Love Curry

by Pankaj Dubey

  ‘Ali,’ she began, ‘Mullah, for some weird reason, likes you a lot.’ She then paused. The antennas of all three went up. ‘He wants to marry me off to you.’ Zeenat had no idea what she was doing to them as she took her time in elaborating her great plan. ‘Let’s exploit that,’ she proposed to the Pakistani.

  His heart stopped. He would be getting his begum after all. Ali felt like he’d been thrown down from a hundred feet, and was finally entering heaven. ‘Jannat,’ he mumbled.

  Shehzad and Rishi felt only the first part; their heads were hitting ground zero hard.

  ‘Yes, jannat. We’ll make Mullah give you your jannat. In pounds.’ Zeenat was on her own spin.

  The boys were not in a state to make out what more she had to say. Their hearts and minds were malfunctioning.

  ‘Once he funds your dhaba and you fly out, I’ll tell him I have changed my mind.’

  That was a whopper.

  ‘Meaning?’ Ali was almost scared to ask this.

  ‘Meaning … I’ll call off the phony engagement.’

  An earthquake couldn’t have shaken the room like she did. The three boys were shell-shocked by her crazy game plan. Only Zeenat could have dreamt up such a whacker, and only she had the gall to carry it off.

  Shehzad whistled and picked her up, her injured leg et al, hoisting her high up in his arms like a prize trophy. Rishi pulled a reluctant Ali to his feet and they danced around her in a circle, singing lusty numbers.

  Ali was not so sure about this. He did not like deceiving Mullah. ‘I’ll ask him for a loan instead. We don’t need to lie …’

  Zeenat cut in. ‘You don’t know him. I do. Only I can wangle the pounds off him.’

  Shehzad seconded, ‘He won’t give you a penny, man.’

  Ali was still not okay with it. ‘I won’t be able to live with it. No.’

  Zeenat leaned forward and shook him hard. ‘Don’t act up. I’m the dramebaaz here, not you.’

  The Indian and the Bangladeshi clapped.

  ‘And don’t you dare refuse a fake engagement with me,’ she warned the Pakistani in a hard voice, pointing a finger at him. ‘No one, absolutely no one, rejects me.’

  Ali gaped at her. He had no answer to this.

  ‘Get it?’ She was relentless.

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘What a paisa vasool show, Zeenie!’ The Bangladeshi saluted his heroine and then ran in to fetch a bottle. He wanted to toast the impending engagement of Ali and Zeenat.

  The party had restarted at house number 104, George Street. If only Mullah knew what the morning would bring him.

  34

  The drive back from the airport was empty and long. Shehzad, Rishi and Zeenat stared out of their windows blankly, rewinding to each other the happy times they had shared with the Pakistani.

  Airborne, Ali was doing the same. Looking fixedly at the clouds, he wondered how someone could love him and yet not love him. Zeenat had executed her plan effortlessly. Getting Mullah to cough up the dough had been child’s play for her. ‘You can’t send me off with a pauper,’ she had whimpered.

  ‘But why Lahore? I’ll set up his restaurant here—in London!’ Mullah failed to see the logic of setting up a dhaba in Lahore when the lovebirds would live in his city.

  ‘He’s got to see to his family too,’ Zeenat explained with the patience one displays with a child who is slow. ‘You wouldn’t like me abandoning you completely, would you?’ She had fired her deadliest missile.

  He hadn’t argued further. He promptly calculated the amount his future son-in-law would need, and transferred it to the Pakistani’s account. The one thing he failed to understand was the boy’s need to fly to Lahore.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because he’s got to meet his family once,’ Zeenat adopted the same placid tone with him again.

  ‘What if he gets no visa to return?’

  ‘Surely they won’t stop your son-in-law?’ Zeenat sounded offended now.

  Mullah kept quiet. And Ali flew away.

  Rishi wanted to avoid going back to the house. It would take him some time to flush Ali out of his system. He didn’t want to sit and mope around the house. So he went for a walk—a long one.

  Shehzad preferred going back to his room. Every time he was low or lonely, he locked himself in and let his emotional demons thrash him till they could not hurt him any more. He had ragged the chef the most and would probably miss him the most too. But fuck, everyone left you one day. And who knew that better than him! He shouldn’t have let that idiot sneak in so close, within beating distance of his heart—that always caused pain. Lost in thought, he walked up to the door and collided into someone standing there. Damn, who was this now?

  ‘Are you okay?’

  Shehzad looked up at the voice and froze. She had not seen his face in the dark. But now, close up, she got a great view, and it nearly stopped her heart. He was the spitting image of her.

  She reminded him of someone—himself. The resemblance was unmistakable. That same chin, angular features, even the eyes and hair. Shehzad stood paralysed. This was his home, and she was here. There was nowhere for him to run.

  ‘Shehzad …’ It took her many minutes before she could get herself to say his name.

  ‘Come in,’ was all he said as he unlocked the door.

  Switching on the lights, he stood next to a wall and waited for her to say her piece. Thank god, Rishi had opted to take a walk. Shehzad was not good at airing his personal shit with anyone.

  She stood there toying with how to start. And where? His resemblance to her was startling. The desi tabloid that carried the compass story with his picture and the TV grabs had not prepared her for this almost mirror-like reflection. ‘I … I saw you on TV.’

  He did not react. The Shehzad of old would have screamed at her to go back to her pilot and not show her mug ever again. But prison had aged him. He was past such shows of grief or frustration.

  ‘You must’ve suffered so much in there …’ She couldn’t get herself to say that dreadful word ‘prison’.

  He had suffered much more when he was not even six years old. But he didn’t tell her that.

  ‘They showed your compass box on TV.’ She took a few steps towards him. ‘You still have it. Your birthday gift from me …’

  There was a bloody battle raging inside him. But on the outside, he looked calm and unmoved. Shehzad was becoming quite an act. Zeenat would’ve found it tough to believe it was him.

  His silence killed her more than his words could have. She dropped down on to the floor and wept. All those tears she had dammed up for years plunged down endlessly, telling their story, seeking forgiveness. ‘I was young then, Shehzad,’ she tried to explain. ‘Too young to understand that one wrong … just one wrong can undo every right.’

  Shehzad’s ears pricked up at that. He still looked away from her. He had done wrongs too—many, in fact—but nothing as bad as her. He’d not hurt anyone.

  ‘I don’t expect you to understand,’ she said.

  But he did. He did not want to, yet he did. It was her measure of wrong against his. That was all. It all boiled down to size. She was gathering herself and trying to get up.

  He gave her a hand up.

  She had not expected this. It took her a moment to take his hand. And then she could not let go of it, even after she had got up. Her son. Her own flesh. She had craved him so much, over the years, especially as she grew older.

  He read it in her eyes then—her need to love and be loved. It was so similar to his own. He saw his emptiness too reflected in him. That broke his restraint, and for the first time in sixteen-odd years, he put his head in his mother’s lap and wept. Let go of all the muck that had piled up over the years and was suffocating him.

  Rishi returned to a lit-up home with voices coming from the kitchen. One was Shehzad’s … but the other? It wasn’t Zeenat. Curiosity drove him to the kitchen and to a scene of two people who looked like twins—separated by age and gender�
��cooking dinner and exchanging notes, with such tenderness that it warmed his heart. It took away some of the chill from Ali’s departure.

  Rishi had been dreading coming back to a quiet and empty kitchen. Not wanting to disturb the duo, he slid out of the kitchen as quietly as he had walked in. But Shehzad was too quick and grabbed him. And then he blushed—Rishi would have bet his last breath on the Bangladeshi never blushing—as he dragged Rishi in and introduced him to his mother.

  She stayed alone in Harrow Lane, he told Rishi later that night. The pilot had succumbed to cancer not too long after they married. She was a Londoni now, something she always wanted to be. But she was alone—and repenting.

  Shutting his eyes for the day, Rishi marvelled at what a day it had been. Ali’s dream had been fulfilled. He was gone. And Shehzad’s ma had come back. Too much action and emotion it was for normal mortals to endure. He needed to sleep it off.

  35

  It was not just Desi Beats that was calling him again and again, but even Spicy Talk and Asian Eye. The taint that was likely to make kebabs unpalatable to a customer was a windfall for tabloids peddling sensationalism. All these desi papers rushed to cash in on Rishi’s temporary infamy. One wanted him to start a column on the racial issues faced by Asians abroad. Another asked for the story of his imprisonment in lurid detail. And then there were numerous requests for interviews, with one wanting to focus on the relationship he supposedly had with the Labour MP who had batted so devoutly for him.

  Rishi was not in a state to oblige any paper or human for that matter. Even the role of agony uncle seemed too painful right now. But he knew he would have to eventually do something. Zeenat could not fund his daily bread and upkeep with another fake hook-up. And Shehzad, he did not want to disturb him. After a lifetime, the boy had found his spot of peace—he deserved to bask in it without Rishi’s anxieties.

  That left him with just one choice—to leave. He knew how to survive in Agra—for months at a stretch—without working or even thinking of working. But here in London, one needed to toil for every breath. But going back was unacceptable to him. His first promise to not fall in love was gone—Zeenat had seen to that. The second was on shaky legs too. Without wanting to, the arrest had catapulted him to some anti-celebrity status. But the third! The third had been to stay. No, he wasn’t going back. Ever.

  He let out a sigh and was glad he had come to a decision. The last few notes lurking in his wallet would be needed to fund his tummy till he joined that company in Edinburgh. They had called him again. Well, that was it then. He had to visit Mullah one last time to inform him that one more room in the house would be free to rent out from next month.

  The front door, strangely, was half open. Rishi debated whether to ring the bell or not when he heard Fiza shriek. That was definitely disconcerting. She was not one to ever raise her volume. So, what had happened?

  ‘Go! Stop her! She might actually do that …’

  Next, he heard her weep and wail. Fiza was wailing!

  Rishi strode in. Something was very wrong here. The drawing room looked like it had hosted a hurricane. Cushions were flung here, there and everywhere. Place mats had slipped to the edge of tables or dropped down. Fiza’s aromatic candles were rolling on the carpet. Even the jade laughing Buddha was askew. Rishi was blown apart.

  Mullah sat hunched forward on that tall chair. It was the one Rishi knew Mullah found particularly uncomfortable. And Fiza, she hovered around him like a drone, recording his every move and blink in painstaking detail. Gone were the calm and poise that were known to grace their faces and demeanour. Fiza was ranting and Mullah looked aghast.

  He saw the Indian and got up with a start. Grabbing his arm like it was the final straw afloat on the Dead Sea, he said, ‘You go get her. She’ll listen to you!’ He was begging Rishi.

  Trying to size up the situation, Rishi got more confounded. That the ruckus was about Zeenat was evident. But what was going on? These two were not in any condition to reveal more. Rishi scratched his head. Now what had this melodramatic dame done this time? With her, it was impossible to say anything. And where was she? Not in the house, he could see.

  Rishi went looking for her up and down the street, in the café and the park. Then in the street again, pausing to peek into places she may have huddled into. Her fit of anger could drive her anywhere. He did not try calling her because he knew her phone would be switched off. That was the first thing she did whenever she walked out in a huff, which was often.

  ‘No, she’s not come back,’ Mullah replied, when Rishi called him two hours later to check. His voice was low and lost.

  Rishi was scared now. She played with the old man, he knew. But never went out to hurt him. They were too thick. Despite all the baggage, Zeenat could not live without him. Then what had changed? Where was she?

  Shehzad! Yes, he should call him. He might know something. But the tattoo artist was equally at sea.

  ‘I’ll wind up this client fast and come home. Okay?’

  Good! Now, there would be two of them looking for her. They’d find her, hopefully, in no time. Rishi’s mind was going haywire. When it came to Zeenat, logic did not work, and he got hyper even without meaning to.

  ‘Zeenie! Where are you?’ he cried out in anguish, as he unlocked his front door and walked in. His words echoed back to him in the empty house. Or wait, was it empty? He felt something … felt something move. Who was that crouched behind the three-seater? Rishi switched on the lights. Of course, it had to be …

  ‘Zeenie … Zeenie …’ He found her shivering and in pieces. It broke him to see her this way. Gathering her up, without a thought, he held her tightly in his arms, rocking her to calmness. ‘Shh … shh …’

  They stayed that way for quite some time. The thought of Mullah and Shehzad made Rishi break his hold on her. He had to call them. But she clung on to him, not letting him shift even a wee bit. So he texted Shehzad, somehow, with half a hand. She’s fine. Tell Mullah.

  It was a long while before her breathing evened out and her frame stopped shaking. Zeenat was not acting today and that’s what hurt Rishi the most. Something had broken inside her, something she had not expected to. So used to getting her way that when life raised its ugly, real head, it probably unnerved her.

  She wasn’t meant for all this. Rishi vowed he would do all in his power to turn her world rosy once more. Whispering soothing nothings into her ears and her hair, he tried relaxing her, and to his surprise, lulled her to sleep. Lifting her carefully so as to not disturb her sleep, he carried Mullah’s princess to his room and bed. Lovingly, he slid the sheet over her. This was the second time he was tucking her in bed—though the last time it had been her own bed—yet he had no idea whatsoever where he stood with her. Heck, this was not the time for mushy thoughts. Rishi slapped himself back to the present and walked out to make that call to Mullah.

  He bumped into Shehzad who had just entered the house and had a dozen questions bouncing on his tongue.

  ‘Shh … she’s sleeping.’

  Shehzad raced to his room to check on her.

  ‘My room, Shehzad,’ Rishi called out.

  That stopped him from rushing to her—from assuming things would be the same. Life had changed. He had changed. She would have too. He took a deep breath and went back to the hall. ‘I’ll … I’ll let her be … she needs to …’

  Rishi silenced him with a wave of his hand. He was on the phone with someone. ‘Yes, I’ll see to it … Yes … sure, I understand … No, don’t worry …’

  So Rishi had accepted that agony uncle offer after all. Shehzad felt great. He didn’t want to lose Rishi after Ali. And for the Indian to be around, he had to have a job. Grinning, he teased his friend, ‘So who you counselling now? Sweet sixteen or her mother-in-law?’

  ‘Mullah,’ replied Rishi, sounding serious and preoccupied.

  ‘What the fuck? Even the old man needs you now?’ Shehzad was surprised.

  Rishi kept quiet. He got an
other call. Shehzad raised his brows. This Indian was becoming a celebrity of sorts, was he?

  ‘Ali! Janaab, kaise hain?’ Rishi’s mood switched and he put the phone on speaker. The three boys had a rollicking five minutes doing a postmortem of Ali’s first few days in Lahore.

  ‘Zeenie? How is she?’ asked Ali.

  Rishi paused before replying. ‘She’s got a lot to cope with,’ he told him. ‘I was just talking to Mullah. All three are breaking.’

  Shehzad did a double take. Mullah had called for Zeenie! She wasn’t okay! And the old man … breaking? And Shehzad, he had been cutting jokes about him. God! He hated himself.

  ‘Ali, you pray for her,’ Rishi was saying on the phone.

  Shehzad walked up to Rishi’s room, opened it without a sound and peeped in. She lay asleep. Her face was slightly pinched as she slept. The tension had not left her completely even now. Zeenat, a worrywart? She had always been the opposite. Always. Shehzad scrunched his face in an attempt to understand. Failing, he left her at it.

  36

  Rishi was back at Mullah’s house the next morning. Visiting him twice in two days, that too with Zeenat not being there, was bizarre. But life was getting stranger by the minute for these South Asians in the island country. So normal was no longer the norm.

  ‘You’ll have to give it to her, sir. You know that,’ Rishi began in a composed tone.

  ‘But how will that help?’ argued Mullah. ‘I’ve said this to her a zillion times. And now you’re singing the same tune!’

  ‘Sir, life doesn’t always go the way we want it to—you know that … you’ve taken many a tide.’

  Mullah kept quiet.

  ‘You owe her this one last thing,’ Rishi ventured, exercising even greater caution, not wanting to twist Mullah the wrong way.

  ‘Last thing? But that’s exactly what I’m scared of,’ replied the father in a rush. ‘The minute she knows, she’ll take off into the blue, unthinking and foolish.’