“You mean a tea bag!” laughed Leela Bastikar.
Sunil Vanjare sipped his tea contentedly, then slipped a coconut sweet into his mouth.
“I have a picture of Rajesh.”
He fumbled around in his pockets, unable to locate the photo. He stood up and emptied his side pockets. A lone bunch of keys fell onto the table.
From that moment on there was chaos.
The old man jigged about and shook his dhoti to and fro. Nothing. He swung it wildly from side to side. Nothing. He searched his front pocket. Nothing. He felt his side pockets again. Nothing. Finally, he let out an anguished cry.
“MY WALLET! MY WALLET! It’s gone. I must have been pickpocketed.”
What was he to do without his wallet? How would he get home? He could go to the State Bank and take money out. But he had no ID on him now. Perhaps, if he saw the teller who’d served him that morning, she would recognise him. It was running late. Would he make it in time? He began trembling.
Leela Bastikar listened patiently and tried to calm him down. She suggested that he call his family and pointed him in the direction of the telephone.
“No point, no point! Nobody is home now!” he yelled before collapsing into the armchair with his head in his knees. His shirt was now drenched with sweat, his scant hair stringy and wet.
From behind the chest, Monisha watched her mother pull out a stack of hundred-rupee notes from her own purse.
After much cajoling, the old man took the money. Mrs Bastikar called for a helper.
“You can always pay it back when your brother comes to visit with Rajesh.”
When the helper arrived, Sunil Vanjare was heaved up off the chair and handed his walking stick. He shuffled slowly towards the door.
“Thank you for your kindness. Our family will remember this always.”
Monisha took in a deep breath and rose up from her hiding place. It had been a strange day. Tea and samosas with Mr Lisper and his sister, two cancellations, an unexpected visitor, and then the dramatic scene in the lounge.
“That poor man!” she said as she hurtled down the staircase towards her mother. “He must have been pickpocketed when he returned from the bank… but then how did he pay for the cab ride over?”
Mrs Bastikar shifted uncomfortably in her chair.
“Perhaps we could discuss this later with Uncle Rohit.”
The grandfather clock chimed solemnly five times. Uncle Rohit would be here any minute for a snack and a cup of tea. With his flabby arms, round face and protruding belly, he was heading towards diabetes, his doctor had warned. In spite of it, whenever he visited, Leela Bastikar would stuff her little brother with the fattening treats he was forbidden from eating in his own home.
As soon as he arrived, she placed a bowl of thick, creamy rice pudding in front of him. While he tucked in, she relayed the afternoon’s events.
Uncle Rohit listened, making occasional slurping noises. When he finished the final mouthful, he asked for a glass of water and swigged it down noisily. “It’s obvious you’ve been scammed, Leela,” he said. “Count yourself lucky he didn’t take your jewellery.”
Monisha and her mother exchanged horrified looks. Leela Bastikar shook her head in disbelief. “No, it can’t be!”
Monisha felt her knees wobble to jelly. A wave of nausea swept through her. Fear was a lump in her throat as she watched Uncle Rohit pick up the telephone and dial the contact number for Rahul Vanjare. She waited with bated breath as he spoke to the boy’s father.
Hours seem to pass before he delivered his verdict.
“First of all, there is no older brother named Sunil in the family. Second of all, Rajesh Vanjare has asked his parents to take his name out of the matrimonial columns.”
Mrs Bastikar frowned. “And why is that?”
“Because he’s got himself engaged to a Swedish nurse.”
The words cut like a knife. Monisha clutched her chest. Mrs Bastikar stared anxiously at her daughter.
“Just heartburn,” shouted Monisha as she ran up the stairs, fighting back tears.
As if it wasn’t bad enough being conned by a petty criminal and his Oscar-winning performance. The best candidate on her mother’s shortlist had fallen prey to an unbeatable competitor.
A stunning, blonde nurse.
Thud. Thud. The panic began again. She was several days into her trip, but no closer to meeting the man she would marry. And now she was beginning to wonder whether it would ever happen at all.
5
The previous day’s events had rattled everybody. Aunt Romila wished she’d been around. She could spot a conman a mile away. Uncle Shyam called Leela Bastikar an ‘idiot’ and made her install a security camera. Uncle Rohit told her to get the ‘maple syrup’ out of her brain, for she was far too sweet and trusting. And now, each time the phone rang, Monisha and her mother were a bag of nerves.
So, when it was proposed that all introductions should take place with Mrs Bastikar’s siblings present, Monisha nodded acquiescently. Even though, by having to co-ordinate diaries, the whole process would take longer.
When she heard that the next suitor would be attending with his parents in two days’ time, finally it seemed that things were looking up. She would even be allowed to sit in. No more being tucked away in her room or hiding behind chests. Uncle Shyam and Aunt Romila would be there for moral support. And, now the weather was hotting up, instead of tea and samosas there would be street snacks and mouth-watering cold drinks. Mmm!
When the time came, the helper stood by the door, while the others waited in the lounge room. Uncle Shyam kept his eyes fixed on the cricket. Leela Bastikar and Aunt Romila fussed over the cushions. Monisha sat in an armchair with her head buried in a gossip magazine. Each time she heard a passing car, she almost jumped out of her skin.
Finally, when the Meru family appeared on camera, the helper giggled. As they entered, Leela Bastikar stood dumbstruck for a few seconds before she welcomed them in. Uncle Shyam said a brief namaste and turned back towards the cricket. Aunt Romila appeared worried. Monisha’s heart instantly sank to the floor.
Each one of them was massive. Three times her size at least.
Roly-poly, red-faced and pouring with sweat they waddled towards the sofas and sat down, barely leaving space for Monisha’s family. For the next hour, she watched with horror as Mr and Mrs Meru, and their son Nimal, guzzled down the street snacks and dripped sweat all over the glass coffee table. Every five minutes she glanced hopefully at the clock, praying that the torture would end.
Uncle Shyam sensed her desperation. “I think at this point, we should leave it to Monisha and Nimal as to whether they want to take things further,” he said, in a booming voice. “After all they are big enough now.”
The place erupted with laughter when they’d left. Uncle Shyam couldn’t understand how Nimal Meru had made it into the shortlist.
Aunt Romila threw her arms up in the air. “How do you expect us to know? The advertisement didn’t say he was the size of an elephant!”
Monisha hadn’t found it funny. Her mind flashed back to the conversation she’d had with Tina at Café Uno. Right now, falling in love seemed a far better option. Arranged marriage was fast becoming a freak show, played out by snobby in-laws, men with lisps, con artists, fat men and men who’d secretly got engaged. It was getting tiresome, the repetitive sequence that began with fear and fried food, and ended with heartburn and disappointment. She was beyond tears now.
When Uncle Shyam and Aunt Romila left, the place felt empty. It was time for dinner now. An entire day had passed. Monisha let out a heavy sigh as the helper carried in a steaming pot of rice.
“Do you have the number of a travel agent, Mom?” she asked after some time.
Leela Bastikar began spooning out lentils. The creases on her forehead thickened deeply.
“Whatever for?”
Monisha mixed the rice with the lentils and slowly lifted a forkful into her mouth. She could taste nothing.
“I want to change my ticket… Maybe I’ll spend a few days with Dad before heading off to Boston.”
Mrs Bastikar sent the helper to water the plants in the garden. He was a notorious gossip. She was certain that the whole street knew that she’d handed over a fistful of money to a con artist.
“Please stay a little longer Monisha,” she said when he’d gone. “I’ve been here for six weeks, clearing out this house, reading the columns, consulting astrologers, making phone calls. Remember, this is harder on me than it is on you.” Her voice trailed off. She swallowed. “Because when it’s all over, I lose you to somebody else.”
Ugh! The familiar tune of her mother’s emotional blackmail. This time she was not quite ready to succumb. Monisha ate the rest of her meal in silence.
When the phone rang an hour later, her mother was in the shower and the helper in the garden. Monisha let it ring several times before she decided to pick up.
“Hello, I’m Shailesh Kulkarni,” said a gentleman, in a deep voice, which bore only traces of an Indian accent. “Am I still okay to visit tomorrow morning?”
“Have you made an appointment?”, she asked.
Leela Bastikar ignored her arthritic pains and scuttled down the staircase in her bathrobe. Instantly she snatched the phone out of Monisha’s hands.
“Who is calling please?” she asked in the sugary voice reserved for prospective bridegrooms and their families.
“Yes, yes, tomorrow morning is fine. We know about the traffic in Andheri.”
Monisha rolled her eyes.
“So, is he the father, the uncle, the cousin or the helper?”
Mrs Bastikar had never got to grips with sarcasm. She smiled sweetly.
“No, he is a thirty-one-year-old surgeon. Five-foot eleven-inches tall. And he is coming from Andheri, on a motorbike!”
“Great,” said Monisha.
There’d be one more left after this one. And then the plane ride home.
6
The Mumbai suburbs of Andheri East and Juhu were only a few miles apart. After hitting Swami Vivekananda Road, the journey took less than twenty minutes. But the city was rarely free of traffic jams. On a bad day, the trip could last two hours. Fortunately for Shailesh Kulkarni, that Sunday morning the highways were deserted. So, he was able to glide into Sitara Road at half past ten sharp, with his hair still smooth and his countenance unruffled.
He greeted Leela Bastikar, Aunt Romila, Uncle Shyam and Uncle Rohit with individual namastes, and then removed his shoes. Neatly, beside them, he placed his helmet. When Mrs Bastikar ushered him into the lounge room, he waited for the seniors to take their places first. Before he sat down, he glanced over at Monisha and nodded.
She caught a glimpse of his hair, full and thick; it fell in neat waves round his ears. He was tall and solidly built, with rich, chocolaty skin. She watched him pick up a single coconut sweet and chew on it thoughtfully. He took a sip of the iced water offered to him and thanked the helper. A chill ran through her spine. Could he be the one?
There were five other people present. Monisha had to stop herself from staring. She’d never hear the end of it if they caught her. Upstairs in her room she had felt isolated. Here, she was completely exposed. Right now, she wished she was tucked away safe, behind the chest on the landing. A flush of heat burned her cheeks. She was red! Hot and red! She hoped no one would notice.
Uncle Shyam broke the ice and asked Shailesh Kulkarni about his family. Her ears pricked up. Where were they? He told them that he shared an apartment with his widowed mother. Apparently, she was an easy-going lady who didn’t interfere in his daily affairs. He had only one sister, and she was planning a move to Dubai with her husband.
Monisha looked down at her lap and suppressed a smile. So far, so good. The next round of questions about his education and career came from Uncle Rohit. In the same sombre voice, she recalled hearing on the phone, Shailesh Kulkarni traced his journey from a hill-station primary school through to medical school in Karnataka.
“I finished my surgical training in Mumbai. The practice is starting to pick up here,” he said. “But I have been offered a fellowship in New York. It would be a shame to waste the opportunity.”
Monisha’s jaw dropped. New York! This was the best bit of news she’d heard so far. Here he was, the Brahmin doctor from Mumbai she’d dreamed of! Taller, older and darker than her. And with a job in New York, he’d only be a few hours away. They could catch up on weekends. There was no family to get past either! Just an easy-going mother-in-law and a sister-in-law abroad. She waited with bated breath, hungry to hear more.
Shailesh Kulkarni studied the clock. “I’d better head off now,” he said. “A friend of mine is in town. My mother has invited him for lunch and she always cooks a feast.”
The others rose after him. Leela Bastikar began fussing.
“What about tea… or coffee?”
He said he didn’t drink either. Leela Bastikar protested.
“But you ate nothing here!”
Monisha cringed at the irony. The other contenders had gulped down expensive teas and freshly made street food, and here was the man she most wanted to impress.
“I don’t really snack between meals. It’s an unhealthy Indian habit,” he laughed.
Well handled, she thought. Assertive, but not offensive. And he was health conscious as well!
Shailesh Kulkarni made his way towards the door, picked up his helmet and turned back to wave goodbye.
“Okay then,” he said with a slight twist of his head.
Oh God! Their meeting was over. He hadn’t asked her a single question or suggested going on a date. No ‘see you later’ either.
And what the hell was ‘Okay then!’ supposed to mean?
The thunderous roar of a motorcycle engine blasted her eardrums, then the harsh scrape of wheels along the dirt. He was gone.
Leela Bastikar beamed.
“I really like him. I like the sound of his voice.”
Monisha glowered back. Couldn’t she see that it was all going to end in the same way, with emptiness and dashed hopes?
“So,” asked Aunt Romila, “how is his mother going to manage on her own when he moves to America?”
But Monisha didn’t hear the question, nor was she interested in any of the discussion taking place. She darted up to her bedroom and began gathering her things. Unfortunately, the travel agents were closed on a Sunday. First thing on Monday, she would head over to one and change her ticket.
The phone rang. It was Aunt Romila’s daughter Riya, asking her if she’d like to see a movie and if so, a tear-jerker or a comedy. Monisha took up the offer gladly and chose the tear-jerker. She was in no mood for jokes.
That afternoon, the two girls wandered through the mall, with Riya pointing out various couples and sniggering.
“Look at him with his soccer-ball belly! Do you think his wife is overfeeding him, to give him a heart attack so she can have his money?”
For the first time in days, Monisha began laughing. Over cold coffee and swirls of gooey chocolate ice cream, the girls reminisced about their childhood capers at Sitara Road. Rescuing lizards, climbing mango trees and outdoor baths in a bucket. At the cinema, they wept and blubbered over the film, which was about a blind girl and her lost love.
It was dark when she got in. Her mother greeted her, flapping about like an excitable bird. Shailesh Kulkarni had called back when she was out. He wanted to meet her for coffee.
There was a stunned silence. Monisha digested the words.
“He offered you a ride on his motorbike, but Uncle Shyam thought it wouldn’t be right. So, he’ll send his car; that is, if you say “yes.”
Monisha felt h
er mother’s eyes glaring.
“Yes,” she said, so quietly that she had to repeat herself.
“Tell him yes.”
7
Dressing for a coffee date with a prospective husband proved rather difficult for Monisha. Traditional clothes might seem old-fashioned. A skirt would be too western. After much deliberation, she settled on a white salwar suit, with tight leggings. She draped a pale organza scarf round her shoulders and dusted her lips with shimmery gloss. She smiled at herself in the mirror. There! She’d nailed it: a perfect blend of East and West.
Mrs Bastikar barged in for a last-minute inspection. After completing a head-to-toe survey, she gently lifted the scarf from her daughter’s shoulders and turned it into a veil. “Oh my!” she cried. “Just like an Indian bride”.
Outside, Uncle Shyam sounded his horn loudly. Monisha made her way nervously through the front door and into the courtyard. Thoughts buzzed round her head. If this coffee date didn’t work out, there was only one man left to meet. And if that didn’t work out, she’d be returning home. Single. Gulp!
Leatherhead Café was teeming with backpackers; tattoos, nose rings and harem pants abounded. Giant photographs of Elvis Presley adorned its mauve walls. Skinny, blonde girls and pony-tailed men leaned at the counter. At a table by the window sat Shailesh Kulkarni, slouched behind a frothy glass of beer. Monisha took a deep breath and walked over.
He offered to buy her a beer. She agreed to a weak shandy. It took a while to arrive.
“You don’t drink?”
She shook her head and sipped cautiously.
“It’s only eleven o’clock.”
Shailesh shrugged his shoulders.
“And hot… I hate these interviews. How many have you said no to?”
“A couple,” she replied, staring into her drink. She didn’t wish to elaborate further and be reminded of the con artists, snobs and no-shows.
He changed the subject.
“What do you like to do in your spare time?”
Maple and Spice Page 3
