Love Curry

by Pankaj Dubey

  ‘Tell me one thing,’ Rishi began again, at the dining table. Shehzad had herded them there, along with the remaining dinner, hoping that the dal and rotis would keep their mouths busy and save him more Partition noise.

  ‘How is Partition affecting you, your Abbu, and your dhaba today?’

  ‘You ruined our economy … the reason why we’re swimming in debt today. Paying and repaying loans.’

  ‘Not us. Your bloody dictators did you in. The honour goes to them.’

  Shehzad couldn’t stop himself from butting in. ‘He’s right. That Ayub and Yahya Khan—they tried the same stunt in East Pakistan too. Dictating. Trying to control everything—even our language.’

  ‘And what ruin are you talking of ?’ Rishi said to Ali. ‘All that fertile land you got in Punjab, that too fully irrigated.’

  ‘Cotton and jute too,’ piped in the Bangladeshi.

  Ali got mad at this dual attack. ‘Siding with India won’t help you. They screw everyone,’ the Pakistani informed the Bangladeshi. ‘And you, Rishi—you guys are always creating trouble, eating up whatever we got. Because of you, our defence spending’s spiked ten times, leaving nothing for honest, simple folk. No wonder, Abbu had to go.’ His voice shook now. ‘Leave our home … our dhaba … all gone …’

  Not understanding where all of this was coming from, Rishi, in a fit of rage, pushed his chair back, picked up his plate and took off to his room, telling Ali that he didn’t want to see or hear him again.

  Shehzad put out a hand to comfort Ali. The usually polite man was staring down his plate and still shaking with emotion. He was not one for such drama. Other than cricket and Jaun Elia, not much ruffled Ali’s feathers. And what was that he said about his Abbu? About his leaving home? And their dhaba? Shehzad would have to figure a delicate way to get that story out. The guy was all messed up now. In fact, their whole house was. He shouldn’t have started this. Fuck!

  For at least a week now, he would have to spread peace and act like—what was the name of that Tibetan monk in India? Ah yes, the Dalai Lama.

  11

  Rishi, Shehzad and Ali walked down George Street to their landlord’s in complete silence. The Indian and the Pakistani had been operating in ‘talk-only-when-absolutely-necessary’ mode ever since the Partition fiasco. Shehzad was wondering what the hell he would do at Zeenat’s place when he was mad at her and she with him. Yet, here they were, marching up together to her place.

  Actually, Mullah had called. And when your landlord summons, you have to go. Even if it was to attend the birthday of someone you don’t really care about. At least, that’s how Rishi saw it. Shehzad’s case was different. He didn’t want to go because he was getting too caught up with her and that was not his scene. She too was still hung up about the tattoo botch-up. But there was no way he could explain this complicated tale to Mullah. Ali went armed with sweet and spongy rasmalai and a smile that he would unleash only at her door. It was an honour to be invited to spend this special day with her. And he had effusively said the same to her father. How lucky he was to have Mullah as his landlord!

  Fiza received them at the door. Gushing over Ali and his rasmalai, she took him to Zeenat, signalling the other two to follow. Rishi had written ‘Happy Birthday’ on a card and Shehzad had got a bottle, hoping it would add some sparkle to the night.

  Zeenat was all dolled up for the occasion in a sheer mauve shirt and a slinky blue skirt and navy pumps. Shiny silver studs and a bracelet added to her glow. Her hair was clasped in a clip at her left shoulder. She had clearly dressed with care but acted like it was no big deal. And going more dramatic, she rebuked Mullah twice for bothering the boys for such a non-event. Aware of her penchant for drama, no one took her seriously. The elders looked on dreamily at their wonderful daughter, catching the smile in her eyes when the boys walked in.

  For reasons unknown, their daughter wanted to keep her pleasure at their arrival under wraps, so they played along. Her offhand demeanour soon began to rankle Shehzad and Rishi. So, after handing over the bottle and the card, they proceeded to lavish all their attention on the canapés and kebabs piled high on the table. This further aggravated the princess’s unholy temper. Oblivious to the undercurrents, Ali played both guest and host, moving around with the tray, serving with a glowing heart. His chatter warmed Zeenat’s parents more than the fire lit for the occasion.

  Zeenat preened and strutted in her heels, looking more appetizing than the fare on the table. But Rishi kept his eyes glued to his phone and Shehzad pretended to be unmoved. Things got moving only after Fiza elbowed her husband to get up and let the children be. The awkwardness in the hall was not of their making, but they had no clue. Ali was the only one who cashed in on their departure. He began his own version of Coke Studio a la Jaun Elia, paying his ode to the birthday girl in ecstatic poetry:

  Ajab ek shor sa bar pa hai kahin

  Koi khaamosh hoga ya hai kahin

  Hai kuchh hai saki jaise ye sab kuchh

  Ab se pehle bhi ho chukka hai kahin

  Har bar mere saamnay aati rahi ho tum

  Har bar tum se mil ke bicharta raha hun mein

  Tum kaun ho ye khud bhi nahin jaanti ho tum

  Mein kaun hun ye khud bhi nahi jaanta humein.

  The magic of the words changed the mood of the party. Rishi, Shehzad and Zeenat were drawn into a beautiful world of romance and laughter and merriment. The birthday girl cast off her nonchalant attitude and embraced the boys anew, for the night was young and it would be criminal to waste another minute pandering to her fast-fading anger.

  A change of mood called for a change in music. Zeenie cast off her shoes and put on some thumping techno music. ‘Let’s party!’ she declared.

  That was the cue for Shehzad to bring out the bottles from their hiding place beneath the console. She didn’t have to tell him they were there. His eyes and nose had zoomed in on these party vitals within minutes of entering. They had been stashed there for a purpose, and he had figured that out instantly.

  Dimming the lights and crowding round the table, the foursome got merry even before the champagne was popped. Ali and Rishi were still not talking to each other, but when there was food, music and alcohol, one did not necessarily need conversation to enjoy oneself. To Shehzad went the honour of uncorking the bottle and the first toast. ‘To the yummiest heroine of tomorrow! The sexy and sizzling Zeenie!’

  The boys whistled and clapped. Zeenat hugged him then, gathering Shehzad close and not wanting to let go.

  ‘To the dreamiest lady in London!’ Ali pronounced with stars in his eyes. She rewarded him with a kiss on the nose.

  Rishi was inaudible as always.

  Mullah and his wife heard the volume go up and slipped content into their sheets, glad that their princess was finally having a good time. These last few days, she had been moping and not quite been her normal self. Unaware of her spat with Shehzad, they had invited the tenants over to cheer up their solitary flower. These boys had been dominating her conversations at home, so Mullah deduced they would be his best bet to make the birthday a success. As always, he was right.

  The night was high on Bollywood numbers. Ali knew what Zeenat liked, and he played one hit after another. Even Rishi was on the floor, unable to resist the catchy beat. The music took him back to Agra and Delhi … and to those loud, sultry nights awash with daaru and dance. Ali knew every word of every song by heart and sang noisily as he jumped and twisted all over the floor. His energy got the night kicking on the right note.

  Shehzad fooled around with the bottle he had brought. Drinking from it, dancing with it hanging from his mouth, taking another swig, swaying, pouring it down Zeenie’s mouth and neck, and then down his own, all the time dancing. Zeenat danced like the floor was begging her to play with it. Tuk tuk tuk ardi … Ghitpit tuk ardi … Poora London thum akda! With her endless energy, her contagious excitement, she was gyrating like there was no tomorrow. She wooed the room with her thumkas, jhatkas and latkas, her binda
as frolic on the floor making her the Helen of every male heart in the vicinity. Shehzad brushed against her. Ali enveloped her in a bear hug and swayed. Rishi joined his mates in circling her, whooping and shaking.

  Empty bottles rolled on the floor. Rishi had hit his limit. Shehzad didn’t have any. Zeenat had upped hers. Even Ali had more than his usual amount. The night got high, and guards were lowered. Zeenat was swinging alone on the floor now. The boys parked themselves around her—on the floor, sofa and cushion—feasting their eyes on her. She swayed and teased, her moves growing bolder and more exaggerated. Bending on to a chair, the birthday girl flaunted the arch in her back. Ali forgot to blink. ‘Aisi hoon laila … har koi chahe mujhse milna akela’. The song said what the boys couldn’t.

  The liquor sure was loosening things up. Coming up to where Ali sat open-mouthed, she smiled, turned around and shook her hips in his face. Shehzad lay watching, propped against the leg of the settee. He was dying to pull her over but held back. And then she got down on all fours and approached him, crawling sexily. She surprised him by rubbing her booty on him, allowing him to touch and explore. Looking him in the eye, and then moving off with a laugh.

  The song ended, and it was more than what Ali could take in a night. He decided to leave while he was still in a position to. Shehzad did not respond when Ali checked if he was ready to leave. As for Rishi, even in his inebriated state, Ali was loathe to speak to him. So he trundled off, after a goodbye hug which did not quite register with Zeenat, for her attention was elsewhere.

  Shehzad was singing in her blood, her nerves—in every inch of her. And then he was on her. Taking her on the cushion. On the floor. They were a tangle of hands and legs, half-awake but demanding. Hungry.

  Hunger was what had driven Rishi to the kitchen. He was looking for the platter of nibbles Madam Mullah had served earlier. Liquor always whetted his appetite and it had been a long night. He never meant it to be this way, but what the heck, he was not drunk for sure. There was no risk of a hangover on day one of his new job. Food would clear the slight fuzziness hanging around him. Finding the galouti kebab, he attacked it with gusto, stuffing his face till every inch of his tongue and tummy were satisfied.

  Satiated, Shehzad fell back. She always felt better than last time. But was that logical? His head was too woozy to answer. Suddenly he started feeling cold. And queasy. Where was the loo? He had to make it there! Stumbling, he somehow reached the bathroom. He shut the door and was bending to puke when he hit the floor, passing out.

  Rishi returned to a hall filled with smoke and the smell of alcohol and the birthday girl sprawled senseless on the floor. Shehzad was nowhere around. Gathering her in his arms, Rishi fumbled as he put her open top together and whisked her hair out of the way. Swearing, he carried her up to her bed. Depositing the body plastered to him on to the mattress, he covered her up with a sheet and raced out. Such closeness to such beauty defied every clause in his promises to himself. That wasn’t acceptable. Never.

  12

  Zeenat got up with surprisingly not as big a hangover as she had feared. The left part of her head throbbed and even the weak sunlight streaming into the room made her squint. Beyond that, the rest of her functioned more or less okay. Sizing herself up in the mirror, she couldn’t miss the afterglow of last night’s party. Despite the crinkled blouse and skirt of yesterday, she looked like a million pounds, vouched the mirror. It was all Shehzad’s doing! She was eighteen today. And he had kissed her in eighteen erotic parts in celebration. Aah! Her head hurt and was a bit foggy. Some juice would help clear it. She wanted to rewind every minute of last night, especially the ending.

  What was this other thing her mirror was showing up today? A note! Stuck on the mirror with tape. Just like the notes she used to leave tacked all over the house for her parents to discover every time she went camping. How cute! With a nostalgic smile, she removed it and read it aloud. It was longer than she had thought. A letter, not a note! It took her a while to finish, a long while. They had been wanting to tell her this when she turned eighteen. Her head was going fuzzy again. Zeenat scrunched the letter up and shoved it in the drawer and went off to sleep again. She didn’t want to get up for a long, long time.

  By afternoon, she was at house number 104. The place felt like home. Ali was cleaning his shoes. Shehzad had taken the day off from the studio. His mind was still too plastered to do any inking. A pot of something was boiling in the kitchen. Zeenat hung around, inhaling the familiar scene. Her eyes were on all of them, and she spoke non-stop. To Ali. To Shehzad. And even to Rishi who had come back early. His first day at work had been a cakewalk.

  She was on a different plane today. Rishi sensed it the minute he walked in. She confirmed it by including him in her conversations. He had no choice but to reply. He still avoided Ali though. Things were still frigid between those two nations in this house. But not for long. Zeenat squashed the boys together on the sofa and forced them to join hands like scouts in some weird cult. And then made them promise to let go of any ill will towards each other.

  ‘You guys gave me the best start to my year,’ she told them. ‘I need the three of you together. Always.’

  Rishi looked up at her, incredulous. Shehzad asked if she had got drunk again today. Ali sat impassive. Her eyes showed that she meant it. Ali puffed out his chest magnanimously and was the first to stand up. Turning to Rishi, he hoisted him up and into his arms. Shehzad clapped from his perch and in a second, the tensions of the last few weeks melted away. The house was one again—an undivided, mad house!

  Half an hour later, Ali’s cell phone rang, intruding into their all-important round-table conference. Ali, Rishi, Shehzad and Zeenat were talking about what to cook for dinner, wanting to get it out of the way before Ali left for the restaurant. The Pakistani frowned when he saw the number. They never call at this hour! I’ve already spoken to them twice this morning.

  ‘Pick it up, man,’ Shehzad growled.

  Ali did so with more than a little trepidation.

  The rest continued to fight over whether to make paneer lababdar or chicken tikka. Rishi swore by his paneer whereas Zeenat and Shehzad were chicken crazies. The deciding vote would go to Ali for he was the one who would actually cook it.

  ‘Ali!’ All three yelled at once.

  He stood leaning against the wall, the handset stuck to his ear, saying nothing. It didn’t seem like he was listening, neither to them nor to whosoever was on the phone.

  ‘Janaab,’ said Zeenat, ‘too late to be hungover now. Get to work!’

  Rishi’s sixth sense sent him rushing up to his friend. With a jerk, he took the handset from Ali and saw, as he had suspected, that the line was dead. His friend was not on the phone but in another zone, and not a happy one at that. Guiding him to the sofa, Rishi signalled the other two to come over.

  ‘Abbu!’ Ali cried out to the three pairs of eyes inspecting him with visible concern.

  He didn’t need to tell them Abbu was gone. They knew this time that he was gone for good. Rishi held him and cried silently. Shehzad grabbed his shoulder and tried to squeeze the pain away. Zeenat prayed for the departed soul.

  Ali sat numb, letting his new family minister him. But a barrage of calls from Lahore forced him to reclaim his senses and think on his feet. There were the funeral arrangements to discuss and the expenses to calculate, along with figuring out possible funds for the ceremony. Even lists of relatives to inform had to be drawn up, so Ali got busy.

  There was too much consuming his mind, leaving little space and time to dwell on the departed soul. Even death, Rishi concluded, was getting to be more a function of practicality than emotion now. So cold-blooded and businesslike! A shiver crept up his spine.

  Zeenat entered Ali’s room to help him pack and did a double take. It looked anything but Ali’s room. Kurtas were spread all over the bed. Shirts and pants were flung on the chair. The floor was littered with books and paper. She almost tripped over the strap of a bag lying near
the door. And Ali? Where was he? She found him crouched in a corner, his head buried in his hands. Zeenat knelt by him and raised his head. His eyes were glazed.

  In answer to Zeenat’s unspoken question, he thrust his green passport forward. His hands were quivering.

  She didn’t understand. And he was in no position to explain. She called for the boys then. They all crowded into that corner, trying to make sense of what was happening to Ali now.

  ‘Shit!’

  That was Rishi. He had been looking at Ali’s passport up and down, trying to figure what could’ve gone wrong now. ‘You can’t go back, bro?’ Actually, it was more a statement than a question.

  The Pakistani wept at this, confirming what Rishi had deduced.

  Shehzad punched the wall. He was angry, frustrated. And wanted to destroy this dictatorial visa regime and its suffocating restrictions. Bloody discriminating pigs!

  ‘I’ll lend it to you,’ Zeenat offered her grieving friend, misunderstanding his problem.

  ‘No, Zeenie. No,’ Shehzad barked. ‘It’s not that.’ He was too irritated to elaborate further.

  She turned to Rishi who was helping Ali on to the chair. ‘With his work permit,’ Rishi explained, ‘re-entry can be a problem if he takes off,’

  ‘Even for a death in the family?’ Zeenat asked in disbelief

  ‘Even for a death,’ Rishi told her.

  She left after a while. There was nothing for her to do. Not even packing. No one was going anywhere. Shehzad persuaded Ali to go out with him to pray. Visiting Allah at least was not yet controlled by the Entry Clearance Officers.

  The house had gone dead quiet. Rishi sat by himself, unable to get over Ali’s stricken face. He’d come to England for his Abbu. Only for him. And now, he couldn’t go back to him—even this one last time. Life was such a bitch! He was no less. Rishi cursed himself. How he’d fought the fellow over something that happened seventy-plus years ago? Before either of them even existed? He swore, hating himself. Got up, paced around the room, tried to calm down … all the time itching to lessen his friend’s pain in some way—any way.