‘Someone is at the door,’ I hissed.
‘Oh, no.’ She still wouldn’t let go of me.
‘It’s your father.’
‘Oh, buggery. Run, Raavi. Get out through the window.’ Their living room jutted out into the front garden some fifteen feet. These fifteen feet saved my life. I thrust myself into my trousers, picked up my shoes and dived out of the window just as her father walked into the hall. I ran out of his garden, a shoe in each hand, sat down on the low wall of a house two hundred yards away and got into my shoes only to make the most devastating discovery of my life – I was not wearing my underwear. I had left it behind. ‘Jane. Jane,’ my heart cried, and I shuddered for her. What if her violent father had picked it up? He would probably kill her for making love to a wog. Shouldn’t I go back and be killed with her? What if she had picked up my undies and I turned up?
All this was too horrible to think about. A double-decker came to a halt at a traffic-lights. I jumped onto it and got a seat at the back. A heavily-built old lady sat across the aisle from me, scrutinising me. As I stirred, I felt something stirring in my trousers in the region of my left knee. Next moment, I felt something going down my leg and fall on the bus floor. The woman saw and spoke loudly enough to make everybody look at me.
‘You’ve dropped something, young man. Your drawers, looks like.’
‘I wonder how they came off,’ I replied, pocketing them. I had given my co-travellers a delicious story to take home, the story of an Indian nutter who got his knickers in such a twist that they came right off him and fell on the bus floor.
At another set of traffic-lights, the bus stopped and I hopped off with the most precious item of clothing I had ever Possessed, secure in my pocket.
A ‘gala opening’ it was too. We printed more than one hundred invitations.
‘One hundred plus Mr and Mrs is two hundred-plus free dinners, Raavi, you fool,’ grieved my boss. ‘I am having a gala heart-attack.’
We opened on a poem of an evening - warm in a jacket and cool in shirt-sleeves. Queensway buzzed. It was a fun evening if ever there was one. We were in love with it. We were in love with ourselves.
‘What if they all turn up?’ Mr Swami groaned.
‘Who, sir?’ I pressed his hand. It was hot and moist.
‘Them, your one hundred Mr and Mrs.’
And they did. It became a kumbha mela of Banaras. A tidal wave of humanity gently swaying to-and-fro at the new tandoori phenomenon. In the background played Ravi Shankar’s sitar and Alla Rakha’s tabla. Rosewater had been gently sprayed on every table. Its fragrance made the place smell heavenly. The restaurant was softly-lit by the waterfall cascading down a wall. The place became even more fragrant when Jane came – with Mr and Mrs Melaram to avoid suspicion and my dismissal. She wore the navy-blue polka-dot dress that I loved, and looked inexpressibly edible.
There were two celebrities among us that night. One, our frail sixty-year-old Conservative MP. The other, the magician Balli Shah of Simla. There were garlands and flashbulbs and handshakes for the former. For the latter, endless songs of praise.
The MP ate his dinner and made his speech. He congratulated the ‘unique new addition to London’s palate’ and its creator. Then he declared India to be a great country which had much to offer the world, blah blah. Another photo session followed: My boss and Bossni; Mr and Mrs Batting (a plump lady with a girlish face and a shy smile); the boss, the MP and co-aged but more robust, Chef; finally, the three of them with me – Jane and all my Sub friends watching, ‘tickled pink and purple’.
Tandoori chicken and tandoori everything else, making its first appearance on English soil, arrived piping hot at buffet tables among oohs and aahs. Lamb, fish, vegetable, kali dhal - the works - and naan bread, that tandoori marvel, also appearing in London for the first time. All disappeared as soon as it arrived. My boss was disgusted. ‘People eating as if they never saw food.’
‘It shows they love it, sir.’
‘It also show they think I am fool number one – giving them free top restaurant food. People I don’t even know.’ We were joined by Mr and Mrs Smith.
‘What do you think, Mr Issmith? All this boy’s own doing.’
‘I think you have to be congratulated, Mr Swami. This young man hasn’t done badly at all.’
‘Tomorrow will tell. And the day after.’ I knew one had to be nice to one’s bank manager. It occurred to me to be even nicer to his wife. ‘How lovely that you could come, Mrs Smith. We are deeply honoured. I hope you tried everything?’
‘Goodness me, I couldn’t. There’s so much variety.’
‘Please come again, on a quiet evening. Then we would like to treat you like a Maharani. And that’s a promise.’ I saw Sweetness looking at Mrs Smith and I thought I should bring them together. I went to get her and overheard Mr Smith say, ‘The young chap has a head on his shoulders, don’t you think?’
I brought Sweetness over.
‘Don’t leave me, Mum,’ Veena cried from a group of girls.
‘Raavi,’ Lord Rameshwar whispered. Tonight he wore a Nehru achkan and looked like the Chief Minister of Uttar Pradesh or Madhya Pradesh. ‘Go keep eyes on the food. It’s going Derby Horse time.’ Every bit of the food was consumed.
‘Thing about people is they become double hungry when food comes free.’ Mr Swami felt cheated. Friends on such occasions should show ‘restraint’. His friends hadn’t. ‘How many wine bottles, oi?’ he asked Ranji towards the end. Ranji was no longer Ranji of Number One. He was Number Two at Number Two.
‘Hundred.’
‘And beer bottles?’
‘Two hundred.’
‘Isstupid boy. What I told you? Fill wine glass only half And beer glass of foam. Pour straight down and not by the side.’
‘People were very, very hungry and thirsty, sir. Is like wedding night, they are saying. So what can poor Ranji say?’
‘Isstupid boy. With you on one side and him on the other, it has to be the West Minister Bridge in front.’ Boss looked at me, then at Bossni next to me. He radiated happiness. I felt rewarded. Just then, Veena rushed up and put an arm around her mum and I felt a little hand in my pocket; something dropped into it.
‘Mr Swami, you are magic. Like Mrs Swami,’ I said.
‘Call Auntie. Not Mrs. Not nice on family day,’ she said. I put a hand in my pocket to see what Veena had dropped in it – a laddu, the popular sweet.
It was all go from day one. The Evening Standard gave us more than half of their food column. The Evening News devoted the whole of theirs, including a picture of the fifty-year-old moustachioed master chef Balli Shah, captioned The Shah of the Tandoor. An explanation of a tandoor followed – a clay barrel with a bed of flaming coals, ‘the crucible of heavenly delights’. The writer went on to say, I ate shamelessly and licked my fingers as I sampled dish after dish once prepared for Mughal princes. After describing the dishes, he concluded, I was not the only one to make a spectacle of myself in this stylish and innovative new restaurant, a veritable treat for the capital. Even the quality Sunday Observer wrote about us in its Table Talk, mentioning the ‘suave young manager’ by name, which tickled me and the Sub ‘pinkiest purple’.
Open Mon-Sat, Number Two became real magic. People who came here also were real magic. They were young, cool, trendy. Even when not so young, they were still ‘with it’. The women looked like Jackie Kennedy, Brigitte Bardot or Jean Shrimpton. Men wore Beatles-style-lapel-less jackets and haircuts with fringes. Everybody was a ‘luvvie’ and nobody seemed to have a ‘sodding’ care in the world. They came to us not for a curry – what everybody went to other Indian restaurants for – but for a ‘tandoori’. More and more Indians also started coming. In Number One we used to loathe them; they were the only ones who complained, returned dishes, told us how they should be cooked and, worse, treated us as waiters were treated back home – like servants. Here we had no such ‘hassle’ - a new word. It was as if London had spawned a new breed of
Indian diners - well-off, friendly and generous tippers. It made me swell with pride to note that when I went and sat at a table for a welcoming word with guests, they were flattered. My good boss noticed it all from the corners of his watchful eyes.
‘Mr Swami, what do you say?’
‘Two-three months are nothing in the long calendar. Anyway, how much have I to pay back Mr Issmith?’
My salary was twenty pounds clear for a variable five-day week: my boss’s daily net profit was twice as much. It was a good wage. Every so often, he would say that a rise was on its way. And now and then, some flashy guests insisted on tipping me, five bob or ten, amounting to an extra few pounds a week. My boss never said to hand it to him. He only said that it was demeaning for the manager to receive tips so I put the money in the till. He had so much to pay back to Mr Issmith!
One lunchtime, the ape man Mr Bhudia came with his wife, the maker of ‘finger-looking’ cauliflower stems laced with pomegranate seeds, the stately Chanchal. Boss was away, having a ‘hush and hush’ meeting. While the ape tore apart succulent tandoori chicken legs, Chanchal beamed a smile and asked how much I earned. Enter Boss with a ras mali smile.
‘Done, Raavi. Rented the upisstair.’
‘What upisstair, sir?’
‘The flat, you fool. What else? One day I’ll buy it outright. Two rooms are yours. One for cook Balli Shah. One for my personal office. Maybe we isstart another business one day. Import-export like everybody. So you move in next week.’
‘I am not sure I want to, sir.’
‘What?’ My boss was aghast. ‘Issweetness is not going to like it. Not at all.’ I could not understand what Issweetness had to do with where I lived. I said no very politely but firmly. I loved my freedom.
‘My ears! I am having hearing problems. Oi, Bhudia, you too having hearing problems? But Raavi don’t mind repeating.’
‘I like it where I am, sir.’
‘Chanchal-ji, a free flat of four rooms and there he is issaying no thank you. Who is mad? Him or me? You tell me.’ But Chanchal-ji asked me her question again. ‘How much is sweet Mr Swami giving you in wage, Raavi?’ When I told her, she looked at my boss accusingly, putting in English what in Hindi means: you are such a mean miser, you’ll think nothing of squeezing out even a fly.
‘Bhudia, what your good wife mean, pulling my public leg? I am generous to a fault. Ask anybody. What you mean, Chanchalji?’
‘Raavi works hard. You are where you are because of him. Raise his salary to twenty-five pounds at least. That’s what I mean.’
‘His salary will rise and keep rising.’
‘Starting when, Mr Sweet-ji?’
‘All in good time. All in good time.’ But I was not bothered about a rise – I was earning enough and saving too. But far more important than anything else was that I didn’t want to go anywhere Jane couldn’t visit me.
We lay on the roof, on two straw mats joined together on my handkerchief beach without the sea. The black asphalt was too hot to touch even though it was late September. The mercury stood at 66F. It was another champagne of an afternoon, fermented just for us by loving gods. But the champagne was not working today. I knew the problem – me and her father. She wants to say it’s all over. But doesn’t know how to.
‘What is it, baby?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Tell me. Please. I need to know.’
‘It’s my parents. My dad. I don’t know how mum can put up with him.’
‘What’s happened? Has he said anything?’
‘No.’
‘Has your mum?’
‘No. I know he beats her up, but she won’t tell me. Why doesn’t she leave him?’
‘How can she? There are the children.’
‘He adores us. But, she’s trapped.’ Jane sighed. I pressed her to my ribs. ‘I feel awful about us meeting like this,’ she went on. ‘Like fugitives. I feel as if I’m committing a crime or something. Mum thinks you’ve gone out of my life. It’s terrible. I wish I could at least tell her.’
‘Tell her what?’
‘Tell her how I love you. Tell her I live for you.’ The way she said that made me take her face in my hands as I had done that morning after the accident, in the car outside the hospital in Hampstead. I wanted to live the rest of life in that very moment.
‘Jane, marry me.’
‘What?’ Jane jumped like a gazelle. Then she clung to me like a monkey. ‘What did you say?’
‘Marry me.’
‘Silly boy, you are too young. We both are.’
‘So what? We’ll be a very young couple.’
‘But.’ She stopped. My heart, too, stopped.
‘But what?’ The champagne. It began to bubble again.
‘But only if you promise to keep me in the style I have accustomed myself to.’
‘Which is?’
‘That you’ll worship me.’
‘Is this an order, request or a suggestion?’
‘It’s a condition. Condition Number One.’
‘And Condition Number Two?’
‘It is that you will fuck me rigid like you do every day of our life.’
Boy, did she have a way of saying things! One minute she would blush, my English rose. The next, say the most shocking of things, like a brazen hussy.
‘Done. But are you a mind-reader or something?’
‘What about your mum and dad?’ she asked. I opened my wallet and showed her photos of my parents.
‘She’s lovely, your mum. And your dad – gosh, how handsome. Looks just like you. Do you think they’ll love me?’
‘They’ll go potty over you,’ I lied. For I knew my mother would be heartbroken. She had plans of her own for my marriage.
‘You know what?’ said Jane. ‘I want to go to India and meet your parents.’
‘I will take you there one day.’
‘But what about your parents?’ I asked her.
‘Mum will come around. But my Dad will have to learn to live with it. He will have to. When I’m married, I’m married.’
‘I hope to God he will.’
‘I don’t want to talk about him. I want to celebrate.’ She stood up and hurried towards the stairs. ‘I want to telephone mum and tell her we are going to get married. I want to tell the whole world.’ Jane stopped, faced the row of tall houses and shouted, ‘WE ARE GOING TO GET MARRIED, RAAVI AND I. WE ARE GOING TO GET MARRIED.’ She then ran downstairs to the phone.
‘Jane!’ I yelled, following her. ‘Stop! You are going to give her one hell of a shock. Think.’ She put the phone down, tilted her chin and looked at me. ‘Yes, I think you are right. But I still want to celebrate.’
I went and bought a bottle of champagne. I undressed her. She undressed me. I dipped her nipples in my glass and then sucked them. She dipped my rock-hard thingybob in her glass and I screamed in pain as fire swept through me, throwing her in a fit of bubbly laughter. It needed a long hard suck to make it better, sending me out into Mother Earth’s orbit. Bish had given me some hash. Never keen on that sort of thing, I had just left it lying around in a drawer. Jane was a devil and said she wanted to try it. So we rolled a joint and went and lay in the bath, smoking and sipping champagne. I massaged her breasts with my feet. Her eyes shut, she came and sat on my hard rock, her pink ivory back facing me, her heavens now cupped in my hands.
‘I live for you, you know,’ she murmured.
‘And I for you, you know.’
‘I feel joined to you. Every moment I spend with you makes me feel complete.’
‘What a coincidence.’
‘Make an honest woman of me.’
‘But you are an honest woman.’
‘Of course I am. But I want to be your lawful wedded wife with a ring and all. I want to be Mrs …’ My love had forgotten my name.
‘Mehra.’
‘Oh, yes. I love the sound of it. Mrs Mera, Jane Muir-Mera. We will have a son. We’ll call him Tom. Tom Muir-Mera. I love that, don’t you?’
‘I adore it. I want him to have freckles like you.’
‘I’ll do my best to arrange that.’
‘I do dig you, as the Americans would say.’
‘I dig you too. It’s true.’
‘That’s good alliteration.’
‘I don’t want a bloody lecture on whatever you call it. I want… Let’s not talk. Let’s just be. You and me.
As usual, my arm was around her neck and my left leg completely wrapped around her. This was how Jane liked to sleep with me,anyway to start with. We would have slept another hour, since it was Saturday and still early, but the phone rang. I knew who it was – Bish or Tariq, monopolists in thoughtfulness. Who else?
‘Raavi, you issleeping fast?’ Oh. ‘Very fast, sir.’
‘Guess what happen?’
‘Can’t, sir. Too early for my brain.’
‘Go put under cold tap, but listen. She pass away.’ I shot up and sat upright. I was very fond of Mrs Swami. But how come? So young and in perfect health.
‘But.’
‘Arre, no but shut. Aren’t you so happy?’
‘What happened, sir? Who has passed away?’
‘She who took isspecial exam. Who took isspecial exam?’
‘Ohh! Congratulations, sir.’
‘Wanted you to be the first to know.’ I failed to understand why I had to be the first to know.
‘So you come for thanksgiving pooja first thing tomorrow at nine. We talk about other things other time.’
My boss was mad. Did he think that after working all evening tonight I would be taking the Misery Line, as our Northern Line was called, at 8a.m tomorrow for his pooja paja?
‘But, sir, I’m going to some friends’ tomorrow morning.’
‘Issunday mornings should not be wasted with friends. Tell them you have important things to do.’ My boss hung up. Jane, her head in my lap, had heard every word.
‘Can I come too?’ she asked.
‘Of course you can.’
‘No, I mean it. I want to go everywhere with you till my college trip to France.’
Indian Magic Page 19