by Anju Gattani
“Ah! Hello Madame!” he called out. “So nice to meeting you!”
Sheetal glanced back and nodded. His name? What was his name? “Hello. How are you?”
“Always good, Madame. Jatinder Singh always good.”
That’s it! Jatinder Singh.
“My restaurant here, Madame. Spiceality.” He pointed to a sign above the door. “Please come in. Most welcome. Always welcoming new customers.” He turned around, walked back to the door and pushed it open with his free left hand as Sheetal followed. Overhead door chimes tinkled and warmth flooded out.
“Really, it’s all right,” Sheetal pressed on in Hindi. “You don’t have to—”
“No problem, Madame,” he persisted in English. “I am coming back in little minutes. Please, you sit anywhere you are liking and my staff taking your care.” He hollered instructions to a skinny, teenage boy in a dull white, long-sleeved shirt with a gray towel draped over one shoulder and worn brown trousers. “I go now, Madame. You treat like your home.”
The door closed and the door chimes tinkled furiously as the aroma of thick onion gravy and damp wood spiced the air. Several customers seated at solid blue-, red-, and green-draped tables for four looked up. A gentleman, apparently unperturbed by her entry, flipped the page of a newspaper held before his face.
A waist-high wooden counter equipped with a cashier’s register paralleled the back wall and separated the kitchen from the dining area. Sheetal looked for an empty table near the center of the room, away from the peeling, cream-colored wall paint. An elderly woman in a dull purple salwar suit manned a mini kiosk displaying books, magazines, trinkets, and souvenirs. A haphazard arrangement of light bulbs suspended from overhead beams convinced her this place would fall apart any minute. Maybe she should leave.
The gentle rustle of paper caught her attention. The gentleman dressed in black trousers and matching shoes appeared to be sensible. Perhaps this restaurant would suffice for a short rest and a cup of coffee before she headed over to Stonewall.
The teenager approached, gestured to an empty table on the gentleman’s left, and Sheetal followed. A sudden whiff of musk caught her off-guard. She sniffed. The scent came from the direction of the newspaper.
“Yeh table theek hai, Madame?” the teenager asked if the table he paused before would do.
Crumbs and oil stains littered the surface.
“Can you wipe the table, please?”
The boy yanked the towel off his shoulder, swiped the plastic tablecloth, and gestured for her to take a seat.
Sheetal removed a wet tissue from her handbag, flattened it on the chair back, and pulled out the chair. Then she wiped clean the area of the tablecloth’s surface closest to her. The boy snorted, but she didn’t care. She was about to sit down when the gentleman rustled the pages of the newspaper and lowered it.
“Sheetal? Sheetal Dhanraj?”
She turned. Her heart welled in her throat and she swallowed. “Arvind? I can’t believe it’s you. How are you?”
“I-I’m fine. And you?” He smiled. “You’re looking great.”
“I’m fine. You as well.” She paused to weight her comment. "You’re looking good.” He looked better than he did the last time she saw him. A French beard and softened jawline added to the elegance of his thirties, and a firm layer of flesh now padded his frame. His copper-bronze complexion had lightened and his jet-black hair still curved back in waves.
Arvind rose to his full five feet eleven stature. “You look beautiful.”
Warmth crept up her shoulders. That’s what he said when they last met on her bedroom balcony.
“Would you like to join me?” Arvind set aside the newspaper.
Was it really Arvind in flesh and blood after all these years? She wanted to touch him. Instead, she slid her hands into her jacket pockets. “So, what are you doing here?”
Arvind cocked his head back and laughed. “Nice intro!”
Sheetal sucked her lip. “I meant, do you live here? You know, suddenly meeting you after all these years up in the mountains.”
“I teach at Stonewall Preparatory School.”
Sheetal sat down. “Oh, what do you teach?”
“Science. Yash, is in my class.” Arvind sat down. “I’m his House Master.”
Chopra Sir.
“He’s an intelligent, bright boy, always ready with the right answer. A lot like you.”
Warmth crept up the nape of Sheetal’s neck as he folded both hands into a fist on the table. She remembered stroking those hands while he caressed her cheek and promised to love her forever. “So, you knew all along that Yash was my son?”
“Who doesn’t know the Dhanrajs?” he emphasized the last word as though it were contagious. “Hard not to notice.”
And yet he’d never made an attempt to contact her.
“I’m guessing you’re here to pick him up for Diwali break.”
She nodded. “Rakesh and I usually take vacation around this time.”
Arvind’s fist paled just a little at the mention of Rakesh’s name and he began folding the newspaper as if to leave. “I have extracurricular activities in about an hour. This place is my corner where I come for a bit of peace and quiet. It’s my escape from all the hustle and bustle of campus, plus great food and great company with Jatinder Bhai. Maybe we’ll meet again.” He stepped away.
Sheetal surged to her feet.
“You only just got here,” Arvind said. “Do stay. The food here is excellent, but if you’re not hungry, a hot coffee will do wonders against the cold.”
“I’m meeting Yash on campus at four.”
“Oh good! So, you have time to kill.” He headed for the door and Sheetal followed. “You’ll find deals in the local bazaar. Remember to bargain.” He turned the knob, opened the door, and door chimes tinkled his departure.
Sheetal followed, her heart in her throat. A couple of autorickshaws sped past. She couldn’t let him go so soon.
“Memsahib! Gori gori memsahib!” the toothless old woman called out. Sheetal turned to look and the old woman beckoned her to come back. “Arrey! Give me twenty rupees then!”
“Looks like she’s trying to sell you something for twenty.”
“I picked up something to look at and she’s been after me since.”
Arvind hailed for an autorickshaw, and in less than a minute, one veered close to the sidewalk and stopped. Arvind ducked and slid across to the other side. “I can drop you off, if you want.” He patted the empty seat.
Sheetal hesitated.
“You probably have a car waiting. Anyway, this auto would be a bumpy ride. Stonewall Preparatory School.” He patted the driver on the shoulder, waved goodbye, and the autorickshaw pulled away.
***
That afternoon, Sheetal and Yash visited Echo Point, an overhanging cliff surrounded by mountains. Yash cupped his mouth, shouted “Mum!” and the word echoed.
Sheetal grabbed the metal railing, leaned forward, and screamed, “Y-a-a-sh!” Her voice echoed louder.
Then Yash cupped both palms around his mouth and yelled, “D-a-a-a-d!” The word echoed louder than Sheetal’s. “If I say it louder, maybe Dad will hear and yell back from Raigun.”
“Go on then, try.” Sheetal feigned a smile. “Maybe when your daddy’s here next time, you can both scream each other’s names.”
“He’s always busy on the phone with office work.”
“How about I call him and ask if he can hear you?”
“Okay.”
Sheetal checked her watch. Five. Rakesh would be in the office. Sheetal called and pressed the phone to Yash’s ear.
“He’s not picking up.” Yash frowned. “I told you, he’s always busy.”
“Maybe he left the phone somewhere and didn’t hear it ring. How about we try again later? I have to get you back on campus before 6:30.”
“Okay.”
Sheetal reached for Yash’s hand and tightened her grip around his fingers. Since her arrival, s
he’d tried calling Rakesh several times but he didn’t answer. He could, at least, have called once to speak to Yash. Didn’t he see the missed calls? What prevented him from answering just now?
First, he forgot about her hotel reservation, then he didn’t turn up after moon rise on Karva Chauth. When he did finally walk in, he was stone drunk and went straight to bed. Now, he had the audacity to ignore them.
At five-thirty, the taxi let them off outside the gate to the dormitories and for the next half hour, she and Yash strolled past rows of student cottages. Lamp posts cast wide nets of yellow on the snow-crusted ground as Yash prattled away about homework, friends, and roommates.
“And my friends, Mum, they said I should....”
She paused on the walkway outside Yash’s cottage. Was Arvind inside? What if he stepped out for a breath of fresh air? Her heart raced. She stopped in a circle of yellow light and turned toward Yash’s cottage so Arvind wouldn’t miss her.
“Mum?”
Sheetal looked down at Yash and smiled. Maybe Arvind would have an errand and a reason to come out.
“Are you listening?”
She should apologize for the way their relationship ended and how she had turned her back on him. “What a coincidence that Arvind is your House Master.”
“Arvind?” Yash asked.
“I mean, Chopra Sir.”
“Why?”
“Isn’t anyone in charge around here?”
“The twelfth standard captains are on duty until the House Master returns.”
“Oh,” Her heart sank. “So, when does he return?”
“Who?”
“Your House Master.”
“I don’t know.”
“Do you think he’ll be back soon?”
“Who?”
“Your House Master,” her voice rose sharply without meaning to and Yash stepped away. Sheetal squatted, met Yash’s gaze, and gulped. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to sound angry.”
“Chopra Sir might be in. Should I check?”
“No.”
That night, Sheetal called Rakesh on his cell phone for the fifteenth time. The ringing continued. Sheetal looked at her watch. Only 10 p.m. Was he with clients, at dinner, or in the office? Exhausted from chasing Rakesh, she switched off her phone and dumped it in her handbag.
Chapter Thirteen
Forest Rain
At 3:30 p.m. the next day, Sheetal arrived at Stonewall and passed a crowd of parents and families who had gathered at the main entrance and along the raised portico. Overnight, more parents had arrived to take students home and were waiting for the afternoon bell to ring. However, Sheetal’s interest lay in the cottages on the far side of the campus. She made her way to the gate, hooked her fingers in the wrought iron loops, and pressed her forehead to the metal.
“Hey, Mum!” Yash called from behind.
Sheetal looked over her shoulder.
“What are you doing?” he asked.
“Waiting for you.”
“But the classrooms are back there.”
“I forgot. Silly me.” Sheetal turned and walked toward him. “Where would you like to go today?”
“Mall Road.”
Half an hour later, Sheetal and Yash walked hand-in-hand along Mall Road’s sidewalk as vendors hawked their wares and asked tourists to name their price. A gust of wind tore across the mountainside, ripped cloth walls off wooden poles, and shook the scaffolding of make-shift stores.
“Hurry!” a vendor yelled. “Storm!”
“Pack up, quickly!” A woman loaded her items into a metal trunk as others filled boxes. “Put all the show pieces here.”
“Arrey, not there, boy!” a man bellowed. “Here. In this box.” Bangs, clatters, and snaps filled the air as gray clouds thickened and another gust of icy wind whipped from behind. Snowflakes spun past as Sheetal pulled Yash to her side.
“It’s freezing, Mum. We need to find shelter.”
Vendors hastily rolled sheets and dumped them into boxes, dismantled support frames, and stacked their belongings along the edges of sidewalks. Cries of “Jaldi karo,” “Quickly,” and “Wind! Strong wind!” urged people to hurry to escape the approaching storm. Surprise storms, common in Mansali, had clearly trained the locals to survive in the mountains controlled by mammoth gods.
Sheetal tightened her grip on Yash’s hand and ran toward numerous brick shops ahead. Another gust of wind whirled a wall of snow, obstructing her view. Sheetal bent her head and veered right, searching for a coffee shop or restaurant where they could take cover. The first door she tried was locked. They trudged ahead, shielding their faces from the wind. She tried the next door. This one gave way. Sheetal pulled Yash in and leaned against the wind-shoved door to close it. Door chimes tinkled furiously and several people looked up from colorful, plastic-tablecloth covered tables.
“Arrey Bhai!” a thickly accented voice called out and the taxi driver emerged from the kitchen. “Welcome! Welcoming again to my humble Spiceality.”
His name? The aromas of cumin, hot oil, and garlic filled her lungs.
The taxi driver wiped his hands on a green towel that draped his shoulder and rushed toward them. “Oh ho ho! Who is coming today? Welcome welcome!” He ruffled Yash’s hair.
Yash giggled.
“Chotta Baba”—he referred to Yash as “Little Boy”—"is in good mood, I am seeing.”
Why couldn’t he speak Hindi like he did when he chatted with everyone else? Sheetal dusted snow off her jacket and gloves and helped Yash do the same. “And you, Madame. Last time coming and then going so quickly-quickly. No time for eating anything.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“No problem, Madame. No problem. Please sit on any seat you are liking.” He led them to an empty table and pulled out two chairs. “Aloo matar, chole garam, rajma rasiya, paneer do pyaza....” he continued to recite names of vegetables, meats. lentil soups, and breads, followed by rice dishes from the southern region of India.
The pungent smell of turmeric and spices caused Sheetal to hold her breath as she struggled to focus on the recital. “Do you have a menu?” she asked in Hindi.
“Sorry, Madame,” he pressed on in English. “I am reciting menu every day to all customers. Cannot fix here because items changing depending on what vegetable and meats is being available in market.”
“We’re really not that hungry. We just came in to get away from the storm.”
“No worrying, Madame. Most welcome to staying long as you like.” He wiped his masala-stained fingers on the green hand towel again and then scratched his beard. “My home, your home. One and same thing.”
Sheetal looked past his shoulder to a row of windows and the storm intensifying outside. She sat down. “I’ll just have a coffee. And Yash—” The door chimes tinkled and Sheetal looked up.
The blustery wind raged in through the open door and a gentleman dressed in black slammed the door shut. He dusted himself, pulled off a woolen hat, and shook it free of white flakes.
Arvind! Her heart skipped a beat.
“Chopra Sir!”
“Hey, Yash! Sheetal.” Arvind nodded. “Good to meet again. So, what brings you here?”
“The storm,” Sheetal replied. “I didn’t expect the weather to change without warning.”
“That’s normal here. We just run and take cover. And make new friends along the way.” Arvind’s attention shifted. “Jattu Bhai!”
Jatinder Singh. That was his name.
Arvind shook Jatinder’s hand and sat at a nearby table. “How about your soup of the day?”
“Tomato shorba. And you, Chotta Baba.” Jatinder turned to Yash. “What you having?”
“A masala dosa,” Yash asked for a crispy, white rice-and-lentil crepe with a spicy filling of potatoes and onions.
“Yes, yes! Good choice. My wife making fresh dosas, hot and crisp with her own hands.” He held out his hands. Cracks ran along the palms, and yellow-and-red stains of Indian masalas dotted hi
s fingers.
Sheetal pulled out a packet of wet tissues and wiped Yash’s hands. She leaned close to his ear and whispered, “How about you have that dosa later and take a hot chocolate instead?” “I’ll take you someplace better, more hygienic, for dinner.”
“I want a dosa now.” Yash frowned.
“Aah! Chotta Baba knowing what is good here.” Jatinder nodded as two waiters carried tray loads of dirty dishes back to the kitchen. A customer signaled and Jatinder acknowledged the call with a wave of his hand. “Please, Madame. Other customer needing me. I am coming, one minute.” Then he wove through a maze of tables.
“You shouldn’t eat in such places,” Sheetal whispered to Yash.
“Why?”
“You could end up with a stomach infection and then—”
“Why don’t you two join me here?” Arvind peeled off a leather jacket and rolled up the blue-and-white-checkered sleeves of his shirt.
Sheetal peered above the rim of Yash’s head. “We’re not really here to eat, just to get away from the storm.”
“That storm isn’t going anywhere anytime soon so you’re stuck for a while. Where are you staying?”
“Holiday Inn.”
“So, friend”—Arvind addressed Yash—“what did you order?”
Yash walked to Arvind’s table and whispered in his ear even though anyone within a meter’s radius could hear, “A masala dosa.”
“Why are you whispering?” Arvind asked as Sheetal pulled a chair beside an electric heater perched on a low stool.
“Because Mum says not to eat in such places.”
“That’s not what I meant.” Her attention flew to the window behind Arvind and the curtain of white outside.
“Really, yaar?” Arvind grinned.
Her heart melted. She hadn’t heard a casual, easy-going, affectionate tone like that in years.
“Mum said it’s not clean and I could catch a stomachache and fall sick and—”
“That’s enough, Yash.” Sheetal gripped the table’s edge.
“But that’s what you said,” he argued.
“And you don’t have to tell everyone.”
“Chopra Sir is not everyone.”