Love Curry

by Pankaj Dubey

  It was a complicated world for sure. Zeenat’s mother wanted Ali. Ali wanted Zeenat. And Zeenat wanted Shehzad. If only the moon could grant each of them their wish. Instead, it only hung up there, chuckling.

  Lighting the fire, Ali turned to poetry, reciting the famous Jaun Elia’s paeans.

  Kitni dilkash ho tum, kitna dilju hoon main,

  Kya sitam hain ki hum log mar jayenge …

  Ghazal after ghazal came to mind when she was near. He regaled her with the ones he thought were safe and not a dead giveaway of his rising feelings.

  Bahut nazdeek ati ja rahi ho,

  Bicharne ka irada kar liya hain kya?

  Ali was not a fast worker. He wanted to tread slowly. Surely.

  But she was not sure of him. Ali was sweet. Friendly. And … that was it. There was not more to him than that … and that she was sure of!

  He was still reciting something:

  Pehli mulaqat thi, aur hum dono hi bebas the,

  Woh zulfein nahin sambhal paaye, aur hum khudko …

  This one had to do with her hair. Zeenat sniggered. Ali was praising her hair, that too on one of her bad-hair days! This was epic! She burst out again.

  Ali mistook her laughing at him for laughing with him, and mumbled to himself, ‘Dekhiye hoga yi galatfehmi, muskurana koi zaroori tha?’

  Things were really looking up for him today. It must be something to do with the stars—or the moon. Some angel up there was probably melting with kindness. He looked skywards and mumbled a thank you to no one in particular.

  Zeenat was relieved to see that he had stopped singing. Poetic Ali was worse than normal Ali. His lavish praise she welcomed and enjoyed, but not this random poetry—such sing-song verses went totally over her head. They came from a world and an era she neither understood nor wanted to.

  Ali, however, felt he had scored a major point with his poetry and decided to look up more verses to serenade her with in future. His wanting-to-be mother-in-law heard them in passing and patted herself for having arranged such a musical companion for her daughter. Even the moon got confused. The ways of humans defied all logic or pattern.

  6

  Rishi had moved on—from the pet shop that had fired him to the car showroom that hired him. Now a trainee sales assistant at Peugeot, he was supposed to sell French cars to Englishmen in London. The twenty-one-year-old Agra lad tried to whip up enthusiasm for this new profile and demonstrate all the required customer-satisfaction skills. He even dressed with care, clothing his five feet eight inches in formal pinstripes, combing his wavy, black hair neatly sideways, and pinching the freckles on his nose to make them disappear. Not that he succeeded, but the mirror told him, his square face looked quite okay for the task at hand.

  Despite his best efforts, the first week itself was marred by a complaint. His superior was upset that he failed to smile while attending prospective customers. Rishi refused to fall in line and light up his face with a curve the minute someone walked in, so he was shifted to aftersales support. Once a car or part had been sold, it mattered not if the Peugeot guy smiled or looked serious.

  He was expected to do well here, but Rishi was irritated. All his training in slick selling techniques was going waste. He’d invested so many hours, honing every emotional and psychological trick in the book—learning ways to catch a bakra the moment they walked in, then playing mind games till they zeroed in on the vehicle he wanted to sell as opposed to what they wanted to buy; next, offering multiple test drives to oblige or embarrass them into accepting an order form, and finally, exerting time-pressure tactics to close the deal as soon as possible. Rishi had graduated with honours from the company’s sales training programme—only to be moved to another department that needed none of these skills.

  Stuck behind a desk, he could sit unsmiling, only requiring to sound polite every time someone called or screamed on the company helpline number. Technically, he was appointed to deliver promises and delight the customer. Additionally, he was meant to replenish the busy company service workshop with parts and that’s where he had his next run-in. A nasty exchange with a mechanic who was in a hurry flagged Rishi’s performance and attitude again. For the second time in two weeks, he was in the red.

  Rishi approached Zeenat then. She was the floor manager at the same showroom. Till now, he had mostly ignored her. But that was because she was beautiful and he had to stick to his vows. Even if she had been ugly, he would have steered clear of her. Was she not entangled with more than one of his housemates? And who knew if her thing stretched to more than one house? Rishi stopped himself with a jerk. He was on the brink of being sacked—and here he was dwelling on looks and personal affairs. His professional affairs were in dire straits right now, and when in peril in a foreign country, who would be the first person you approach? Your countryman, of course—or woman in this case. Zeenat, he recalled, had blood from both sides of the border. Appealing to her Indian haemoglobin, he made a fervent plea for help.

  She did not let him down, but he did get demoted. Pushed out of the showroom if not the company, Rishi found himself stationed in the garage, supervising the pick-up and drop of cars given for test driving. This outpost had not come easily. Zeenat had to deploy a lot of charm and wile to persuade the showroom manager to retain Rishi, extolling his non-existent virtues and finding excuses for his misbehaviour when there were none. It was tiring but she was a good actor.

  Rishi soon began to settle in his new role. Jangling keys and maintaining records of vehicle movement was what it mostly entailed. If there was more work he was supposed to do, he pretended to not know how to do it. And things rolled smoothly for more than a week this time.

  Then he punched this white guy. Or so the white guy said. Rishi insisted he had stamped on him, and not punched him, that too accidentally. Whether it was his shoe or fist that had made contact when the vehicle was returned, it no longer mattered. That it was unintentional and totally unplanned also got ignored. What mattered was that Rishi had fallen foul of the wrong colour of skin. This was unpardonable. And so he was back on the street. And the job market. Forget Zeenat Amaan—not even someone named Katrina Kaif could have saved him this time!

  Zeenat saw him again in the kitchen that night. She had come looking for Shehzad and found all the boys cooking. At least, Ali was, and Shehzad and Rishi assisting him. They were trying to follow the chef’s orders even as something tickled their insides so bad they found it hard to stand straight.

  Doubling over with laughter, Shehzad chopped and peeled. Rishi fetched stuff from the fridge, recounted another slice of his sacking story that had the trio tittering again. Zeenat was struck by their teamwork. The Indian was narrating the whole tamasha, adding masala, the Bangladeshi acted it out and the Pakistani then crooned a verse in appreciation. Borders were melting and together they made merry over the overreaction of the white guy that led to the axing of the brown one.

  All this tomfoolery made her livid. She had risked her reputation and position to save this scoundrel just the previous week! And he had the gall to go and screw up royally and then celebrate being fired with this comic act! The company had been right to label him their worst-ever performer. She was a fool for suspecting a racial angle. Zeenat shook her head in disgust. Rishi was a destination best avoided. She signalled Shehzad to wind up this South Asian picnic. But found him in no mood to retire yet.

  So she kept waiting and watching till the boys’ laughter infected her too. And pitched her right into the centre of the kitchen circus. You could see her rolling her eyes in exaggerated annoyance, like the garage supervisor must have done when the white guy reported Rishi. That brought the house down! Ali was in tears and forgot to stir his salan. Shehzad reprimanded Ali for laughing while in the line of duty. Mimicking British elegance and sophistication, he followed it up by acting out how seriously the British took even their ride in the Tube. Aping how an Englishman would not talk to anyone and walk in a straight line, even when not in a queue. And how they
would make no eye contact—ever, taking special care to avoid every other person in the train or on the platform.

  Rishi went to bed with a smile, forgetting he had been fired that afternoon.

  7

  Zeenat was on Shehzad’s bed again, waiting for her Romeo to return from the studio. She wanted to surprise him. Not just with her body, but a new demand this time. He was her tenant and was therefore duty-bound to satisfy her. It’s not that he did not pay his rent, but today, she wanted him to pay in kind too. And so she lay waiting.

  He smelt her before he saw her—heady and tropical, reminding him of pineapple and frangipani. An audacious combination so like her! She was sprawled on his bed, her lissom length warming his sheets—and putting him in heat too. Shehzad felt all his tiredness melt away. This wild flower was so bright and energetic. She made him want to pluck her right away. But something held him back.

  What was she doing in his room? She hadn’t informed him before coming over and that wasn’t like her! Not like them for that matter. They weren’t going steady or anything. It was an ‘as-and-when-you-choose’ thing they had going. He scratched his head. Were they crossing some lines here? Entering a new zone, the next level, was it? With girls, you never knew, what they think … what they do … he sure as hell didn’t know.

  Zeenat saw him hesitate and silently ask himself dozens of questions. She shook her head. Guys could be so dumb sometimes. When you saw a good thing, shouldn’t you just grab it? Why stand there and ponder on it being there?

  The Dhaka boy kept gaping like a goldfish, trying to come to terms with what he was seeing.

  Zeenat sighed. This one would have to be led. So she moved. Arching up on a pillow, she looked at him and then at her pillow pointedly. The invitation in her eyes would have been hard for even a moron to miss.

  He understood. Flinging his bag aside, he sauntered over to her and bent to stroke her cheek. Pushing her dark hair out of the way, he cupped her chin in his left hand and pulled her up with the other. Holding her tight against him, he brought her face up to his and looked right into her eyes.

  She wrapped herself around him, liking the feel of his jeans against her skin and the metallic buttons of his jacket poking into her. His stubble grazed her cheek in a familiar way, his curls tickling her.

  Shehzad was stumped. She made him gooey every time, and they had barely begun. Her softness teased the hard planes of his body. Her eyes invited every part of him to come and play, sending sexy signals till every nerve in him was talking to every nerve in her. Generating enough voltage to light up ten towns back home. ‘Zeenie!’ he crooned in her ear, licking the lobe after breathing up and down its folds.

  And she crumbled. Her ear was her weakness and this boy knew it. She turned over, unable to take the torture any more. Her face met his lips and got bathed in one kiss after another. Going mad, she pulled him towards her, kissing him till he almost fell on top of her.

  A jumble of hands and feet and hair they were, clothed and yet on fire. Her skirt and his jeans were no wall. They patted and pinched and squeezed each other through the fabric, in no hurry to undress. It was a little later that his shirt landed on the floor, followed by her dress. His bared eagle tattoo now perched on her bra cups, driving her insane. She stroked its wings, kissed the head of the bird and blew on it—hot and feathery.

  Shehzad shivered. She would kill him one day with her touch—he was sure of it.

  ‘Mine …’

  ‘What?’ He did not quite catch what she was saying. Too much was happening to him right now. How could he concentrate on words?

  ‘Not you,’ she muttered, still caressing his tattoo. ‘I was telling this bird something.’

  ‘Bird?’ Shehzad saw her fingering his eagle with such tenderness that he felt jealous and remarked, ‘You’re more into my tattoo than me!’

  Zeenat was thrilled to see him go green and knew that it was time to ask him what she wanted.

  ‘I’ll leave your bird only if you …’

  What was her game? He had no clue.

  ‘If you give me a bird of my own.’

  Her words zapped him. Did she really mean it? No. She couldn’t. No. Why would she?

  Shehzad kept staring at her, unsure of what was happening.

  Zeenat cupped his face. ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘Yes.’

  He looked at her in wonder, not believing what she had just said.

  ‘Ink me, Shehzad!’ she said in a husky voice. ‘Ink me. Now.’

  Gathering her in a tight hug, he asked, ‘Why?’

  Zeenat shrugged it off.

  ‘Okay, we’ll do it some time soon,’ he promised and moved to unhook her bra. He couldn’t wait any longer.

  She shoved his hand away and said, ‘Now. I want it now. First.’

  ‘Zeenie …’ Shehzad was surprised but hoped she would understand that he wanted her so badly!

  But she was stubborn. And so there he was, bending over her with his tattoo gun, etching a butterfly on her shoulder.

  ‘Make her big and beautiful,’ Zeenat ordered as he worked. ‘I want her to fly far.’

  Shehzad was engrossed in his art. Her body was his canvas today. A fluttery creature he would gift her. A tall beauty, with delicate, iridescent wings. Lost in his artwork, he had gone quiet.

  Zeenat kept up her chatter. ‘My butterfly will roam the world. Far and wide it will go.’

  He said nothing.

  ‘Next, I’ll get a parachute.’

  He was shading the wings and muttered, ‘Hmm …’

  ‘On my arm … a chute on my left arm.’

  The left wing was done and he turned to the right one now.

  ‘Then I want a plane …’

  His hand stilled. The gun kept pushing the ink down that point.

  ‘I’ll take off in my plane … telling no one …’

  A shiver went up his body, knifing him, shaking the hand that gripped the tattoo gun, and spreading the ink past the wing.

  ‘I’ll go wher …’

  ‘Stop!’ He screamed and flung the tattoo gun on the bed and shut his ears with both hands.

  ‘Ouch!’ The needle had pricked her shoulder before the gun was suddenly whisked off. Feeling uncomfortable, she held up her arm and examined her left shoulder. The design had smudged! Her tattoo … spoilt … the ink creeping beyond the outline.

  Zeenat lost it then. ‘You bastard … I’ll kill you!’

  Shehzad had left the bed and stood facing the wall, pummelling it. She got off it too and marched up to him. She was seething.

  ‘Don’t hide your face, you asshole!’ she shrieked and tried to turn him around.

  But he threw her off. Hurt and shaking with anger, she caught him again and screamed, ‘You bloody messed it up … I’ll make you pay … I … I’ll …’

  Shehzad turned around suddenly and shut her up with a finger on his lips. His eyes were wild, she saw. And glazed. His face contorted with pain. His breath came too fast and he was clearly on edge.

  She did a double take. What the hell! Why was he mad? First, he fucked up her tattoo. Now this …

  ‘Shehzad …’

  He clamped her mouth with his hand and said, ‘Can’t you see, bitch … can’t you see? I’m in pain!’

  Zeenat twisted and shook his hand off. ‘I don’t care! Just don’t touch me again, you loser.’ And she turned to pick up her dress.

  ‘Yeah, right, you bitches never care …’

  As she stormed out his door, she heard him scream, ‘No … you only play …’

  Her shoulder was bleeding a bit, her heart however was bleeding even more. But surely not more than his. For, his wound was old—very old—festering since she’d flown off in a plane, abandoning him and his dad. Years ago. His mom. Yes, in a plane. And now, his girl too wanted a plane … a plane for a tattoo.

  ‘Bitches! All of them. Bitches!’

  8

  The ethos of hard work and enterprise was something Rishi never wanted to cultiva
te. All his energy went in getting over past baggage and ensuring things never got that way again. Basic survival was his only ambition. He wanted to reach a point where he could just about manage, without rising, without shining. His unpolished talent and limited devotion to duty worked well with this micro goal. It was in low-profile and less taxing positions that he actually thrived. Right now, however, he was on the road, stripped of work and pay. Being fired had definitely not been on his agenda. Yet, he took it in the best of spirits and decided to move on.

  The first day without work felt awesome. The second day dragged. By the fourth morning, however, he got antsy and searched frantically for the right opening. The job boards were overflowing with postings. But unfortunately, nothing remotely matching his medium qualifications was up for grabs. Rishi scanned the listings morning, noon and night, hoping for a happy hour that would bring good tidings. But all he hit was a zero.

  Wasn’t there something I could do? Something … anything …

  No, he didn’t want to serve tables. Neither could he solicit business on the streets. Not that he didn’t look good, but only that he wasn’t that confident—at least not now. Delivering stuff was again not up his sleeve. He was prone to knocking at the wrong door. As for entertaining, Rishi would be the last guy hired for such an engaging purpose. That left only sales. And he had flunked in both his recent assignments. It looked like he was destined to spend the rest of his days in England, playing the pensive role of a hungry, jobless immigrant, unwanted by the state that allowed him to stay and as well as the state that let him fly off.

  Those who knew Rishi explained that he was scarred. But scars either make people better or bitter. With Rishi, one could never tell for sure. When asked—usually at a job interview—he always described himself as a ‘work-in-progress’. If probed, he would elaborate that he was a slow learner, but a learner nevertheless. The goals he listed were unconventional too. He only wanted a salary that allowed him to eat, drink and exist. Period. How about getting his meals in the Southall gurdwara langars then, suggested someone. But that would cramp his style, he argued.