Love Curry

by Pankaj Dubey

  He sure tried, giving a bit of his head and heart to each reader who wrote to him. Spreading his life knowledge evenly across every query that popped his way. But there was this one reader who was forcing him to dig deep within for buried truths, and then playing hockey with his mind and emotions. She was slowly and surely worming her way into his soul. Her sadness first drilled a hole into his heart. Her questions pushed him to scratch beneath the surface of his emotions, stretching his mind and psyching him up to change his own goalposts even as he anticipated her next shot. It was a complicated formation, and Rishi did his best to comfort her, but she deflected every move he made, fouling his advances with a stick with which she beat herself.

  ‘Adopted’. For her, that was a dirty word. No matter how hard he tried to launder it, she still saw it as an indelible stain, marring her life. To find out that your mother is not your mother, and your father not really your father can be terrifying. It had destroyed her completely, turning her morose and miserable. That’s when she found him, had burrowed into him, wanting to know which soil she should call her own now. For, the earth that this earthworm knew was no longer hers.

  Rishi was stricken. Her raw wound’s hurt bled on to him. Her emails, dripping red, affecting him like he thought he would never be affected again. She called him her own because she knew nothing and no one that she truly owned now. That was so like him, he thought. He too spread himself everywhere as he had not a slice that was his very own.

  Identifying with her loss of identity, he plunged deeper into her mails and found insecurities festering everywhere. He tried to slough them away, giving her space to breathe. But it wasn’t that easy. While understanding her dilemmas, her fears and her uncertainty, he was confronted by his own monsters. Doubts and insecurities lurking within him raised their anxious heads, taunting him, questioning his role. What he could not do for himself, how could he do for anyone else? That was logical, but sometimes he reasoned, while helping others, you can actually help yourself.

  He began by offering her a foothold in life. Her mails revealed she was on the edge and that scared him. What if she felt so alone that she wanted to give up? No. He had to stop her. To do that, first he had to get her to trust him, and he did that by hearing her out. She told him about her dad who had not just been the pillar but also the walls and roof of her life. He had cocooned her with so much affection that she did not know how to think, smile or dance now that this sheath was gone. Rishi tried to explain that the sheath still existed if she wanted it to. But she was too taken up with the DNA angle to listen to him.

  Her heart heavier than stone, she confided in him all that burdened her.

  When he kissed my knee when I fell, it was not my dad who had kissed me. The stories of my great-grandfather that he told me at bedtime were not a part of my legacy. They took care of my aches as a child only to give me such heartache when I grew up. It can never be the same again. Everything is unravelling.

  The worst part was she had no idea who her biological parents were. No clue to reveal where she came from and this upset Rishi too. What if this were to happen to him? How would he react? Would he respond adequately? Could he keep his head sane when nothing else was? Families were toppling like houses of cards everywhere. Ali had lost his Abbu. Shehzad had an Ammi who had abandoned him. And now this girl. Life could really be such a shithole.

  Well, if no one else, Rishi decided he would be there for her. He would keep writing to her and help her get past her shock, no matter how long it took. He would hold her hand when she was low, and cheer her on every step of

  the way.

  The agony uncle was agonizing far too much over one reader and this became a problem too. So he consulted an agony aunt in another publication, asking how to save an agony aunt from drowning in a reader’s issues. His mail was ignored. That got his goat, but opened his eyes to the fact that readers in his own paper would be smarting the same way when their letters were ignored.

  So he unwrapped himself from his singular reader’s misery and got busy advising everyone again, addressing every father-in-law to high-school girl who approached him for any grouse under the sun. Till a new and bigger problem sprouted in his own backyard, forcing the uncle to drop his avuncular role for once.

  19

  Allah be praised, the Indian had finally left. Shehzad had the room, his space and its darkness all to himself again. That’s what he was used to. Sharing, caring hugs and sympathy were taboo in his galaxy. How dare Rishi rewrite his rules! Any future invasion would be aggressively dealt with. Yes, he would guard his solitariness till the last millisecond.

  Even as he mentally framed a list of suitable punishments befitting the crime of trespassing, along with a string of choicest swear words to ward off unwanted sympathizers, his mind kept drifting to what Rishi had said. Sketch another face. A happy one. One that makes you happy.

  He cursed. So sharp and insightful was this fellow, it was as if he had two heads. Thankfully, he rarely employed them both at once. Why today then? Spewing so much wisdom when none was sought? Also, Rishi’s repeat infiltration of his space this evening definitely smelt of a misplaced feeling of entitlement. He probably thought he was getting even for all the Bangladeshis walking across the Indian border all these years. Well, he wasn’t dumb to allow this like the Indian government did. Barging into his room and life without permission was fraught with deadly consequences.

  The atmosphere in the room had changed subtly, without the occupant being aware of it. The light was now on and South Harrow Lane had been forgotten. It looked like Rishi had invaded not just the physical space but skilfully stomped into his housemate’s mental domain too. Diverting Shehzad’s mind from the past to focus on the pest inhabiting his present. This mental invasion brought its own collateral benefit—Shehzad forgot the tears and fears clogging his happiness, and breathed freely and deeply. His battery too had surprisingly got charged enough to make him fidgety. Thinking up dire penalties for Rishi had also upped his mood considerably, so he quit the bed and moved to his desk.

  ‘Get back to work!’ he told himself. The studio catalogue was crying for newer designs. He needed to check on scheduled appointments and order the carbon tattoo needles he had been putting off buying. Warming his ass on the bed or chair wouldn’t help because there was too much work, so he got slaving. Scrolling down his appointments for the next day, he was distracted by a white triangle jutting out from under one corner of his laptop. It turned out to be his sketch pad. Pulling it out, he propped it on his laptop and stared at it, his appointments forgotten.

  The blank sheet beckoned him, calling him to create something. He kept looking at the pad, considering something, then finally picked up his Staedtler Fineliner pen and began to draw thick bold lines. His hand flew across the paper, for it knew what was in his head and heart. Within minutes, he had an outline. Shehzad began shading it, darkening the strokes to highlight every prominent feature, smudging at places. Next, detailing the sketch with light and heavy shading till he captured the depth and perfection he wanted.

  Satisfied, he put down his pen and picked up the sketch to examine his artwork. It had a nice feeling to it. He felt its energy and sparkle, right from the bounce in the hair to the merriment in the eyes, not forgetting the dramatic expression that looked so fake, and yet so cute. It made him smile. But the next second, he froze. It was Zeenat! He had sketched her face! He had not meant to. It just happened. Even while he was drawing, he had been unaware of the face he was capturing.

  ‘Sketch a face … one that makes you happy,’ Rishi’s challenge echoed in the room.

  Was it Rishi invading his head now? That bloody idiot! He couldn’t influence a rat—no way could he dare mess with Shehzad’s mind. No, this was surely his own insanity. He was going mad. Mad about her. Shehzad jumped at this voice, and looked around him—there was no one. The voice had floated up from inside him, catching him by the throat, expelling every ounce of oxygen existing in his lungs and leaving
him gasping.

  This was new territory. Shehzad had never felt this deeply about any girl. He was unfeeling—or so he’d told himself and the world. Then how had she marched into his heart? With an unsteady hand, he picked up the sketch again and ran his fingers over her hair, the black locks flying all over the place even in his drawing. He examined her nose, sharp and pert; her almond eyes, huge, expressive and flooded with Bollywood dreams.

  He caressed the sketch, tracing her angular face, seeing her with new eyes. Zeenat! When did this happen? When had he got so caught in her, without even realizing it? What a jerk he was! Blind to the madness brewing inside him. ‘Zeenie!’ he cried out. ‘You got me, baby. Damn you!’

  Feeling light-headed, he marched up and down the room, talking to himself, smiling stupidly, then frowning, and then smiling again. ‘You knew?’ he asked the dragons, birds and butterflies pinned on his walls. ‘You saw us here, every time … surely you knew …? And you!’ He pinched the poster girl and asked, ‘Why didn’t you warn me?’

  Punching his world for hiding this truth from him, Shehzad fell on the bed, high and euphoric. Strangely, he didn’t feel hungry tonight. Did love kill your appetite? If he’d known, he would’ve swum the Channel to escape her. Another hour went by. Shehzad spent it with himself, relishing the taste of this new feeling, desiring no company. Not even chicken tonight.

  It was past midnight when it struck him that he still hadn’t eaten. What the bloody hell! She had taken his heart, that too without asking, and that was okay. But his appetite? Love wasn’t supposed to wreck stomachs. Hell, no!

  20

  Fiza and Mullah were on exactly the same wavelength today. Her London-born-and-bred culture and thinking was, for a change, not clashing with her imported-from-India-and-made-British husband. Both were overwhelmingly in favour of seeing Zeenat engaged as soon as possible. Though Fiza felt superior to her husband in every way, she knew he had far more leverage with their one and only daughter and so she asked him to approach her.

  The entire course of action had already been charted out meticulously inside her head; one by one, she would reveal her cards. Fiza was not just looking to get her girl married off and settled, she also had the right boy in mind. Someone hailing from a similar background, ethnicity, religion, devoutness and even skin colour. Not having much of an extended family here in England from which to pluck a potential son-in-law, her choices had been limited. Yet, she had stumbled upon a prize catch. Call it her baby’s kismet.

  Her husband had switched sides, leaving his daughter, to side with the mother for this one battle. A diehard romantic in his salad days, Mullah had ripened into a practical and worldly person who wanted all the comfort and stability of an arranged marriage for his princess. Fiza wanted to sneak in her proposal through another party. She wanted to throw a bash that included the prospective groom and served to brighten his prospects. Mullah preferred a direct attack, and for once, he won.

  At the dinner table, before everyone got busy with the salad and kebabs, Mullah came straight to the point. ‘Zeenat, your Ammi and I think … it’s time you got engaged.’ Pausing for a few seconds, he continued, ‘We’ll find you a good boy … someone who’s honest, down-to-earth and not shy of commitment. Someone from our own community, someone who’ll keep you as happy as we do.’

  That was it, Mullah exhaled in relief, having managed to pull off a nice, clean surgical strike—timing it right and dwelling on all the important points. Before he could pat himself again for offloading this delicate and difficult topic, his limited strike had inflated into a full-blown war.

  Zeenat raged and ranted, losing it completely like she’d seen Bollywood heroes do on screen whenever there was a major travesty. ‘Marry … Marry me off? Just who … who gave you this right?’ Banging down her fork on the half-eaten kebab, she threw back her chair and strode up to her father. ‘Am I your pet to keep, feed and then parcel off when you feel like it?’ At full volume, she blasted him, firing point-blank to check their shameless encroachment into her personal life.

  Unprepared for her extreme reaction, Mullah tried to reason that this was for the best. ‘When did you get so feudal?’ Zeenat questioned him sharply, looking at her mother as she spoke, knowing fully well where it was all coming from.

  ‘Zeenat … we only want you to be happy … trust me.’

  ‘You butt out of my life completely! And now!’ She hit back, pushing out the one person who occupied her heart and life till now.

  Mullah went white with shock. Fiza was suitably distraught, but she had known it would not be easy to persuade their obstinate girl. Inhaling deeply, she stepped into the fight to finish what Mullah had started. Reinforcing the general sentiment of families, which swung in favour of children getting engaged at the right age, Fiza droned on about how Zeenat needed a man who was patient, educated, from a decent family and who ‘had an understanding of religion and values’.

  ‘Does he need to have a beard too?’ Zeenat cut in with a sneer. She was smarting at this dual attack. ‘And tell me,’ she said, bouncing up to her mother, ‘What should be his ideal weight? Come on, tell me! How many pounds?’

  Fiza brushed it off as a childish tantrum and tried diplomacy next. ‘You’ve always been so special, Zeenat. We want you to have the best, and arrange the best for you—for all time.’

  ‘You’ll arrange for it, huh?’ Zeenat was fast losing control. ‘Arrange for marriage, arrange for love too, will you? And sex?’ Her voice had gone deadly low and threatening. ‘All home delivered, huh?’

  Fiza refused to be provoked. Reaching out to her daughter, she explained in measured tones, ‘When you have the respect and trust of a man, love will automatically develop.’

  ‘Jeez!’ Zeenat grew hysterical then. ‘Automatically develop!’ Repeating her mother’s insane, illogical words in a sing-song voice, Zeenat kept prancing round and round the dining table as if part of some bizarre tableau being enacted there.

  ‘Which planet do you come from?’ she asked Fiza. ‘I don’t know you.’

  Mullah sat through it all, suffering her act, not adding another word or gesture.

  ‘You two … you … ’ Picking up a fork, she pointed at the two people at the table who were trying to live her life for her, and said, ‘Such experts you are! When to marry, who to marry, how to love … you know everything!’

  Fiza did not get where all this was leading to. But Mullah was getting more jittery by the minute. He knew his dramatic daughter was reaching some climax.

  ‘Take your shit to the world and charge them for it … you guys are so good at it! Arrange for spouses, families … fix them all up … do it for pounds … thousands of pounds. But leave me … leave me alone.’

  All of this drama was now disturbing Fiza. She was quintessentially British and therefore, not used to such an excessive show of emotion. And pounds—what was this talk of pounds?

  ‘Matchmake for the whole bloody community, I give a damn. Don’t you dare with me!’ Zeenat screamed, stopping her mom right there as she was about to dispense another of her prim and proper and artfully logical statements.

  ‘Zeenat!’ Mullah intervened. By taking only her name, he was trying to let her know she had crossed some borders, and that was unacceptable.

  But you cannot roll up a drama queen when she is in full flow. Mullah knew this and looked on helpless. ‘Go freak out there, headhunting brides and grooms … killing freedom … murdering love … go …’

  One part of Mullah was enjoying her histrionics. Such talent! It was being wasted in this house and country. She was custom-made for Bollywood, his baby. His princess. But the husband and father in him disagreed with this rebellious thought and ordered him to remember his role and think and act accordingly. Fiza continued to bear the brunt of Zeenat’s rage.

  ‘You’ll make thousands,’ Zeenat spat. ‘Sell them the full package—spouse background check, lifestyle compatibility check, match for age, height and weight, and any other stupid
detail you can think of. Do it! Enjoy yourself at their expense.’

  If it weren’t so tragic, it would be funny, thought the head of the family.

  Then Fiza made a classic statement. ‘For this day, we brought you up?’

  And something snapped inside Zeenat. She left them. Walked out without another word. Neither Mr nor Mrs Mullah had the guts to ask where she was going.

  21

  Her heart heavy and confused, Zeenat trundled along, not knowing where she should go. Just one thing she knew—no way could she go back home tonight. Ten houses up the street, she paused, her feet braking automatically. Technically, wasn’t this house also hers? As for the tenants, they were no longer just tenants but an important and dependable chunk of her personal life. So staying the night here should be okay. In fact, it was a two-in-one deal. She would get here most of the comforts she got at home and still be able to sulk it out in the eyes of the older folk. Add to it the company of the boys. So she rang the doorbell, still angry but anticipating her mood to rapidly change for the better.

  Her next hour went in recounting the horrors that befell her at house number 94. Her life was being auctioned off by Mullah and his biwi, she told them in between loud sniffles. It was a box office show featuring heavy dialogues, over-the-top emotions, frantic gestures, and tears that fell right on cue. Shehzad and Ali bent over backwards to console the stricken beauty, and in righteous anger, vowed to be her knights in shining armour, brave enough to take on even their own landlord, that too, in a foreign land.