Love Curry

by Pankaj Dubey

  3

  The rented house number 104 in George Street belonged to Mohammad Mullah. The landlord lived exactly ten houses ahead, on the same street. Hailing from Gujarat, Mohammad Mullah was rightly expected to have come from a flourishing business background. All his friends had fathers running factories or exporting textiles, dealing in stones, salt or gems. But Mullah’s background featured the tabla instead, because that’s what his father taught in the local school. The little boy thus grew up dreaming big and loud of making a resounding name in the music industry one day.

  Mullah moved to Mumbai the minute he grew up. He wanted to be a music director. And who had ever heard of music directors sprouting from Ahmedabad! Tinseltown it had to be, and so he went. But months went by … then years. Album after album got released … movies too, but all without Mullah. He featured nowhere except in his dreams. Yet, he kept waiting. Hoping.

  And god became kind to him one day. A troupe was to perform in London at a huge New Year show for Asians—Jumma Chumma. No, he wasn’t to be their music director. Mullah was summoned only to play the tabla, and that too because the original tabla player backed out at the last hour. His walkout became Mullah’s gain. And so the aspiring music director picked up his tabla, thanked his father in heaven for passing on his skill and lost no time in claiming his lottery ticket. It was the 1990s, and the show was riding on the success of superstar Amitabh Bachchan’s latest Bollywood blockbuster, Hum. Mullah vowed to make it his launch pad too.

  The troupe arrived in London with Mohammad Mullah and his pair of tablas and performed at the famous Wembley Stadium. Many Gujarati families had settled in this area and the air was intoxicated with the chatter and merriment of this community. Fafdas and theplas ruled the conversations. Inspired by the smells and stories of his community’s strides in London, Mohammad Mullah’s mind went on a trip of its own. He did play his tablas, and the show was a big hit. But what happened after the show was a bigger hit for him. Mohammad Mullah disappeared.

  The organizers reported him missing and filed a police complaint. But found not even the shadow of the replacement tabla player. So the entourage returned to India without Mohammad Mullah, and they carried his tablas back with them in his memory.

  To hide in the white island, Mullah picked up the many tricks employed by the other illegal immigrants. Years of hide-and-seek followed. Mohammad Mullah finally managed to evade all the authorities and create his space in the country. He married Fiza Khan, a British-Pakistani woman. After the nuptials, Mohammad Mullah became legit and could settle down in peace, and eventually flourish, running a series of businesses, some legal and some not-so legal. The product of their union was a beauty called Zeenat Amaan.

  Zeenat Amaan looked like an expensive cocktail—dressed, frilled and rightly measured. She grew up seeing the rise of Katrina Kaif to fame and fortune, and was duly inspired. So she joined Bollywood dancing classes. And then, thinking far ahead, enrolled for martial arts too—to kick that unruly fan who might stalk her once she got famous. She definitely was on track. But why the hell was she stuck with the name Zeenat Amaan? Blame it on the Bollywood fixation of her tabla-playing father.

  One day, getting home, she pirouetted before Mohammad Mullah, holding aloft some notes and kissing them filmy style. ‘I got rich,’ she sang. ‘Two-fifty … I got 250!’

  Mullah’s face bore a smile and a question. He couldn’t help but delight in her happiness. But he was equally concerned about the source of her windfall.

  ‘Zeenat?’

  She flashed the notes right under his nose and crooned, ‘From your desi boys, I got! Your rent, I got!’

  Mohammad Mullah cleared his throat. A sure sign of disapproval.

  ‘That was to go into the savings account … right?’ His well-organized mind could not stomach this frivolity.

  ‘Right! But then you named me Zeenat Amaan!’

  Mullah raised his eyebrows.

  ‘Zeenat Amaan’s got big expenses. The name calls for big bucks to blow.’

  Mullah had no words.

  ‘Why did you do that? Why name me after her?’ Zeenat asked with a pout.

  He was angry, yet he hugged her. Doting on her and her pouting beauty. Such fights were common between them and they always ended the same way—her way. He threw a question. She threw a tantrum. He put his hands up and took a walk. She walked out with more money in her pocket, looting his kitty for her fashion fetishes. She was Zeenat Amaan—destined for Bollywood. She had to be stylish, and style didn’t come cheap. Mullah knew he’d sowed the seed himself by giving her the name, so he indulged her. Like she indulged every single whim she had.

  Mohammad Mullah’s wife, Fiza, belonged to the elite class. Her father was a British Muslim blessed with more than enough name, fame, entrepreneurial talent and money. It had been quite a task for Mohammad Mullah to impress Fiza’s father. His tabla skills and unsung musical background did not excite his prospective bride’s father. It was only after he managed to identify and demonstrate some of his innate entrepreneurial abilities that Mullah could score some points with him. The whole procedure took no less than four and a half months. Once married, Mohammad Mullah doubled his business prowess overnight, learning every survival trick to beat the cutthroat competition. But he’d always had the aptitude. With what flair he had gone underground! And with what charm he had converted his illegal immigration to legal! No, sir! There definitely was no dearth of talent within him.

  Mohammad Mullah shied not at exploiting his genius fully—learning and adapting and growing with an uncanny speed. The world now knew him as a dignified businessman and a doting father. His legal half, Fiza Khan, was a striking but surprisingly reserved lady. She exuded the assured air and attitude of having been born and brought up in London. Husbands like Mohammad Mullah, despite all their success, were often called ‘imported husbands’ because they had not grown up in England. Even their kids tended to relate more to their mothers. Zeenat, however, was an exception. She and her dad loved each other to the moon and back.

  And like her well-organized dad, in no time, she too put in place all the zigzag elements in her life. Zeenat’s universe and code of conduct were now very well defined. With Shehzad, the tenant from Dhaka, her chemistry was steamy. She was not sure yet whether she loved him. With Ali, it was different. She enjoyed flirting with the genteel chef from Pakistan. He was her pet poodle. As for Rishi, he did not figure in her galaxy. She cared not a hoot whether he was in London or Agra. Her scheme of life included variety for sure, but not to the extent that Natasha’s had. This girl was her best friend, and what made her really special was her colourful ambition to bed at least one guy from all the196 countries in the world. Zeenat calculated that she did not have that kind of energy to go global.

  4

  The living room sofa threatened to collapse tonight. Bearing the weight of a tense subcontinent, that too during a crucial cricket match, was more than what the three-seater was designed to take. While the Bangladeshi kept wiggling at one end, the Indian and Pakistani were jumping rather than sitting on it. Ali and Rishi bounced in joy or sank in despair with every shot or miss. Shehzad sat shirtless while the other two flaunted their national colours. Green T-shirt fought with the blue T-shirt over every ball. Air-punching. Screaming. Cheering. Abusing. They were waging an international war from their sofa in this house in London. Clashing more fiercely than the cricketers on-field. The Ali vs Rishi match threatened to get tenser than the India–Pakistan final playing out in Eden Gardens.

  Ali shrieked and beat his cushion when Afridi hit a six—for once, he forgot to be genteel and polished. Rishi exulted when the umpire declared the six to be a four. Volumes rose, drowning out the commentators on TV. Shehzad sniggered from his corner seat. It was a treat for him to watch his well-behaved housemates morph into goons at the flick of a TV remote. All credit went to the subcontinental clash of the year—the Air Asia Cup. Bangladesh had already crashed out of the tournament, so the Dhaka boy�
�s blood pressure was stable. But this Tom-and-Jerry sequence unfolding in the house today—the Pakistani housemate chasing the Indian specimen round and round the sofa to stop him from dancing at the fall of every Pakistani wicket—it was far too entertaining for the Bangladeshi to miss out on. It was so funny, he almost dropped his beer.

  Ali had gone mad and Rishi was completely to blame for this sudden reversal of personality. He kept pushing his buttons right from the time the captains went out to toss.

  ‘Fixed it, Ali?’

  The chef kept mum.

  Pakistan won the toss.

  ‘See! I told you the ISI would fix it.’

  Ali simmered.

  Pakistan was batting, and Rishi kept bowling his own bouncers, citing statistics, rubbing it in about Pakistan not winning a single ODI series the last two years. Ali looked like he would implode any minute.

  The South Asian party stayed glued to the screen till the fifty overs were complete. The Pakistani team had notched up a giant score. Satisfied, Ali made his way to the kitchen to start his biryani. He was making his special tonight. Shehzad and Rishi followed to help him. They had learnt to chop the onions, garlic and chillies, and grind the cardamom, and soak and drain the rice exactly the way Ali wanted. Every time Ali whipped up one of his specials, the boys were in for a treat. Tonight, however, Rishi was too fidgety to be of much help. Shehzad did his share and went back to his beer.

  The Indian openers walked out to bat and the housemates plopped back on the tortured sofa. Ali was in an exceptionally good mood. Too many runs on the board and his biryani simmering close by gave him a rush that made him sing.

  ‘Dil, dil Pakistan … dil, dil Pakistan …’ Ali kept chanting, swaying left to right, smiling…till he got on even Shehzad’s nerves. Rishi was at boiling point. One rash shot after another was sending the Indians back to the pavilion faster than the TV expert could fully analyse. Like the rebound shot in a game of carrom, the Indian batsmen walked out to bat and on the follow through, walked right back in to the dressing room. The umpire looked like he was working harder than the men in blue that night.

  Rishi clutched his head and stared blankly at the tragedy unfolding before him. Ali had gone hoarse singing, and substituting song for dance, he was now flailing his arms up and down and twisting to some silent tune. Shehzad was in a fix now. There were two shows beaming at the same time. What should he watch—India’s tragedy on the screen, or Ali’s comedy in the room?

  The last over was being bowled. Rishi had gone mute and Ali was mumbling a prayer. Even Shehzad sat on edge, thrilled by this cliffhanger. India needed ten runs to win and Pakistan just a wicket. It could swing either way. Then Umar Gul took a catch and Kohli, as Ali put it, became gul. The match was over and India had lost.

  All hell broke loose. Ali leapt up, did a frenzied dance and went on a hugging spree. First Shehzad. Then Rishi. Then Shehzad again. Rishi sat shell-shocked. To Pakistan of all countries! How could India? He needed time to let this sink in.

  ‘Ali, I’m starving,’ Shehzad announced, making his way to the kitchen. ‘Watching you two jokers has stoked my appetite.’

  ‘Anything and everything stokes your appetite,’ replied Ali, following him. ‘You were born hungry, bro.’

  Rishi wanted no part in this conversation or bonhomie tonight. He got up to go to his room—and collided with the pot of hot biryani Ali was bringing in. Ouch! Twice that evening, the Indian had got scalded.

  ‘Watch it, man,’ Shehzad was by him in a trice. ‘You lost a match, not the love of your life.’ But Rishi was not ripe for friendly banter just then. He collected himself and made to take off, only to be grounded again by a beaming Ali.

  ‘Biryani’s here. Where’re you off to?’

  Rishi was fuming. First they massacre you on the field, and then they want to shove a fragrant biryani into your face!

  ‘Janaab!’ Ali stopped him with a hand.

  The Indian lost it then. ‘Don’t want your goddamned khana or tana! Let me be.’ And he shut himself in his room.

  Ali looked at Shehzad. Shehzad looked at the closed door. This was not the Rishi they knew. Their quiet housemate was not known to throw a tantrum, especially when there was biryani at stake! Ali decided to barge in with a plateful. Victory making him more magnanimous. A Pakistani win was not easy for an Indian to swallow. Ali knew, he needed to be extra sweet.

  But Rishi was still seething. And the sight of the Pakistani blew him up like a bomb. ‘Out!’ he screamed, driving away both Ali and his biryani.

  Shehzad consoled the stunned Pakistani in his own fashion. ‘Forget it, bro. He’s got a brain fade.’ This classic excuse bandied by an Aussie captain to explain his unsportsmanlike conduct had the boys tittering again. The party soon resumed without the sulking Rishi. The fight—both on-field and off-field—had upped their appetite, and the rice was almost gone in minutes.

  Glancing at the closed door, the Pakistani declared with a wink, ‘Let’s cross the LoC and eat the Indian’s share too!’ Guffawing, the boys polished off the entire bowl.

  5

  Another night without food! The kitchen was full of mutton and dal, but that was of no use. No one ate or offered another a plate. Wanting to eat or not to eat, after all, is all in the mind. Of course, it’s the stomach that digests the food. But first, you need to have the heart and mind to eat! And theirs was consumed with debt.

  Haji Sahib’s dream was about to end. It was a rude wake-up call for the entire clan. Bickering uncles and aunts had ruined what Ali’s great-grandfather had built with pots of love, sweat and skill eighty years ago. It was Haji Sahib who imported the nihari tradition from Chandni Chowk to Lahore. It went on to rule the hearts and tongues of all in Lahore. ‘Laanath ain in ulloo ke pathon par!’ Ali cursed. This third generation was bent on cutting down the tree that gave them fruit and shade. Fucking idiots!

  Ali fumed and broke into a sweat. On a cold, wintry night in Brick Lane, Ali was bathed in perspiration. How could he salvage the situation? The dhaba had been their lifeline for generations. Hotel, they called it, Haji’s Hotel, serving the best nihari this side of the border. Every visitor to Lahore got to hear of it even before they set foot in the city. And these idiots were ruining it. Loan after loan they’d taken to open branch after branch of their family dhaba, mindlessly diluting the quality, reputation and income. Thinking big, but without brains, they were driven only by greed and jealousy. Ali’s uncles had butchered the family’s pride and biggest asset.

  Now, Ali had to deal with not just these illogical uncles but the ever-present banks too. Only after Ali repaid them could he press the restart button of his life. And Ali had found a way—one that would lead to England, yet keep him close to his pots and pans. He would go and cook nihari in England till he earned enough to reopen his nihari hotel back in Lahore. Nihari Badshah, he would call it, he thought for the hundredth time.

  The phone rang, intruding into his thoughts. Ali wiped his clammy hands on his apron and answered the call. There was no point dwelling on the past when the present beckoned.

  ‘Ali?’ It was Zeenat’s mother.

  Ali snapped to attention, forgetting that his prospective mother-in-law could only hear and not see him.

  ‘Yes, Mumani?’

  ‘Can you bring two kg of balti chicken with you? Got some guests tonight.’

  The request warmed his heart. Thanking Allah for this opportunity to visit Zeenat’s house, Ali quite forgot to respond to Fiza.

  ‘Ali?’ she said, checking to confirm if he was still there and could deliver. Satisfied, she hung up.

  *

  It was near closing time. Ali packed the parcel with care and was on his way, with dreams in his eyes and balti chicken in his hand. Zeenat was so aromatic and heady. Like his chane ki dal. He couldn’t have enough of either. Increasingly, Ali found he liked hanging out with her. With his tongue hanging out. Waiting for leftovers. That was exactly what she gave him after finishing her main course els
ewhere. But Ali didn’t know that. So caught up in his pursuit of her, he did not see what she pursued.

  At her door, he strained to catch a glimpse of her. Fiza caught him peeking and invited him in. She liked the boy more than her daughter did. Well, it was only as a could-be son-in-law that he pulled at her heart—her Pakistani heart. Now, here was a fellow Pakistani, and well behaved at that, a perfect match for her Indo-Pak daughter. Mullah, she knew was hunting for an Indian boy. She decided to strike first and directed him to her daughter who was setting up the barbecue in the garden.

  ‘Can you help her a bit?’

  Ali was beside himself at this overflow of opportunities. Was Allah holding a sale for his followers? Carrying his gift of chicken, he approached Zeenat on her home turf, and found her struggling with the set-up.

  ‘I’ll light it for you.’

  Zeenat jumped at the sound of his voice, and then relaxed. It was only that harmless Ali. But why was he creeping up on her? And what was he offering to light? You needed a measure of hotness to set things afire. You needed … yes, Shehzad is what you needed. Rock-hard and explosive!

  Ali thrust forward his balti chicken in answer to her questioning look. Zeenat found this hilarious, and throwing back her head, laughed and laughed. Ali was happy to see her happy. That’s all he wanted to do—be happy with her.

  Zeenat let him work on the barbecue while she worked on figuring out her current status with Shehzad. They were definitely an item. She knew it. Shehzad knew it. Only they had not put a tag on it. Yet.

  Adjusting the grills, Ali stole a look at her every now and then. She looked lost. But, to him she looked even lovelier when she was lost. Thankfully, Ali remained unaware as to what she was lost in. He kept worshipping her. From afar. She kept smiling at him. From afar.