Love Curry

by Pankaj Dubey

  Mullah’s face broke into a smile. ‘Ah! So that’s where she was last night—I should’ve known!’ He patted the Pakistani with affection.

  Shit! Ali swore. Why had he let on that Zeenat had been with them? What if that was her secret? She would not forgive him for bleating it out. God! He felt so sheepish.

  ‘See, I have only one daughter,’ Mullah started again, ‘and it’s natural that I want the best for her.’

  Ali nodded, desperate to know where this was heading.

  ‘If you keep her well, I’ll do everything for you. Your …’

  ‘No … no. You don’t have to do anything, janaab,’ Ali butted in to reassure. ‘We all love having her with us.’

  ‘All?’

  Mullah picked on that one word. Clearly, there was a communication problem here. Either he was not making his point clearly or this boy had been drinking and lying about it.

  ‘If you marry her, I’ll …’

  ‘Marry!’ Ali jumped, his ears burning. Now, it was Ali’s turn to think that the other had had a bit too much to drink the previous night.

  ‘You don’t want to marry her?’ Mullah stopped to check.

  Ali halted too, his jaw open and mind numb.

  ‘In that case,’ said Mullah, ‘this conversation is pointless. Let’s go back.’

  Ali gripped Mullah’s hand as he turned to walk off. Stuttering, he began, ‘I … I … I don’t know what to say.’

  Seeing a glimmer of hope, Mullah restated his offer. ‘If you marry my girl, I’ll give you whatever you came here for.’

  That sounded like a promise. And Ali knew Mullah honoured his promises.

  ‘Haji’s Hotel, isn’t it?’ Mullah asked.

  Ali looked stricken. Was the landlord owning his mind too now?

  ‘Come on, tell me,’ he goaded. The chef was shy, he knew. In fact, that was one of the things both Fiza and he liked about the chap.

  Ali nodded again. It was doubtful he would get his voice back again today.

  ‘Just think. You get Zeenat and also your hotel. It’s a deal.’

  The way Mullah put it, it did sound like a clapper of a deal. Only Ali wanted her even if there was no deal, but mashallah, if he was getting his dhaba back too, nothing could be better. Glowing, Ali agreed to all that Mullah was offering.

  ‘Don’t just keep nodding,’ the prospective father-in-law admonished his to-be son-in-law. ‘Go! Propose to her.’

  That was the dicey part. While the offer had him dancing, the thought of executing it, starting with a proposal, made Ali sweat profusely.

  Mullah saw this and egged him on. ‘Don’t let someone beat you to this.’

  Shehzad! Ali thought of him at once, and his heart went cold. Mullah was right. He had to cook this one right away! Shehzad was on the prowl, salivating. Ali couldn’t let him make the first move. Especially not now.

  24

  Rishi was floating from one cloud to the next, bouncing from exhilaration to euphoria, feeling energetic and fidgety. Restless and on the edge, not hungry, not thirsty, and only shivering—with delight, with anxiety. His heartbeat kept rising and his breathing became faster, riding anticipation and sometimes, panic. He was scared about the direction in which he was headed. But she was there with him, in those clouds, in this new world, ruling his mind, living in those mails. Writing. Replying. Chatting. Living it up in the virtual world. The two building their own alternative reality up there, with just a user name and password, and profiles created especially for each other.

  They spoke of everything under the sun. One day it was on the uselessness of religion. Another day it was about fantasies and algorithms. Actually, it was Rishi who brought up algorithms, when they were talking of random stuff that people liked.

  ‘This Chinese dude I dated had a baked beans fetish.’

  ‘Baked beans?’

  ‘Yeah. Bread, salad, fruit, noodles—he topped everything with beans.’

  ‘Seriously?’

  ‘I left before he threw them on me too!’

  ‘Good you canned him!’

  And they laughed at his doublespeak. In their rooms, before their separate screens, but totally connected.

  Rishi hadn’t felt so free for a long time. Passing by his room, Shehzad’s ears pricked up at the unfettered laughter. Curiosity got the better of him and he barged in, not bothering to knock. His antenna went up seeing the Indian freaking out on his laptop. Rishi was having fun! Rishi! He crept closer to peek and got a bird’s eye view of the cosy chat.

  ‘Aah! Lovey dovey, are we?’

  Rishi shot the Bangladeshi a look that dripped venom.

  ‘You’re so right,’ crooned Shehzad, repeating what he’d read on the screen.

  Rishi chased him out, swearing at him in all the three languages he knew. That Bangladeshi vermin, he would shred his reputation in seconds now. But there were some things you just couldn’t control. So he stopped thinking about Shehzad and got back to her. She brought out a side in him no one here had seen. Even he hadn’t for quite some time.

  ‘And these Brit boys, they just don’t want to grow up!’

  Rishi was all eyes and ears. Pages from her life were flickering online.

  ‘You don’t like them?’

  ‘I do. But all they like is to get smashed in parks on cheap cider.’

  That was exactly what Rishi too had found; he began to feel like he was talking to himself. He shared an early memory with her. ‘When I first got here, I’d gone to a house party—saw these teenagers bouncing around in circles! It was so dumb. Two or three years younger, they were. But made me feel I was back in kindergarten.’

  She had danced at countless such parties, she confided, and found them equally juvenile.

  ‘I can change this if you want.’ Rishi was treading with infinite care now. Every word he typed had a purpose.

  ‘How?’ she asked.

  ‘You went eyes shut till now and got these wrong numbers.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘I can give you an algorithm that finds you the perfect match.’

  ‘Algorithm?’ He had lost her there.

  ‘It’s basic maths. You put in your choices and the set formula gives you the right match for your input.’

  ‘Don’t go technical on me.’

  ‘I won’t.’ He backtracked with haste, not wanting to lose her.

  ‘Okay, what input do you want?’

  She was game. His pulse beat faster and louder. ‘Tell me your taste in men.’

  ‘What you want to know?’

  ‘What you dig most: looks, brains, humour or sex?’

  ‘Fun. He should be fun.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And … he should … he should know how to see inside me. And talk to me—laugh with me.’

  ‘You want someone you can be yourself with?’

  ‘Yes. That’s it. Someone I can bare my soul to.’

  Rishi’s hands became clammy. What she wanted was what he had to offer. The agony uncle had been peeking into her soul, putting her insides in order. Even now they were sharing, talking, laughing—just what she sought. Only, the agony uncle no longer felt avuncular. This was a different track they were on.

  Rishi’s fingers trembled as he typed in a response to her input. ‘My algorithm tells me, your input matches our output.’

  Things went dead quiet at her end. Not a single character was typed.

  ‘Mostly.’

  It was he who added this one word to fill the gap. Trying to be specific and true. And at the same time, praying she understood him and accepted this thing that was developing between them. He hoped they could figure it out without another agony aunt or uncle wedging in between to sort out their mess.

  The screen remained blank and silent.

  ‘You there?’

  His heart was in his mouth as he typed this with shaky fingers. But she hadn’t signed off—yet.

  ‘I am.’

  He sent her an emoji then. And another. And an
other. More and more. No single emoji could express all that he was going through now. Trepidation. Nerves. Confusion. Vacuum. Anticipation. Hope. Fear. And finally, relief at her confirming that she was still there.

  All was not lost. While she was there, there was a glimmer of a new tomorrow. Yes, Rishi had now learnt to jump past failures and hold on to every silver lining. It was her magic that made him this way.

  She reverted with a smiley and a comment, ‘So complex you are.’

  That was for his army of emoticons, each different from the other. ‘Simplify me,’ he requested, bolstered by her smiley.

  ‘I am powerless from behind a screen.’

  Rishi’s jaw fell open. Was that … an invitation? Was she suggesting … meeting offline? Actually, meet? His life was becoming quite a T20 match. One never knew which way it would swing.

  High on confidence, he typed, ‘Show me your powers offline then.’

  She went quiet again. She was probably thinking—debating.

  ‘You got those powers, don’t you?’ he baited her.

  And she called his bluff. ‘Don’t pull your dude act on me. I’m no shrinking wallflower.’

  ‘I already know that.’

  That took them on a new track. She wanted to know what made him so sure of her. What if she was a lying octogenarian with dyed hair and a dozen facelifts?

  ‘You’ll still be young at heart and on the same wavelength as me.’

  That went bullseye, hitting her exactly where it mattered. But she still kept fishing, ‘I can airbrush my pictures, but not my face. Can you live with it?’

  She was playing with him, he knew. He liked it and so he played along. ‘I’ll iron away your wrinkles. Have you smiling naughty at me—at all times.’

  He had her then.

  ‘What time tomorrow?’

  Her response was too sudden for him to react suitably.

  ‘You checking your calendar?’ She was getting impatient; that was a good sign.

  ‘You just caught me unawares. Got no calendar.’

  ‘See you aware and alert 5 p.m. tomorrow.’

  That tickled him. Her sense of humour was insane and inane, just like his.

  ‘On which moon?’

  ‘The one that shines over Holborn Tube station.’

  ‘Do we eat and drink? Or am I to feast on you only?’

  ‘See you by the coffee vending machine, smart-arse. Don’t be late.’

  ‘Send me your picture. I don’t want to eat the wrong girl.’

  ‘Your heart will find me. It should—if you got one.’

  ‘Point taken. Tomorrow then.’

  She signed off before he did. Girls! And their damn attitude! But he knew how to handle it, the agony uncle that he was. A pro in matters of the heart.

  25

  Ali read and reread the instructions on the packet—he wanted to get it right. It would knock the wind out of his lady love. He had seen her fingering that Dhakai dope’s tattoo. It choked his heart every time she did that. No more of it now. He’d give her one that was exclusively hers to play with—on his left arm, etched there just for her. He had ordered a handsome lion design. It came last night with complete instructions: ‘Paste on flat areas with no body hair.’

  For the first time in his life, Ali eyed the thick jungle sprouting on his hands and legs with irritation. Daintily, he pasted his lion tattoo sticky side down, over his ample and hairy bicep. He had cut out the sticker with great care, scissoring neatly right next to the image border. But not even love could force him to shave away his body hair. Peeling off the cover, he admired the magnificent beast now stuck on to him, and puffed up with pride, like he’d got the big cat for real. This would be his Valentine’s Day gift to her. She’d fall prey to it for sure.

  Now, only to book her for the evening. Ali had planned meticulously and even got another cook to fill in for him at work. As for wooing her, he decided to copy Shehzad’s style because that seemed to work on her. So Ali checked out this party boat sailing the Thames under the starry night sky, beckoning lovers to reserve early. They served alcohol, and you could pop on your headphones—like they did the other day—and dance the night away. It was guaranteed to melt your date. Allah willing, he would have snagged an ‘Inglish’ begum for himself by tomorrow. Pulling his T-shirt sleeve down gingerly to cover his lion, which still felt a tad sticky, Ali counted the notes in his wallet and marched out to the kitchen to make himself some elaichi chai. Then off to Mullah’s pad to invite her in person.

  *

  Shehzad had felt gutted when she went back to Mullah. They had a roof here too, one that Mullah only owned. If it was okay for her to camp here one night, why not more nights too? And why had she parked herself on the sofa that night? What was suddenly wrong with his bed? She had been in it enough to know it was more comfortable than the bloody sofa. With Zeenat, he was always floundering. Just when he thought he understood her, she became someone else! Acted totally insane, and drove him nuts too.

  But hey, why was he ranting! Today was special. Fourteenth of February came just once a year. Zeenat had invaded his heart and now it was his turn to attack. Seduce her with his charming routine—copy Kanye West, perhaps. But heck, no. He could not hire a whole damn stadium like that moneybags. And set up gigantic screens everywhere to pop the big question. With him, the only fireworks would be in the bed and the orchestra would blare through his mini Bose speakers. Not that he was planning to sidestep the romance—he’d take her to that pub overlooking the river at Hammersmith. And later, they could hold hands, and neck on the park benches overlooking the Thames. Something had gone woozy in him—he actually felt like doing this tonight.

  *

  Mullah snapped at the Pakistani ringing the doorbell. ‘I told you to play the hero, not the cop.’

  Ali looked blank.

  ‘She’s left.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What, my foot! If you land late, like the bloody police always do in the movies, some smart-arse will whisk her away.’

  ‘She’s gone …’

  Ali looked so deflated that Fiza was overcome with pity for him. So she hollered past her husband’s shoulder, ‘I overheard her telling someone she was going to the British Museum.’

  ‘British Museum?’

  ‘Go… . go, while there is still time,’ said Mullah, toning down his irritation, for the kid looked stricken. Had he chosen rightly for his baby? Why was this fellow so slow? Mullah himself had pounced on Fiza right away. This guy needed to act fast.

  Ali did a U-turn and walked back to where he had come from. He shouldn’t have wasted time over tea. Why the hell did he have to sit and sip! His bird had flown and he had no idea how or where to catch her! And what about the boat ride? Should he book or should he wait? Feeling annoyed, he rolled up his sleeves, swiped back the hair crowding his sweaty forehead and stomped inside, his mood muddy and muddled.

  At once, someone tapped his elbow and thrust it upward, taking him totally by surprise. Was he being mugged? Inside his house? How was that possible? When Ali calmed down a bit, he found his lion being examined, inch by bloody inch, by a pair of Bangladeshi eyes that were growing bigger and more impudent by the second.

  ‘Wow!’ Knocked for a six by what he saw, Shehzad exclaimed loudly, the sticker lion tickling him no end. Finally, letting go of the stuck-on tattoo, the Dhakai douchebag went hysterical, holding on to his sides as he convulsed against the wall. Ali knew it was the stick-on lion that had Shehzad cracking up. With a tug, he pulled down his sleeve, seething at this breach of privacy. But it was too late. The bastard had seen what he wasn’t meant to, and now he would eat him alive. Mullah was bloody right. He must learn to do stuff in time.

  ‘Sticky, fucking … paper cat!’

  Shehzad’s tongue had gone wild now, and how he mocked Ali for his sticker tattoo till every vein in him bristled with irritation.

  ‘Kinda cute it is,’ Shehzad pronounced with mock seriousness. ‘Almost as sweet as you,
mate. So sugary and …’

  He didn’t get to finish. Ali elbowed him in the stomach, sending him flying back to the wall. He had fed this tummy enough—it was time to rip it open. Going mad, the Pakistani hit Shehzad left and right, connecting wherever he could with a wrath that defied all sense. Not that the Bangla boy took it all lying down. Once he’d got over the suddenness of this attack, he retaliated with equal recklessness, escalating the skirmish to a full-blown battle, and things around them went flying.

  The noise had Rishi rushing out of his room. Had the Irish Republican Army finally invaded England? But this was different—and looked far more deadly. His two housemates were trying to clobber each other to death and doing a darn good job of it. The Indian’s first instinct was to jump in the middle and announce a drinks break, but his brain stopped him in time. The chances of him surviving were barely 10 per cent. So he did what he felt was the next best choice in the circumstances—he called Zeenat, gave her a war synopsis and then put her on the speakerphone.

  She tamed both the gladiators on the phone in less than a millisecond.

  ‘Don’t do this to me. You guys are all I have. Don’t. Please. Mullah’s hurt me so much—you can’t. Else …’

  That unsaid threat did it. Ali’s punch stopped mid-air. Shehzad pulled out of whatever he was going to do next. Rishi heaved an audible sigh of relief. His house and the world were safe once more.

  Thanking Zeenat who had already hung up on them, he got back to buttoning up his shirt. Sloppy Rishi was dressing with care today. A crisp, olive-green full-sleeve shirt made him look dapper. Dark trousers held in place with his favourite belt. About to spray some cologne, he checked himself in time. Those housemates of his would sniff out his secret in no time, and blow it to galactic size and rib him till doomsday. No, he couldn’t risk it with these lunatics! Just a wee bit, pleaded his heart. So he ended up spraying some anyway.

  Ali and Shehzad had no date to dress up for. Remembering it was Valentine’s Day, Shehzad had got up at noon and dialled Zeenat. She told him to call back later or tomorrow. Tomorrow! He couldn’t postpone Valentine’s just because she had got it in that head of hers to visit a damn museum today. But he couldn’t tell her as much, not on the phone at least. She would smell something fishy instantly and fire off a hundred and one questions. Why should they meet on Valentine’s Day? What was he trying to say? Hell! He wanted to declare his love in person. Not on some damn phone line. So he decided to wait.