by Pankaj Dubey
Rishi did not believe that he was going downhill professionally; it was the employers who were getting more exacting in what they wanted. They listed out extremely specific technical requirements, and needed you to demonstrate skills quickly. Rishi was definitely not cut out for such things. But like every dog has his day, Rishi had his too. One on which he stumbled on the perfect job ad. It required no major qualification other than being a desi and having some experience in sales. Rishi was hired immediately. His job was to chat up rich desi babas and convince them to buy ad space in Desi Beats, the paper that was literally the heartbeat of the Indian population in England.
Rishi was thrilled to have landed this average paying and non-demanding job, that too in an office which was a veritable Asia in London. He sighted a Lankan and a lady from Karachi, another from Cambodia or Kuala Lumpur, he couldn’t be sure. Booming over them were the Gujaratis and the Punjabis. It was chaotic and homely. Not that he was homesick, but this was familiar territory and he felt safe.
Getting hired can be a tiring thing. Rishi reported to meet the team but postponed the launch of his new career till the next morning, citing pending stuff he needed to clear. Actually, it was his head he wanted to air out; he wanted to idle away one last evening before returning to the grind of a schedule. His wish was granted. With a singing heart and dancing eyes, he stepped back into the house and greeted Shehzad cheerily, almost shocking the Bangladeshi to the point of heart failure.
His housemate shook him to ascertain that he was real. Rishi laughed.
‘Got exchanged, did you?’
Rishi winked in answer. Shehzad was sure he was hallucinating. The Indian had gotten drunk or had hit his head. Or maybe, this was a phoney. This couldn’t be Rishi. Not their Rishi. Definitely not that morose, keeping-to-himself damp squib he had been living with for months. Before the Bangladeshi seriously lost his marbles, Rishi explained the reason for his good cheer.
‘I got a new job. Exactly the sort I wanted.’
Shehzad stared open-mouthed. What the Indian was saying made no sense to him, but he let it go. At least, the bugger was smiling and talking tonight. Most of the time, he reminded Shehzad of that grave and gloomy Indian PM, the one who was never audible on TV, even with a battery of mikes facing him. Thankfully, his government had been replaced—such a yawn he was. Shaking his head, Shehzad got up to raid the fridge. So much confusion wasn’t good for his stomach. He needed to fuel up, eat something hot and spicy to get his mind ticking again.
Rishi stretched out comfortably on the sofa and decided to doze off. But a shout from the kitchen messed up his plan. The Dhaka boy needed help. What Rishi could make out in his half-asleep state was that Shehzad was succumbing to hunger, having found nothing palatable in the fridge to feed on.
This was a desperate situation. Everyone knew of Shehzad and his starvation bouts. He went totally crazy when hunger pangs hit him and food was not at hand. Ali usually cooked extra food and stocked leftovers just for such emergencies. The famished Bangladeshi had thus attacked the fridge with much hope. But found only milk or stuff that needed to be prepared. As cooking was something he couldn’t do alone, the new-and-improved Rishi had to be summoned.
Shehzad lined up three options from the stuff in the fridge. Together, they could surely manage to whip up one out of the three. But where was the Agra boy? How long it took to move his ass from the hall to the kitchen! And why didn’t he answer? Had he gone mute again, like his ex-PM? The Bangla stomach was growling loud and making him really impatient, so he went to investigate. The Indian was checking something on his phone. Shehzad wanted to wring his neck and then feast on his sullen meat to wreak revenge. But even that would involve cooking, something he couldn’t manage by himself. So he held his instincts in check and settled on verbal abuse.
Scanning cheap takeaway options on his phone, Rishi did not see Shehzad coming. Something cold suddenly whizzed past his ears, making him jump, and his phone went flying. He turned around to see what had hit him—and stared into a jar of pickles! It was his pickle jar! That vile Bangladeshi vermin charged into Rishi again, attacking him with Indian pickle, along with every fucking abuse known in the subcontinent.
Rishi screamed, ‘Chill, man! Chill!’
But his starved and simmering housemate was not in the frame of mind to listen. Rishi then picked up his phone and waved it in front of the Dhaka storm like a white flag. ‘See! See, what I was doing,’ he tried to shout above the tornado raging and swearing full blast. ‘I was looking at meal deals—my treat.’
Shehzad stopped then, liking what he had just heard. Ordering was always easier than cooking, and if someone else was paying, he could wait.
9
All that going up and down restaurant options, and calculation after calculation to arrive at the place from which they could extract the most after shelling out the least, brought them in the end to one place. Nawab Balti—Ali’s restaurant. They decided to land up around twelve to avail the two-for-one offer. After midnight, you could eat anything there at half-price. That suited them the best. Also, Ali could take care of extras, if there were any, and possibly throw in a free dessert too.
So hands in pockets, earphones plugged in, the two reached Whitechapel on the Tube. Shehzad felt nostalgic each time he set foot here—this was Bangla town! But he was careful not to show it. He acted like a Londoni—born and brought up in England—distinguished from the visa dependent riff-raff crawling all around. Rishi got caught up in the smells and sales that were a trademark of this East London street. Cheap buys tempted him at every corner. He liked checking out the T-shirts and belts, looking for the impossible bargain. Shehzad joined him in his search.
‘These are shirts … T-shirts,’ Rishi pointed out.
‘Yeah. So?’
‘Why you looking? You almost never wear one.’
Shehzad looked to check if his housemate had suddenly gone insane and found him grinning wickedly. Now, what was this? Twice in one day, the Indian actually looked happy. Life was such a puzzle. It fried his brains.
‘Salmanbhai, how’s this black one?’ Rishi turned to Shehzad and asked, with a laugh.
The Londoni eyed the Indian warily as he held up a T-shirt for inspection.
‘Not for you.’
Rishi was wise enough to not ask why. He had no desire to be butchered in public. Shehzad had exacted suitable revenge for that shirtless Salman Khan jibe. The two then walked slowly towards their destination, letting the clock roll towards midnight. Shehzad paused to admire the striking street art. Turning to his companion, he explained why the painted crane was a notch above the masterpieces displayed in western museums.
‘This one comes from the heart … not the brush.’
Rishi was filled with a new respect for his housemate. Shehzad was clearly not as dumb as he acted. His eye for visual detail and artistic merit had escaped him till now. They wound their way past the waiters hawking for business. ‘Free snack … come in … free snack …’ This was normal in Brick Lane, a speciality of the area, in fact. All these deals, however, could not match the deal they would wrangle out of their Ali.
Nawab Balti! They had reached their desired destination. The duo sauntered in, cocky and smiling.
Attending to a customer, Ali happened to look up and was startled. What were these tharkis, these good-for-nothings doing here? Had something gone wrong? Allah rehmat kare … he prayed and bounced up to them at once.
Shehzad motioned to Rishi not to reveal why they had come. He wanted to fool around with Ali a bit before sitting down to eat.
When Ali looked at them questioningly, Shehzad asked, ‘You caught the news, did you?’
‘Kya?’
‘The high commission in Islamabad was attacked. They’re rounding up all the Pakis here.’
Ali went white. Shehzad leaned close and whispered in his ear, ‘They’re cancelling all visas.’
Ali looked at Rishi. The Indian was enjoying this attack across the bo
rder way too much. The chef collapsed on to the nearest chair, sweating. People were wearing jackets but he felt like he was in Lahore in June. Rishi and Shehzad pulled up chairs and joined him on the table. The Bangladeshi pulled out the menu stuck on the centrepiece and began reading it out loud. Rishi fought on which dish to order first. Ali stared at the jokers occupying his table and suddenly things began to get clear. The bastards were freaking him out on his visa-fright syndrome! They were chopping him up, that too in his own restaurant.
He got up to throw them out. There was still an hour or two of business left. He couldn’t handle work with these clowns at his elbow.
‘Out, you two! Out!’ He barked, his suave persona forgotten for once. But it was as if he had not said anything. The two failed to react one inch. They went on debating their options and figuring out the sequence in which to have them.
‘Dahibhalla first or at the end?’
‘I want to end with kulfi falooda.’
Ali was fast losing every ounce of his legendary patience. These inhuman louts didn’t deserve any. Yet, he held back. This was, after all, his workplace. He couldn’t explode even if he had every goddamn reason to. ‘Leave,’ he hissed, looking the two idiots in the eye.
‘Relax. It’s not good for your blood pressure.’
Ali vowed that one day he would kill this Bangladeshi—this scoundrel who pretended to be a Londoni. Plunge him down his Farakka Barrage.
‘We’re celebrating!’
Celebrating? What? Why? Ali was lost. But he refrained from asking. Who knew, this might just be another prank.
‘Rishi’s got a new job!’
Ali looked at the Indian to confirm. And saw his eyes twinkling happily. The Pakistani’s heart melted at this visual confirmation. Holding out his giant, hairy hand, he congratulated his housemate with a hearty handshake and then finding this to be less, hauled him out of his chair and hugged him.
Shehzad whistled. ‘Now for the treat.’
Ali eyed the Bangladeshi, unsure of what he was implying. He could sure feed his housemates but he would have to pay. He couldn’t dole out freebies—this wasn’t his restaurant. If this was Lahore, then they could come any time!
‘Rishi’s treating!’
Rishi confirmed and asked Ali to decide what the three of them should eat. ‘We’ll wait till the clock strikes the witching hour though!’
Ali laughed at his deal-hungry housemates. It was good to have them here—it felt somewhat like home. He returned to the kitchen with a smile, his brain listing out the dishes and the order in which he would have them served at the table. Yes, tonight would be a feast
It was half-past twelve. The restaurant was now almost empty. The few people inside, like the housemates, had walked in late to eat at half-price. A sprinkling of customers who would pay the full price too lingered. Ali now joined his friends at the table. The duo were stuffing themselves like it was their last supper, a supper for which they did not have to chop, peel, stir or stew anything. They finished off his signature dishes at a speed that was breakneck.
‘Stop!’ Ali told the gluttons. ‘Or you’ll burst!’
They ignored him and continued to gorge on the delicacies.
‘You won’t understand,’ Shehzad explained after polishing off the dal. ‘You got food around you all the time.’
‘I cook, don’t eat it.’
‘Same thing!’ Shehzad had his own warped logic. ‘You can see it, smell it, taste it whenever you want.’
Ali shook his head. He was an ass to argue with these asses. Pointless talking to them, it was better to stuff his mouth like the other two. After all, Rishi was treating.
Tummies full, the three returned home singing. First, Rishi crooned a Salman Khan number—an ode to his frequently shirtless housemate. Shehzad followed it up with a Honey Singh chartbuster that had them dancing on the street. Back at home, it was time for Ali’s shayri—Jaun Elia, Ali’s favourite. He crooned at the door:
Aaj bahut din baad mein apne kamre tak aa nikla tha,
Jun hi darwaaza khola hai, uski khushboo aayi hai.
Rishi whistled and clapped. ‘Wah, wah!’
Tum jab aogi toh khoya hua paogi mujhe,
Meri tanhaayi mein khwaabonke siva kuch bhi nahi.
Mere kamre ko sajane ki tamanna hai tujhe,
Mere kamre mein kitabon ki siva kuch nahi …
Shehzad immediately wanted to know who Ali was reciting all of these verses for.
‘Tum bhi chup hai, main bhi chup hoon …’ Ali returned with a smile.
10
Meanwhile, thousands of miles away, life was no longer merry. No hustle and bustle of cars driving in, of people walking in to order food. There were no children shrieking and running around, and no mothers stopping them. No Bollywood music blaring in the background. No diners trying to shout their order over all the noise. Not even waiters chasing the cooks to rush their orders, or customers bickering over their bills. And no groups of people jumping in to take the table that had just been vacated.
The dhaba was no longer a dhaba. It was bereft of people, food, and life. Only the signboard still hung, lonely and irrelevant, presiding over a downed shutter. The board said Haji’s Hotel in bright yellow but there was no one around to read it. Behind the shutter, once Lahori thaals and nihari were prepared. Order after order for biryani had to be met in a piping rush. Today, tables and chairs stood stacked up and dusty in a corner. There wasn’t a whiff of smoke or smell of things cooking.
Wasim Sahib was the only one who came here now. He would stand outside and stare at the locked-up place for an hour every day. But lately, even he had stopped coming—he couldn’t. Things were disintegrating fast, even home was no longer home. His family lived at his place but without him. They came hounding him day and night, every day, demanding the same thing, till he was no longer there for them to come after. Only the family was left to tell them they knew not where he was.
And that’s what they told Ali too when he had called in the morning. He had been calling and asking for Abbu every day, and every day, they fobbed him off with excuses like they fobbed off the loan recovery agents. Only the excuse they gave their son was different from the one they gave the bank. But today, the family finally told Ali what they told the bank agents every day. Abbu was gone.
Ali went numb. He couldn’t believe things had come to this. Abbu had left home. Left Ammi. And he was just sitting here. Cooking lamb chops. He banged his head against the wall, crying, but shedding no tears. He was cracking up inside, grieving about not being in Lahore.
Thousands of miles away, Ammi could sense he was not okay. She called to stop him from breaking, confiding that Abbu was well wherever he was and that Ali should not waste away worrying; rather, he should keep doing what he set out to do because now more than ever, the family’s hopes were riding on their boy in London. Ali took heart that at least Ammi was in touch with Abbu. Holding on to that ray, he resolved to get tougher and prepared himself to win.
Rishi and Shehzad, in adjacent rooms, remained oblivious to these developments till the Partition topic came up in the kitchen that night, and burnt the bhindi frying in the pan. One thing led to another and the whole dhaba story burst out. Trust the Bangladeshi to pick on the past to screw up the present. He began by taunting Ali when the chef yelled at him for messing up the kitchen counter. ‘This is just a countertop. You guys fucked my whole country with all your East Pakistan shit.’
‘Shehu …’ warned Ali, wanting to slice off the Dhakaite’s tongue.
‘For once, you’re right,’ Rishi chipped in, patting Shehzad’s back.
‘Good, we cut loose,’ the Bangladeshi declared, playing with the onion skins on the chopping board.
‘And how did that help?’ Ali came to stand behind him and nearly yelled into his ear. ‘What you got today? A delta, Runa Laila and … ?’
Shehzad turned to Ali in anger. Rishi left the rice he was soaking and wedged himself between his taller housema
tes.
‘Guys, chill …’
‘You tell me what you got first …’ Shehzad screamed over Rishi’s head.
‘Kalashnikovs!’ Rishi whispered in the Bangladeshi’s ear and Ali heard him.
‘Yeah, like your Nehru didn’t go pandering to the Soviets, no?’
‘We don’t live on foreign aid like you,’ Rishi hit back. ‘Fighting others’ wars.’
The Pakistani swung the Indian to face him and looked him in the eye. ‘You still can’t get over the fact that we broke away, can you? Partition goes on hurting.’
‘Dream on …’ taunted the Indian, raising his neighbour’s blood pressure.
‘Look …’ Shehzad now tried to cool his seething housemates, scared that things might boil out of control. With an India–Pakistan situation, you can never tell. ‘Let’s sit and discuss this over dinner. Like civilized humans … please?’
In all this brouhaha, the bhindi in the pan went from green to brown, irritating Ali even further. ‘These Indians, they spoil everything … hamara naam … kaam … qabiliyat … everything.’
‘Blame your debts on us too—go on!’ Rishi goaded, despite Shehzad trying to pull him away from the kitchen.
Discarding the burnt vegetable in the bin, Ali let loose.
‘Yes, everything! You Indians wrecked everything for Pakistan. Leaving us with nothing after Partition. Killing our people, taking away our institutions, our towns, industry, water—everything!’
‘Everything?’
‘Yes, everything! We had to build everything from scratch. You … you were making us pay for not living the Hindu way. And we’re still paying. I’m paying. My Abbu’s paying. Our dhaba is paying. All for you Hindus!’
The Pakistani was blabbering now. The other two had riled him no end. First, the Dhaka fellow with his smart-arse comments and then the Indian backing him up. And blackening his bhindi too! Especially when there was so much on his mind. Insensitive idiots! They just didn’t know where to draw the line!