Buffering Love

  This is John, Restaurant Manager, Khwaaish

  I am disappointed to read this review from Akshay. If anything, this is symptomatic of the kind of trolling that service businesses like ours deal with on a daily basis.

  Akshay called in earlier this month asking for a table for four. On the appointed date and time, he came alone. He mentioned his friends were running late. Yesterday, he did the exact same thing. When we politely asked him to leave, he gave us the exact same excuse.

  As a busy restaurant, we are sometimes constrained to give preferences to larger parties while giving reservations. Even then, we place all individual requests on our waiting lists.

  I can only imagine that Akshay’s desperation, when he didn’t find a table at our restaurant, drove him to make a false booking for a table for four. Not once, but twice.

  From our security cameras we have shared a picture of his with the Bombay Restaurant Association, so that people like Akshay cannot simply walk over the hard-working people of our industry. We have agreed jointly, as of yesterday, to bar him from entering any of the member restaurants.

  I urge you to not judge us based on this single, extremely biased review. Visit us and see for yourself the wonderful hospitality that Khwaaish has to offer.

  One last thing, as proof, mentioned below is the feedback that Akshay left for us on a physical form the last time he was here. He rated us 5 on ambience and service. About the food, Akshay had left a hand-written note saying, ‘I would give you a 100 on a scale of 5. Pity, you don’t give me the option.’ Attached is the screenshot.’

  Akshay felt something inside while reading this—like someone had run amok stomping his gut from within.

  What was this Bombay Restaurant Association that he didn’t know about? The thought of him possibly not getting an entry into any of the other fancy restaurants shook the very foundations of his tasting buds. What about the bookings for next month at The Manor and Pali Bhavan Panchayat?

  He didn’t have to wait long to find out. By afternoon, he had a mail from each of them stating that he was being denied reservation request on technical grounds.

  Akshay spent the next few days brooding about the fate of his culinary delights. What was he going to do? Would pubs open themselves to him? And who are the members of this sinister Bombay Restaurant Association? What if he was humiliated in some unforeseen manner if he stepped inside a restaurant again?

  Will this ban ever be lifted off him? Should he move cities?

  JP Morgan was a large company and they could place him in Delhi or Pune if he placed a request. His skills were secular as a professional; he could employ them anywhere.

  Sipping a beer later that week, in a faraway rundown drinking hole in Thane, Akshay decided to put in a request to be transferred. He didn’t want to leave his beloved Maharashtra. But Pune would be a nice change. It’s not as if he was leaving behind much in Mumbai. There was no one and nothing to leave behind.

  The time was nigh for a complete reboot.

  Akshay was convinced that starting a new life all over again meant disassociating from every digital trace of his life as well. He decided to delete his Facebook account to which the TripAdvisor reviews were linked.

  He went home that day with a faint hope of a new life. He logged into his Facebook account and looked at all his old status posts. Most of them were a cynical view of the world, but he also praised some of the best dishes in Mumbai.

  Before this wave of fancy dinners in recent years, he was quite the street-farer. He smiled to himself reading his short critiques about the spiced vada-pavs from Dadar, the mirchi bhajia at Mulund, or the handmade cotton candies near Borivali National Park on his profile.

  Among the ninety-three friends he had, he would often hear from them about those street food reviews. Because this food was what all those friends of his could afford.

  Lately, he had started using words like plating and delectable on his food review posts. Fewer friends now liked or commented on these posts. ‘When did I start caring about plating,’ he wondered.

  Maybe there is a future for him in street food in Pune. Maybe he went overboard in this pursuit of fine dining. Maybe there was a way for him to survive in Mumbai by simply going back to the food that he tasted from these streets.

  But nothing was going to stop him from deleting his Facebook account. His new life wouldn’t start until he struck out every past digital remnant of his life.

  He looked out for the delete profile button. As he went through all his recent and old messages, he observed that under filtered requests he had one unread message. He opened it. It was from one Nikhila.

  Hi Akshay, this is Nikhila here. I feel odd writing to you like this. But I read John’s message on that TripAdvisor review of yours and couldn’t resist looking you up here.

  I wanted to let you know that I completely empathize with your situation and must confess that I have myself booked larger tables as a cover since I often eat alone in this city. I don’t think these people realize how single people like you and I find it difficult to get a table for one at good restaurants.

  Well, if you ever want to step out together, let me know and we could at least book a table for two and look more respectable. My number is 8453002595.

  Speak soon. Bye!

  Akshay read that mail a zillion times and composed himself before framing a reply. He looked at her profile. She was a vision in an airline uniform, working as an air hostess perhaps. It wasn’t very clear from her profile but she had lots of pictures taken at airports around the world.

  He found her pigtails charming. That alone merited a reply.

  Hey Nikhila,

  So glad to hear from one of our tribe. How about we start from a place where we won’t have to worry about reserving a table? I hear the good old chaat near Mithibai College is still as great. Fancy a meeting there next week? Take care, Akshay.

  He had reason to give Mumbai one more chance.

  Once, in a restaurant in Indiranagar, my wife and I were given a table ahead of a gentleman who was waiting before us. It took me back to my days of solitary dining in Mumbai. I always had a longer wait than anyone walking in with a partner or friends.

  Home Delivered

  ‘I had specifically mentioned an extra helping of coriander chutney along with the mint chutney,’ said Zubin with a touch of anxiety and anger. The restraint in his voice was typical of a hard-working man in his late thirties.

  ‘Sorry, sir. We didn’t get any such instruction,’ the voice at the other end of the line croaked.

  ‘It’s there alongside the order section in the app where you ask if there are extra directions for the food. Why do you have it in there if nobody reads that section?’

  But Zubin knew that the damage to his dinner was irreparable. By the time anyone would even send him the chutney, his freshly cooked Lucknowi chicken tikka roll would lose its sheen. There was no point getting riled. He sat on his leather couch, turned on Netflix and bit into the succulent fare in front of him, albeit without the coriander chutney he so desired.

  He comforted himself with the thought that his next meal would be better. Having a good meal was like having a steady companion by your side in an insular city like Mumbai. The barrage of food-ordering apps made it that much easier for bachelors and spinsters to believe that their late evenings had been put to good use.

  The next morning, the whiff of the missed coriander chutney hammered Zubin’s senses at work. He got through the day with the sole intention of ordering that delicious chicken tikka roll once again from Khwaaish, that hot new restaurant that had recently started delivering through Tiny Owl.

  Zubin also thought of a workaround to plug the loophole that laid him bereft of the coriander chutney on his plate the previous evening. The mundane events of the day, however, took longer than anticipated. In the evening, Zubin found himself racing against time to place an order for the Lucknowi chicken tikka roll.

  Right after he placed his order at
9.30 p.m. on the app, he frantically called and asked for the restaurant manager at Khwaaish.

  ‘John, hi, I am Zubin. I frequently order from your restaurant. I am flat number A–104 from the Rustomjee Towers. I have just placed an order for two Lucknowi chicken tikka rolls through Tiny Owl.’

  ‘Thank you for your patronage, sir. How can we help you?’ a cold voice addressed Zubin.

  ‘I needed some coriander chutney with the roll. I had requested for the same last night as well, but for some reason it never came.’

  ‘Might have been the chef’s decision, sir, because that’s not how the chef intended for the roll to be eaten. We give it with the mint chutney because it soothes the marination on the soft meat of the pullet.’

  ‘No, I don’t mean to mess with the intended recipe. It’s just that I wanted the coriander chutney as well.’

  ‘I am not sure we can do that, sir.’

  ‘Why not? I can pay extra.’

  ‘It’s not a matter of extra money, sir. It is about the artistic integrity of our food.’

  ‘Goddamn you, you p****. Give me what I want or I will shoot you in the eye’ was the first sentence that blitzed past Zubin’s head but that Parsi restraint was at work again in a classy way.

  ‘It’s for my five-year-old daughter. I am a chef myself and I know what you mean, but my kid is particularly fond of that coriander chutney you serve. You will make a young girl very happy if you do this, John. I implore you.’

  There are better sob stories in this world. But for a busy man like John, this was good enough. ‘Sure, sir. I understand. What mobile number did you order from? I will get it done,’ an impassive John relented.

  Zubin got home just in time for the order. The first thing he did was to check if the green coriander chutney was in place. His wandering right hand settled on two transparent twin sachets that were the exact colour he was looking for. With a celebratory fist pump, Zubin marvelled at civilization’s acceptance of lies woven around children, sat on his leather couch, turned on Netflix and unpacked the rolls.

  There was one tiny problem though. They smelt nothing like chicken. And they definitely didn’t feel like that pullet John referred to. Zubin fumed.

  If there’s one thing he hated more than not having the right accompanying sauce for his dinner, it was paneer. Being lactose intolerant, Zubin couldn’t stand paneer. And here he was holding in his plate a pair of paneer bhurji rolls, with the green chutney lying in wait like a nubile virgin.

  He called the delivery boy. It took some time to explain the specific situation at hand.

  ‘Sir, I am sorry. I must’ve given your order to the madam above yours. I was carrying both those orders. I will come back and get this sorted, sir,’ the delivery boy acknowledged.

  ‘Which madam?’

  ‘The one in A–204. Above yours. She just called me to tell me that her order was wrong. I am already on my way, sir. Should be there in ten minutes.’

  ‘No, it’s okay. I will go up,’ Zubin said, his hunger turning into a steady wail from within.

  He slipped into a pair of jeans while cursing the food delivery guy for doing this to him tonight. It was a constant battle with these delivery guys. Sometimes it was about the address, sometimes about the accompaniments and now the latest, the mixed-up order.

  He quickly climbed up the stairs to find the right apartment.

  It had been six years since Zubin was staying in this apartment block, but this was the first time he was going to speak to anyone in the building. Holding the paneer rolls in one hand, he rang the bell. His legs were shaking involuntarily, thinking about his delicious dinner that was held captive on the other side of this door.

  The sound of a reluctant latch going back and forth from inside sharpened his yearning. He could hear someone trying to open the door. After what seemed like an eternity, a tall lady with a beautifully sun-tanned face emerged. Her white Star Wars T-shirt was appropriate for the occasion for she did seem otherworldly.

  ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. I am still getting used to this door,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, no problem. Umm . . . I am here because the delivery guy mixed up our order. Did you order the paneer rolls from Khwaaish by any chance?’

  ‘Yes, I did. I was wondering what happened and I even called the guy. But I was so hungry that I started eating those chicken rolls. Is that my order there?’ she said, looking at the packet in Zubin’s hands.

  ‘How could you eat those chicken rolls? It wasn’t even your order!’ Zubin wanted to scream but again, that Parsi restraint rose like a phoenix.

  ‘Yes, I thought just in case you were a vegetarian, I should return them,’ he said half-convincingly. His eyes darted towards her right hand which was soaked in that familiar marinade of those rolls he so wanted to have tonight.

  ‘I am so sorry! I am Malvika by the way. Please come in.’

  Since she said she had started eating those rolls, all Zubin wanted to know now was if there was anything from those chicken rolls he could salvage. But he was too polite to ask directly. He opted for a non-confrontational route.

  ‘Umm, okay . . .’ he said as he stepped into her apartment. She had unpacked boxes lying around with a blue beanbag plonked in the centre of her living room. A tall lamp on the far-right corner was the only other intruder.

  Zubin scanned the sparse room and didn’t see any sign of his dinner. As he stood looking, he asked her, ‘Listen, so do you have space for these paneer rolls now?’ He tried to chuckle along the way.

  But Malvika had darted into the bedroom by now. He heard a tap running inside. She was back in the next few seconds with a wooden stool in her hand. ‘There you go. That’s the only thing I have for you to sit on. Unless you want to sit on the floor. It’s squeaky clean. I promise you that.’

  ‘I can see that,’ Zubin acknowledged and perched himself on the stool.

  ‘Sorry, you were asking me something when I went in to wash my hands.’

  ‘I was only asking if you have space for these paneer rolls any more,’ he chuckled again, holding up the packet.

  ‘What about you? Won’t you have them? You aren’t lactose intolerant or anything, I hope.’

  And only God knows why, but Zubin fibbed. It was perhaps her presence that made him want to hide his imperfections. ‘No, not at all. I love paneer. It’s just that I had this green coriander chutney downstairs which . . .’

  She cut him midway. ‘Thank God!’ She sighed and continued. ‘That makes me feel less guilty. I mean people have such fancy quirks these days,’ she said with the tenderness of an old friend. ‘When we were growing up, we would have anything our mom served, but try telling that to Saransh, my kid. Oh God! Such a fit he throws!’

  ‘Nice. You have a child. How cool is that!’ Zubin betrayed a false sense of excitement. His eyes wandered through the apartment for signs of this kid.

  ‘Yeah, and allergic to paneer apparently. I mean, I have my allergies too, but a kid, all of seven, can you imagine?’ she continued.

  There were so many things to address in that ramble of hers that Zubin didn’t know where to begin. There was an arresting quality to her words and her mannerisms. She moved her thin hands while speaking like she was conducting an extraordinary orchestra for the world to listen to.

  While a part of Zubin had forgotten about his own lactose intolerance, another was wrestling with the unpardonable joke that fate was playing on him tonight. How could this dusky diva, his hot new neighbour, come bearing a child. In his head, he had accepted the dinner of these paneer rolls for himself tonight.

  He continued with his polite overture.

  ‘Where is he?’ he asked her with a calm air, even as millions of hungry minions cried out from the pit of his stomach.

  ‘In New Delhi, with his grandparents. As a single mother, I have to rely on them all the time. I didn’t want to get him here until I was all settled. Gosh, am I telling you too many details? What about you? Where do you work?’

/>   ‘Ah! There, a sliver of hope,’ Zubin thought to himself. ‘I am a creative director at Wrights and Stevens. We make ads nobody watches.’

  That helped crack a beatific smile on her face. ‘You can’t be that bad.’

  ‘You have no clue,’ he said self-effacingly. ‘What about you? Where do you work?’

  ‘Let me set a plate for you first. We can talk through the night. You don’t have work tomorrow, do you?’

  ‘No, I don’t. But I hope I am not holding you up. You must be tired with the moving in.’

  ‘Who cares! I don’t get good neighbours ever. Maybe this is changing. I also have one more chicken roll left in the kitchen, I think. Let me get that for you.’

  What a night this was turning out to be. Suddenly.

  ‘Excellent. Let me get that extra packet of green chutney from downstairs then. It just takes that chicken roll to a whole new level.’

  Malvika, who was allergic to green chutney herself, thought of stopping Zubin. But his sudden spurt of energy and the guilt that she had eaten half of his dinner held her back.

  Hours later, as they talked late into the night about the vagaries of life, there lay on the side a single paper plate that Malvika and Zubin shared.

  It now carried the crumpled paper wrap of a paneer roll that Zubin had just devoured. Alongside, there were some hazy remnants of the green chutney that Malvika indulged in.

  They were well aware that there would be a price to pay in some form tomorrow but both—for the moment—were willing to suspend their belief, and their allergies, for each other.

  Acknowledgements

  Buffering Love was written over the course of a difficult time in 2016 but having the following people to lean on was everything I needed to wake up each day and put words to paper.

  Ben Maraniss, my screenwriting instructor at the New York Film Academy. In every class, a calm Ben Maraniss would walk in with a Starbucks coffee in his hand, flick his frazzled hair and tell us unforgettable stories. In this lifetime, everything I know (or will know) about the craft and science of storytelling can be traced back to Ben.