the bar in front of me and hung on for dear life, imagining I was James Bond in a thrilling chase.
Finally the scootie stopped in front of our building in a choking cloud of dust. The driver’s triumphant smile wilted as soon as he saw Mrs. Lal’s expression.
“Why you angry, madam? I bring you triple-fast.”
“You jungli! My heart almost stopped beating. Are you going to pay the bill if I have a heart attack? Hunh? Speak. Speak!”
The driver had the sense to shut up.
She paid the exact fare with not even one paisa as tip and marched into the building, her head held high. I followed at a slower pace and heard the driver mutter something very rude as he gunned the engine and sped off.
After we’d settled on the balcony with hot masala chai, Shrewsbury biscuits (similar to shortbread cookies), and sponge cake, we caught up on all the news about Nisha’s wedding. According to Mr. Lal, who’d landed in Mumbai the day before, preparations were in full swing.
“And Anjali chewed up my ear about Rohit’s behavior,” said Mr. Lal. “What’s all that about, henh?”
Rohit turned white. Mrs. Lal turned red. I almost choked on my biscuit.
“Let’s go for a Hindi movie tonight,” I blurted out. “It�
�ll be fun.”
“Here in Deolali?” asked Rohit, taking the bait just as I had hoped. “Are you crazy?”
“Yeah, why not?” I said, looking around at the Lals.
“For one, there are no subtitles,” Rohit said coldly. “You’ll be sitting through three hours of conversation that will make absolutely no sense to you.”
“I’ll figure it out,” I replied. “If I don’t have a problem, why should you?”
“And,” continued Rohit as if I hadn’t spoken at all, “the only theater here is old and has fans instead of air conditioners. If the electricity goes off, we’ll be cooked. I’m not going.”
“How often does that happen?” I said, recalling the power outage when we’d first arrived in Lolly-land. That one had barely lasted for thirty minutes and since then, luckily, it hadn’t gone off once.
“Depends on how hot it gets and how many people turn on their air conditioners. The power supply in most cities, even small towns, cannot keep up with the demand when there’s a heat wave,” explained Mr. Lal. “So, there’s a power shutdown throughout the city, in rotation, to try and balance out the usage. It’s called load shedding and lasts a couple of hours. No big deal.”
“Not even a fan for two hours in this intense heat would be brutal,” I whispered, breaking out in a sweat just thinking about it.
“Welcome to India,” said Rohit in a mocking tone. “You said this place was hot … Enjoy the heat.”
“Oh come on, Rohit,” said Mrs. Lal. “Stop being so negative! There’s more to India than the heat!”
Rohit glared at her and she returned his gaze, unflinchingly. A storm was brewing and it wasn’t over Mordor. It was in the Lals’ apartment on their tiny balcony. Before I could say anything, Mrs. Lal spoke up.
“Boys, why don’t you give us a few minutes?”
Rohit’s mouth was a thin line and his twitching intensified. We both knew what this was about. I followed him as he marched inside and headed straight for the bedroom. He lay there on the bed, hands behind his head, staring unseeingly at the whitewashed ceiling.
“It’s going to be okay, Ro.”
He ignored me. With the mood he was in, there was no point trying to talk to him. I tiptoed back toward the living room. I could barely make out the murmur of voices from the balcony. I had to hear what they were saying. If I knew their plan, Rohit and I could form a counterplan.
I snuck a peek at Mr. and Mrs. Lal. They both had their backs to the living room. I hurried in and squeezed into the narrow gap between the sofa and the wall. Now I could hear them perfectly.
“I’m not disputing that Anjali’s helped us a lot,” Mrs. Lal was saying, “but I resent her bullying me with her money.”
Just then I felt something behind me and almost yelled out loud. I craned my neck to take a look. Rohit was beside me, finger to his lips. I nodded and continued with my eavesdropping.
“She only wants the best for us, Priya,” said Mr. Lal.
“And the best thing for us is to have our family torn apart? Have you lost your mind, Arun?”
“No, dear, but—”
“This is blackmail, Arun. I will not stand for it and neither should you.”
“What do you want me to do? My sister gave up her future to look after me. I owe her.”
“You don’t owe her your only child!” snapped Mrs. Lal. “Are you a man or a mouse?”
Before Mr. Lal could say a word, someone else did. The timing could not have been worse.
Squeak, squeak.
I whipped around to look at Rohit, wondering if he’d gone completely nuts. He pointed to something near the floor, a horrified look on his face. Just near the balcony door was a fist-size hole I hadn’t noticed till now. A snout was just visible as the mouse sniffed the air and squeaked again, much louder than before.
SQUEAK, SQUEAK.
“How dare you boys hide here and make fun of me?” thundered Mr. Lal.
And there he was, glaring down at us still crouched behind the sofa but clearly visible. “Is this your idea of a joke, Rohit? And Dylan, I expected better of you.”
“Papa, it wasn’t us,” said Rohit. “There really is a mouse.”
But it was long gone, no doubt startled by Mr. Lal’s yelling, and it had left us holding the cheese.
“Don’t lie to me. I don’t see anything. Maybe Anjali is right. You need to learn some manners and she’s the best person for the job.”
It was as if a depth charge had been set off in my stomach. “It’s my fault, Mr. Lal. I wanted to know what was going on, so please don’t take it out on Rohit.”
Mr. Lal’s expression softened slightly but he still looked mad and kind of embarrassed. Without a word he walked into his bedroom. Mrs. Lal followed him but not before we saw the disappointment on her face. Things were going from bad to worse. If I ever got my hands on that stupid mouse, I’d feed it to the crows.
After half an hour of complete silence, I couldn’t take it anymore. Rohit and I had already had our fight and we were now in the cold war phase. His parents seemed to be in a similar situation.
“Why don’t we all go to a movie tonight?” I said, rounding up the Lal family. “I’m sure we can figure this out in the morning. Please, Mr. Lal, spit out your anger.”
I’d used the literal English translation of an Indian phrase I’d heard in a movie (Rohit had translated amid a lot of laughing at the time), hoping it would work. It did!
“Very well, Dylan,” said Mr. Lal, a tiny smile on his face. “This is your vacation, too. We can eat out and then go for the movie at Malika Theater. We’ll all be able to think clearly once we sleep on it.”
“Don’t expect too much from the theater,” said Mrs. Lal. “It’s quite basic.”
“I won’t,” I said, not sure what she meant by basic aside from no air conditioning. I wondered if we’d have to take turns winding up the movie projector but, frankly, I didn’t care. I might lose my best friend and had already lost my family. Things couldn’t get worse.
I was so wrong.
WE TOOK A SCOOTIE TO THE BHEL HOUSE A SHORT while later. It was a tiny eatery with ten tables scrunched together, and the kitchen situated behind the pick-up counter. Rohit had been dragged there practically kicking and screaming and he was sulking.
“If Rohit doesn’t want to go … maybe we should let him chill at home?” I’d asked. Time apart would probably be good for Rohit and his parents.
“Rubbish!” Mr. Lal said. “This is a family vacation and we will do everything as a family.” After being compared to a mouse, Mr. Lal was overly forceful about making decisions, to get rid of the slightest doubt in anyone’s mind about his masculinity.
“I’ll wake you up when I’m going to the bathroom tomorrow morning,” Rohit muttered. “We’ll go together.”
It earned him a glare from his parents.
I was really starting to appreciate my own parents. They’d never forced me to go anywhere with them. At the time I’d thought it was because they didn’t love me enough, but I now realized they were respecting my boundaries. What a colossal dork I’d been! And with all of this melodrama going on, I’d forgotten to check my email. I made a mental note to do it as soon as we got home.
I tried the restaurant’s signature dish—bhel—a concoction of puffed rice, fried vermicelli, potatoes, onions, and fresh cilantro mixed with sweet-and-sour chutney. The server combined all the ingredients in a large steel bowl and portioned it out into small white plates. He stuck a crisp poori on top and lined up the plates on the counter. Rohit’s was the only dry one. No one wanted to go through the barfing incident again and the man had been warned to hold the chutney on Ro’s portion.
We carried our plates to one of the empty tables. Mrs. Lal showed me how to scoop up the bhel with the poori and eat it Indian-style. I took a few pictures for my collection first, and then dug in. I crunched my way through it within minutes. It was good but nothing could erase the taste of loneliness from my mouth. I missed m
y friend.
“Good stuff, huh?” I asked. He’d been terribly quiet, his eyes glazed over except for the one time when he’d looked a little panicked as he groped for something in his pockets. When Mrs. Lal asked him if everything was all right, he’d nodded. But I knew him well enough to figure out something was wrong. I also guessed he didn’t want his parents to know, so I decided to ask him when we were alone.
“It’s not bad,” said Rohit politely. He continued to shovel bhel into his mouth automatically and declined seconds.
With dinner over, I couldn’t wait to get to the movie and forget my problems for a few hours. The vendors’ carts lining the street were lit by kerosene lamps that attracted clouds of suicidal insects, dashing against the hot glass and dying on contact.
The air was hot and thick, with a patchwork of dark clouds covering the sky. Now and then thunder rumbled overhead and I hoped for a downpour to cool off this sauna of a place.
As we ambled along the main street, I gazed at the gigantic movie posters on the billboards and walls. Without exception, every poster had an evil villain, a curvy beauty, and a smiling hero in a flamboyant outfit.
“So, Dylan, which movie do you want to see?” asked Mr. Lal.
“This one,” I said, pointing to a particularly gory poster that prominently featured a graveyard. “They’ve misspelled booth.”
“That’s bhooth,” said Mr. Lal. “It means ‘ghost.’ ”
“Like it already,” I said, flicking up my thumb.
Rohit rolled his eyes but said nothing. Mr. Lal bought tickets and we walked into the dingy cavern of the theater along with hordes of other people. The smells of sweat and stale popcorn swirled thickly around us but by now I was used to it. Only two movies were playing at this theater, rather than the ten to sixteen movies at the multiplex cinemas back home.
We found seats at the back of the hall, bathed in dim yellow lights. The ads had started and I plunked down on my seat only to leap up immediately.
“Arrrghh,” I said, trying not to yell.
“Dylan?” said Mrs. Lal. “What’s the matter?”
Mission Mumbai Page 13