Across the Line

by Nayanika Mahtani

  The thought of getting away from the Pesky Girl was tempting, but the epicure in Jai trumped that notion.

  ‘The line is moving really quickly, Badi Ma,’ Jai replied. ‘And once you try their haleem rolls, believe me, the wait will be worth it.’

  Toshi and Arathi shook their heads in resignation.

  Another fifteen minutes passed, and finally, it was Habib and Inaya who were at the top of the queue. The waitress came over to Habib.

  ‘How many of you?’ she asked.

  ‘Two, please,’ Habib replied.

  ‘Okay, you’ll have to wait I’m afraid; we’ve only got a table for five.’

  ‘My knees won’t hold up any longer with all this standing,’ said Toshi, leaning on Arathi for support.

  Arathi thought for a moment and gently tapped Habib on the shoulder.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I couldn’t help overhearing the waitress, sir. Would you mind if we shared your table? We’re three of us.’

  ‘Not at all,’ said Habib, rather relieved that they could get to eat sooner.

  As they sat around the large table, Jai painstakingly avoided looking at Inaya. Instead, he diligently studied the menu.

  ‘Are you ready with your order?’ asked the waitress.

  ‘Should I order for us?’ offered Jai, before anyone else could respond.

  ‘Perhaps we should allow them to order first given that they were ahead of us,’ said Toshi.

  Habib smiled at Jai, ‘Go ahead,’ he said. ‘We’ve barely even read the menu yet.’

  Jai nodded happily and launched into placing his order.

  ‘Could we please have four of your signature haleem rolls, two tandoori fish tartare, two raan chops . . . ’

  ‘We should have ordered first, Daada,’ whispered Inaya. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anything left for us at this rate.’

  ‘ . . . two Hyderabadi dals, two nihari tokris, twelve roomali rotis and three mint raitas,’ continued Jai undeterred.

  ‘Certainly,’ said the waitress turning to leave.

  Habib called after her, ‘Er, excuse me, could we place our order too?’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ said the waitress, wondering if these five guests had been kept starved for ages and set free just this afternoon.

  ‘What would you like?’ she asked with a forced smile.

  ‘Everything that they just said,’ said Habib.

  ‘But Daada, that’s far too much . . . ’ began Inaya.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll doggy bag what we can’t eat. From the sound of your Adeela Khaala’s menu plans, we’re going to need alternative arrangements to survive.’

  Arathi shifted uneasily in her seat. The people she was sharing a table with had family members with very Muslim sounding names.

  ‘So, are you from India?’ she asked breezily.

  ‘No. We’re from Pakistan actually,’ replied Habib.

  There was a charged silence as Arathi absorbed this. It was bad enough having to sit at the same table with Muslims, but to have to do so with Muslims from Pakistan was, to her mind, beyond speakable.

  In this unspeakable state of mind, she gathered up her handbag and stood up, as if she were about to make a speech to which she had forgotten the words.

  Jai, whose eyes were trained on the kitchen doors, was suddenly struck by the fact that his mother was standing up at their table, for no apparent reason. ‘Are you all right, Ma?’

  ‘Yes. No. No, I don’t feel very well, actually. I think we should leave,’ said Arathi.

  ‘But . . . but . . . our food . . . ’ spluttered Jai.

  ‘They can pack our food and have it delivered to our apartment,’ said Toshi, realizing that Arathi was not going to stay. Knowing Arathi, Toshi had expected something like this, although she had hoped that she would be more sensible about it.

  ‘I don’t think they do home delivery here . . . ’ began Jai, sounding almost heartbroken at the prospect of missing out on this meal.

  ‘Well, then why don’t you stay and bring it with you, Jai?’ said Toshi. ‘I’ll go on home with Arathi.’

  Arathi turned on her heel and left abruptly, stopping only to pay their bill and letting the waitress know that they would like their order to be packed for takeaway instead. Toshi followed. Jai looked around sheepishly at Inaya and Habib, who had been silent spectators to this drama.

  ‘She wasn’t feeling well,’ Jai repeated, for want of anything else to say.

  ‘Perhaps she’s allergic to us,’ said Habib with a smile. Inaya raised her eyebrows and snickered. Jai squirmed, praying that the food would arrive soon, so he could flee this uncomfortable scene.

  ‘So, are you from India?’ Habib asked conversationally.

  Jai nodded.

  ‘We crushed you in the Asia Cup,’ piped up Inaya.

  ‘Sorry, what?’ said Jai, completely disconnected from any news related to sport.

  ‘Your bowlers were weeping by the end of the tournament,’ she continued.

  Habib gave her a stern look to stop, but Inaya was on a roll.

  ‘They need to eat more protein,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you should parcel some legs of raan and send it to your bowlers.’

  Jai bristled but couldn’t think of any suitably crushing comeback—especially as he was clueless about cricket. Thankfully, the waitress arrived with the packets of food shortly after.

  Jai hastily collected them and made his way to the exit, hoping he would never have to see that nasty, smug piece of work again.

  Sumo Wrestling

  As Inaya and Habib entered Adeela’s home, they could hear the raised voices of Humaira and her sister, entrenched in intense argument in the kitchen.

  ‘It has barely been a few hours and they’re already going at it hammer and tongs,’ sighed Habib. ‘It’s a good thing that you and I got ourselves some food and fresh air.’

  Inaya chuckled. She couldn’t help marvelling at how her usually dignified grandmother quickly regressed into a squabbling ten-year-old whenever she was with her sister.

  ‘Well, you would have attended the wedding if you had cared enough,’ Humaira snapped at Adeela. ‘It’s not as if your only sister’s only son gets married every day.’

  ‘I can’t believe that you’re holding a grudge about something that happened seventeen years ago, Humaira Aapa,’ Adeela retorted. ‘And it wasn’t like you were over the moon about that wedding, if I remember right. You disliked Benaifer right from the start—and only because the poor thing wasn’t Muslim.’

  ‘I did not dislike her. I was absolutely fine about them getting married,’ retorted Humaira, at which Habib raised an incredulous eyebrow.

  ‘Did you also not like my mother, Daada?’ asked Inaya, as she followed Habib into the living room.

  ‘Benaifer was like a daughter to me, Inaya,’ replied Habib gently. ‘You are so much like her. Although she did smash fewer photo frames,’ he added, smiling.

  Inaya pretended to be most offended and then broke into a wide grin.

  ‘By the way, Inaya,’ said Habib, ‘Don’t you think you were a little harsh with that poor boy at lunch?’

  ‘No. Of course not, Daada,’ Inaya replied breezily. ‘Have you forgotten that they were the ones who left the table because we were Pakistani? That’s harsh, if you ask me. And besides, I was just stating facts about their bowlers.’

  ‘Hmm. Last I checked, you couldn’t get enough of a certain Indian bowler named Jhulan,’ said Habib.

  Inaya’s cheeks flushed.

  ‘Yes, but that boy was very annoying, Daada . . . ’

  ‘You barely know him, Inaya. He seemed harmless enough.’

  ‘You don’t know that, Daada. He was on the same Heathrow Express train as us, and he was being all weird, so I had to put him in his place.’

  Habib shook his head in resignation. The voices from the next room were growing shriller by the minute. Habib switched on the television in an attempt to drown them out.

  ‘You know, Inaya, women are marve
llous creatures—one of the greatest creations of the Almighty,’ said Habib. ‘But I have to admit that I’m possibly more grateful to the creator of the television.’

  In the background, the voices of his wife and sister-in-law rose to a crescendo, but Habib blissfully tuned into the rather more subdued sumo wrestling tournament in Osaka.

  War of the Roses

  Since their arrival in London, Inaya had attended four warm-up games at the cricket nets in Regent’s Park with the rest of the Curry Cruisers squad, and although she had been apprehensive at first, the side had bonded surprisingly well.

  Today was another warm-up game for the Curry Cruisers, and since the sun was shining brightly, Humaira and Adeela decided to accompany Habib and Inaya to the practice grounds. As they walked through the park, Adeela provided a running tour guide commentary.

  ‘And these are called Queen Mary’s Gardens. Look at those beautiful roses, Humaira Aapa.’

  ‘Pah! We have better roses in Rawalpindi,’ scoffed Humaira.

  ‘Oho, of course!’ said Adeela. ‘How can anything here be better than Rawalpindi?’

  ‘You are basically a gaddaar, a turncoat,’ retorted her sister. ‘Nothing in the country of your birth is good enough for you any more, is it?’

  ‘Well, I’m not defined by where I was born,’ said Adeela pointedly. ‘I’m happy anywhere on this beautiful planet of ours.’

  ‘All these newfangled ideas of yours will get you nowhere, Adeela,’ said Humaira. ‘This . . . vegan thing and doing yoga and belonging to the planet—all this will only leave you without any true identity.’

  ‘Uff, just listen to yourself, Humaira Aapa. Are you making any sense? Tell me, does your identity begin and end with belonging to the country that you happened to be born in?’ demanded Adeela. ‘To me, that seems like such a limited way of experiencing the world.’

  Humaira decided not to dignify her sister’s biting remark with a response, so she just upped her walking pace instead, channelling all her fury into her feet. Meanwhile, Inaya and Habib were in a quandary as to whether they should catch up with Humaira or stay in step with Adeela.

  ‘Could I please join you for practice to escape this?’ whispered Habib to Inaya, who muffled a chuckle.

  ‘What time will your practice be over, Inaya?’ asked Adeela. ‘I’ve booked us a table for lunch at Nabeel’s Kitchen . . . ’

  ‘Oh yay! Their haleem rolls were so good that day! They were totally worth the wait!’ blurted Inaya.

  ‘When did you try their haleem rolls?’ asked Adeela.

  ‘Er . . . ’ said Inaya, frantically scrambling for something to say.

  ‘It was just a rushed lunch that we had the other day,’ said Habib, gallantly coming to her rescue.

  ‘Yes, it was so rushed that we had to share a table with those annoying people,’ added Inaya.

  Habib desperately signalled with his eyes at Inaya to simply stop talking. But it was too late. By now, Humaira was intrigued as well.

  ‘How come I don’t know about this wonderful lunch that you had, Habib?’ she asked with a plastic smile. ‘And who are these people that you lunched with?’

  ‘It wasn’t anyone you know, Daadi—just some random people from India who had also arrived in London the same day as us,’ said Inaya.

  Habib groaned inwardly, bracing himself for the inquisition that was sure to follow.

  ‘One moment, one moment,’ interjected Adeela, sounding peeved. ‘Bhaijaan, you told me that you had an upset tummy—and then you went and ate at Nabeel’s Kitchen? After I slaved the entire morning preparing those kale and courgette patties for you!’

  Habib cringed at the thought of the almost unpalatable patty that he had been forced into trying on his return to Adeela’s apartment.

  ‘It wasn’t planned,’ he said. ‘We were just walking past the café . . . ’

  Humaira and Adeela harrumphed in unison.

  ‘Of all the people in London, could you only find Indians to share a table with, Habib?’ sneered Humaira.

  ‘Oh, come on, Humaira . . . ’ began Habib.

  ‘On this front, I’m with Bhaijaan,’ cut in Adeela. ‘You can’t generalize about people based on where they live.’

  ‘Naturally you would say that, Adeela, now that you consider yourself “British” and have abandoned all your pride in being Pakistani,’ Humaira shot back.

  ‘Can we please just enjoy the walk and not start that again?’ sighed Habib.

  The foursome walked in silence for a bit.

  ‘We’ve reached your practice grounds, Inaya,’ announced Adeela abruptly. ‘Enjoy yourself. All you have to contend with is some balls hurtling at you. At least you don’t have anyone tearing you down.’

  Humaira chose to ignore this oblique gibe. ‘Go and play your best, my kishmish,’ she said.

  Inaya gave them a quick hug and scooted off. She needed to put all these squabbles aside and focus. The tape-ball league tournament’s first match was tomorrow. It was a knockout round, so if her team didn’t perform, that would be the end of the road for them.

  Too Much to Digest

  Back in Arathi’s cosy apartment, Toshi, Arathi and Jai were playing Scrabble. Jai picked up the letter ‘Y’ and placed it on the board, completing his word.

  ‘Oh, come on, Jai. There is no such word as Fy!’ said Arathi, turning to her mother-in-law to back her up.

  ‘This is pure and simple cheating,’ declared Toshi emphatically, taking Arathi’s side.

  ‘You always say I’m cheating when you’re losing, Badi Ma! And by the way, it is a valid Scrabble word,’ said Jai. ‘It means “to digest”. Look here if you don’t believe me.’ He held Arathi’s iPad aloft triumphantly.

  ‘You youngsters assume that everything you see on the internet is the gospel truth,’ scoffed Toshi.

  ‘Who else can we ask, Badi Ma? The web has all the answers,’ teased Jai.

  ‘Hmm. That reminds me, there’s something I wanted to ask you, Arathi,’ said Toshi. ‘What is so wrong about sharing a table with Pakistanis?’

  Jai squirmed, thinking about the uncomfortable scene that had transpired in Nabeel’s Kitchen. Arathi looked at her mother-in-law in disbelief.

  ‘What is right about it, Ma?’ she countered. ‘Have you forgotten all the wars we’ve had with them and all the times they’ve attacked our country? So many of our soldiers have died because of them.’

  Toshi looked pained, as if someone had punched her in the gut. ‘Our soldiers dying. Their soldiers dying. All this hate. Where will it all end? Especially if we can’t even sit at the same table and talk anymore,’ she said sadly.

  ‘What is there to talk about with them, Ma? We have nothing in common with them—and never will,’ said Arathi.

  ‘Actually, beta,’ said Toshi gently, ‘I probably have more in common with people from Pakistan than say, with you. Many Pakistanis and north Indians share the same history: our language, cuisine, ancestry, poetry . . . ’

  ‘And I’m just this South Indian who will never understand that, right?’ interjected Arathi, with a brittle laugh.

  ‘That’s not what I meant. All I’m saying is that we do have a lot in common with them. Our families have lived side by side for centuries.’

  ‘But do these Pakistanis feel the same way about their relations with Indians, Ma? That is the question you should be asking. Maybe you’re living in an idealistic bubble . . . ’

  ‘Should we carry on playing?’ asked Jai, keen as ever to avoid conflict of any sort.

  Toshi nodded, distractedly.

  ‘It’s your turn, Badi Ma. You need to get yourself some more letters,’ said Jai, offering his grandmother the bag of alphabet tiles. ‘And Badi Ma, please don’t make a word on that one spot on the board because that is where my next word would fit. Really well.’

  ‘I will make a word wherever my letters fit, Jai,’ said Toshi loftily.

  ‘Argh! I had forgotten how competitive you are, Badi Ma,’ groaned Jai. ‘
Anyway, I do have a backup word.’

  ‘I hope it’s a real word this time, Jai. I cannot “fy” any more of your strangely obscure words,’ said Arathi.

  Jai grinned, relieved that the conversation had veered away from Pesky Girl and her Pakistani family. Besides, she was the last person he wanted to be reminded of.

  Alphonso Season

  There was very little conversation at Adeela’s dinner table. Adeela was still seething at her sister’s remarks. Predictably, Humaira had refused to apologize. Habib was looking rather frayed from trying to convince Humaira to take the high road and be the bigger person.

  Inaya played with the peas on her plate, pretending they were balls, batting them away with her knife. One such pea, which had been struck rather well, neatly bounced off Adeela’s cheek.

  ‘Oh, stop it!’ exclaimed Adeela, instinctively turning to Humaira, in a throwback to their mealtime tiffs from their childhood.

  ‘Stop what?’ asked Humaira, icily.

  Adeela immediately realized that the pea had come from Inaya’s plate, but Adeela wasn’t going to admit that to her sister, of course. She clenched her jaw. ‘Stop questioning my loyalty to my country,’ she snapped, deciding to use this opportunity to air her resentment.

  ‘I was merely observing that you have perhaps forgotten the land of your birth,’ said Humaira.

  ‘In that case, you should be embracing those Indians whom you hate so much—because if I am not mistaken you were born in India, Humaira Aapa,’ countered Adeela.

  An uncomfortable silence ensued, until Inaya cleared her throat and said, ‘Tomorrow is my first match.’ No one responded to this sally, preoccupied as they were with the rather tense slanging match between the siblings.

  ‘Does anyone want any more asparagus?’ asked Inaya, in a further attempt at steering the conversation to safer ground.

  ‘I’ll have some please, Inaya,’ said Adeela, a tinge of smugness in her voice.

  Grateful that at least someone other than her was speaking again, Inaya passed the dish of asparagus to Adeela, wrinkling her nose as it passed beneath it. If there was anything she considered worse than these arguments and the uncomfortable silences that followed, it was Adeela Khaala’s cooking.