‘So it is OK then?’ my boss said out in the street.
‘It is, sir. But for what?’
‘For Number Two. For you, you fool.’
‘Are you suggesting?’ I was aghast.
‘Yes, I am suggesting.’ Wait a minute. Where was the catch? There had to be one. I knew my boss. ‘What will I do here, sir?’
‘Run the damn thing. What else?’
‘You are playing a sizzling joke on me, sir.’
‘When I joke I joke. But only when I joke.’ I had plans for my own future, I told him. Going to university, for one.
‘Plenty of time for that.’ My boss dismissed my future plans with one wave of the hand.
‘But I don’t know a thing about running restaurants, sir.’
‘I will teach. Centre of the point is cheat not the hand that teach.’ An idea crossed my mind about going to university.
‘So what you say, boy? Isspeak.’
‘Sir,’
‘Make Number Two different. And have the sort of food you’ve been talking about. What you call it?’
‘Tandoori cuisine, sir.’
‘Be the first to introduce it to London.’ If Number Two was a hit, I could save a lot quickly I realised.
‘Call the chef man Whatsisname in time. I shall shell out. Here.’ My boss handed me a half-crown. ‘For the ticket money back home.’
‘Mr Swami, I have the money to get home.’
‘Business expenses you can say as in big company. Or go and see a film with it. Take Mrs Isswami and Veena one day. Look what they are showing - Issummer Holiday.’ Mr Gokul Swami pointed to a cinema at the street corner. ‘Just the weather to see a film like that. Wish I was in your young shoe. No, not really. I am happy in my own. But listen. Not a word of it to anyone.’
Next Friday brought real magic to the Magic. Our walls became tremulous with joy and the air perfumed, for tomorrow was the boss’s Guru’s birthday. The Guru was toothless, bald and bare apart from a loincloth. He smiled babylike at the world from a framed and garlanded photograph behind his disciple’s seat. He lived five thousand miles away in the soaring Himalayan wilds near Rishi Kesh. Tomorrow, thousands of his devotees all over India would sing and dance to celebrate his eighty-eighth or ninety-eighth birthday, Mr Gokul Swami didn’t know which.
Tomorrow, Mr Gokul Swami would shut down the shop, say goodbye to commerce for the day, and entertain no thought but the holiest which through some divine transmitter his Guru in the far-off Himalayas would convey to him. As tomorrow was a day to ‘give’, our boss was giving us the day off - on half pay. He assembled us all before him at the beginning of the evening and gave us this ‘finger-licking news’.
The evening began with a bang. It ended with a bang. One of the last customers to come in was that elegant Englishman. Obviously he was coming from the theatre or the opera, for he wore a dinner jacket and looked quite like a waiter himself. Again he ordered a gin and tonic. I doubled it up.
‘I ordered a single gin,’ the man said after taking a sip.
‘It is, sir.’ There was that smile. It said I know - you want another ten-bob tip. But I wasn’t doing it for that reason - I hadn’t even thought about it till that moment. I had doubled up the gin because I liked him, the first English individual besides Mrs Alderfield of County Hall to talk to me as a person.
‘What a coincidence, running into you at Harrods the other day. Is that where you shop?’
‘I’ve been there once before only, sir - for visual shopping.’
‘Ah, I like that. What’s your name?’
‘Raavi Mehra. M.E.H.R.A.’ The fellow had noticed the garlanded portrait of the Guru.
‘A special day?’
‘It’s tomorrow, sir.’ I explained. He laughed.
‘I don’t suppose I could buy you a drink. Or maybe you don’t drink.’
‘I do once in a while. But drastic surgery would be performed on me if I did so here.’ The man laughed again. He opened his wallet and gave me his card – James Hamilton-Finlay - and his address. ‘Give me a ring sometime. Perhaps we could meet for a drink somewhere.’
‘When shall I ring, sir?’ Silly me. I shouldn’t have said that. It meant I was too eager. But I couldn’t help it. I was eager to be invited out by someone English.
‘As you are free tomorrow, why not give me a ring in the morning.’
I did. Mr Hamilton-Finlay said how pleased he was that I had telephoned. We had a warmly pleasant chat mostly about me. Then just like that, he asked if I was free for lunch. I couldn’t believe my ears.
‘I know a nice little Indian place near my office. Let’s eat there. It will make a change for you.’
It sounded too good to be true. But it was good and it was true – I was not imagining it.
We met at Piccadilly tube at one, and walked to the tiny Air Street next to it. A six-foot-plus bushily-bearded Sikh greeted us at the street door of Veerabhai’s on the first floor. He wore a long scarlet achkan with shiny brass buttons, and supported a white, foot-high turban with a fan-like end - a striking figure of dash and panache, an all-red giant peacock in mating season.
‘Good afternoon, Mr Hamilton-Finlay. And welcome.’
‘Good afternoon, Lal Singh. Are you well? How’s the family?’
‘We are all very well, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘Busy?’
‘As usual, sir.’
A gracefully curving staircase took us to the landing on the first floor where an attendant in all-white manning the cloakroom helped me first with my coat, then my host’s. My host’s ‘nice little’ place, was a cricket-pitch-and-a-half long, and half as wide, overlooking a very busy Regent Street. There must have been two scores of tables with sparkling white linen, gleaming crockery and glittering silver. The discreetly cream-coloured walls had hugely enlarged copies of Mughal and Rajasthani paintings – portraits of Empress Noor Jahan and hubby Jahangir among them. Somewhat clinical and a bit intimidating, the place was abuzz with glamour, with not a single brown face except those of some waiters. A table for four announced Reserved. It was our table. A non-Indian waiter in crisp white uniform came and greeted my friend like the Red Peacock at the door. He pulled Mr Hamilton-Finlay’s chair back and pushed it forward as he sat down. Then he lifted the conically arranged napkin from the table and spread it on Mr Hamilton-Finlay’s lap. Next, the fellow did the same to me. An Italian bottle of water appeared immediately, followed by an eighteen inch silk-bound menu and the wine list. But my menu had no prices on it. I was impressed. I was nervous. But coming from India’s smartest city, Simla of the Viceroys and Maharajahs, I took it all in my stride. We both had a gin and tonic, but no wine.
‘How do you like this place?’ Mine good host asked.
‘How do I like it? Not bad, not bad.’ We both laughed.
‘What would you like to eat? Choose whatever you fancy.’
‘But my menu has no prices of the dishes.’
‘That’s the idea. You are my guest.’
‘How will I ever pay back your hospitality, Mr Hamilton?’
‘It’s James, dammit. And you don’t owe me any hospitality.’
Among the SOUPS was one called Mulligatawny. I had never heard of it – it didn’t exist in India. I told James so.
‘It’s an Anglo-Indian dish,’ he explained. ‘Perhaps the only British contribution to Indian cuisine. Be a devil and try it.’
Indian home-cooking doesn’t feature soups as such, most dishes being quite soupy already, giving rise to the term ‘curry’. The mulligatawny soup had bits of meat in a brown liquid with under-cooked spices that tasted mostly of chilli. Although very fond of soups, I didn’t like it. But the rest of what we ate was princely. And there was my favourite, the royal maash black dhal.
‘Looks like caviar, no?’ James said. I had never seen caviar. It was a great lunch. Alas, it had to be eaten in a bit of a hurry. My new friend had been told of an urgent meeting just before leaving his office in Bond Stre
et and had to attend it.
‘What are you doing on Sunday afternoon, Raavi? Come to tea if you are free,’ James said as we rose to leave.
‘A couple of friends of mine have invited me to go a-bird-plucking at the Old Bull and Bush Sunday evening, sir.’
‘Oh, how wonderful. You must not forego that.’
‘Maybe I should. The feathered creatures seem to be allergic to my friends. No chemistry, nor any physics.’ James laughed over my laundry outing with Tariq and Walia.
‘Ah, in that case do come.’
I waited feverishly for Sunday. It was bitterly cold as I made my way to visit my wonderful new friend. James Hamilton- Finlay lived in a tall block of apartments on Millbank, a stone’s throw from Indian Magic, as it turned out. His building was a maze of carpeted corridors that whispered of sheer elegance. My cheeks were numb with cold when I arrived at his door on the sixth floor.
My first sight of an English home took my breath away. Shiny parquet floors and cosy-comfy furniture. Shelves full of books, modern paintings, old prints. There were antiques, African masks and spears, all culture, culture
My host took my coat and pointed me to a velvet sofa with a rash of buttons. My lusty eyes were restless. Artfully, they devoured what surrounded me. A question came and sat on my tongue. I should have asked it the other day
‘I work for an auction house - Sotheby’s in Bond Street.’ My host answered my question, as if he had heard me thinking it.
‘Cold?’ he asked over tea.
‘No. I’m fine, Mr Finlay.’ But my toes had frostbite.
‘James, dammit. We are friends. And it is Hamilton-Finlay.’
We talked. First of the weather, then of Indian Magic and after that of India itself. I felt proud of myself when he said how he loved it, even though he had never been there.
‘Gosh, all the awful things we did to you.’ I had not expected an Englishman to say that. I was moved.
‘The 1919 Amritsar massacre and the rest. Of course, the worst was leaving India divided. We knowingly gave in to that monster Jinnah’s blackmail. All that bloodshed it led to. You were probably too young to remember.’
‘I was born in 1947,’ I told him. But Simla being Simla was spared all that.
‘We shouldn’t be so proud of ourselves, little Englanders that we are,’ he responded. ‘Honestly, we see ourselves as God’s gift to the world. We believe we own it, that it is owed to us. You must think we are dreadful. Come and have a look at the river. You’ve never seen anything like it.’ He put an arm around my shoulder and led me to a French window. It was quite dark now. The Thames again. An immense stretch of mercury in that semi-misty London sky glowing with a touch of pink.
‘London sky blushes at night at what goes on under it,’ I said, looking around the flat for any sign of a family, preferably a daughter of my age. Had it been a prayer, it could not have been answered more swiftly. A door opened and out came a girl of twenty or so.
‘Darling, are you leaving? Come and meet Raavi – he’s recently arrived from India. Raavi, my daughter Sally.’
Sally had big blue eyes and blood-red lips with a kiss-me-quick look. She said, ‘Hello,’ and then simply stared at me. I found it exciting, mesmerising. I was sure she had fallen in love with me on the spot. The phone rang somewhere and my friend excused himself.
‘Raavi. What a fascinating name.’ She pronounced my name with two extra-long A’s, making it sound exotic.
‘So is Sally.’
‘No, it’s very common. So you’ve just arrived? How did you meet James?’ She called her father by his first name. I was shocked. I didn’t want her to know I was a waiter, so I ducked her question. ‘James is a very interesting man,’ I said instead. He knows a great deal about art and antiques.’ ‘He would. That’s his job. Do you know what? You have the longest eyelashes I have ever seen on a boy. Are they real?’
‘Of the left eye only.’
‘Oh, really,’ Sally laughed, looking me deep in the eyes.
From then on, things moved fast. Our eyes interlocked, we talked of this and that, of films, of the world, of her and me. I was so glad that James was taking his time.
‘Does Raavi mean anything?’
‘It’s the name of a river.’
‘Like the Thames? I’ve never anyone known called Thames.’
‘What does Sally mean?’
‘I don’t know. Probably nothing. It’s just a name. Do you have a girlfriend?’
‘No.’
‘Do you fancy a coffee sometime?’
‘When?’
‘Tomorrow, Monday. I’m free after three. How are you placed?’
‘Three thirty all right for you?’
‘Perfect. Let’s meet at Victoria by the ticket office.’ I couldn’t believe my ears. My luck had turned. My misery days were over. They were history now.
‘I’ll be there, waiting,’ I said. Her father re-joined us. ‘Won’t you stay for a drink darling?’
‘I can’t. I’m meeting Liz. Bye. See you tomorrow, Raavi.’
‘Sally is at RADA. She shares a flat with her friend Liz in Hampstead. Comes up occasionally to lunch. You see, I am divorced from my wife.’ It was a matter-of-fact statement without emotion.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You needn’t be,’ he said reassuringly. Though I had told him all about myself at lunch the other day, he still wanted to know the A to Z of my life here and back home, about my father, how many servants we had, where I lived here, and what I did between waitering. He laughed loudly on hearing about my Very High Commissioner Uncle Bish, and the change being ‘high-related’ had brought in my fortunes. I felt honoured. I was so grateful. I felt his Englishness and my Indianness dissolve in the bond we had created in so short a time. Nor did it matter any more that he was so much older. I saw James look at his watch. Was it a signal? I stood up. ‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Hamilton-Finlay.’
‘James. You are a very formal lot.’
‘Well, thanks, James.’
‘That’s better. But where are you off to?’
‘The Subcontinental.’
‘The what?’ He laughed and laughed when I explained.
‘Sit down. We are having such a wonderful time. This calls for a drink.’ James went to his kitchen and came back with a bottle of champagne. ‘Moet Chandon, 1960 - a good year.’
I had never tasted the stuff before, so I couldn’t tell, but I loved the delicious bubbles. We talked. We drank. I decided that that was the future drink for me. Tall, elegant glasses in hand, we went and had a look at the river again. It was night now and London was twinkling with a million lights.
‘The Thames looks much better at night actually, like ladies,’ James said, and he showed me around his flat – three bedrooms and another room which was his study. ‘Your glass is empty, Raavi, and so is mine.’ James took me to where the champagne was – in the kitchen. But the bottle too was empty. This threw us in fits – we had polished off a whole bottle just like that. James popped open another and we went back to the drawing room.
‘How do you like it here, Raavi?’
‘I love it here. It’s a lovely flat.’
‘How would you like to live here?’
‘What?’ I was taken aback.
‘There are two spare bedrooms. You can have either of them. It would be so wonderful to have you here,’ James said, placing his hand on my knee as Mr Gokul Swami would have done – casually.
‘James, you don’t mean it.’
‘I’m very fond of you, Raavi. It would be enchanting to have you here. We would do things together, go to parties, films, theatre, and.’ James then put his glass to my lips. Gently, I pushed it away. ‘Raavi!’ He seemed surprised by that. Smiling, he leaned over and planted a kiss on my mouth. On my mouth! I had never struck anyone in my life before. I didn’t that day either. Bursting with rage, I hurried to get my coat.
‘Raavi, don’t go. I am awfully sorry I rushed things. We were ha
ving such a super time. I thought you liked me.’
He came after me. But fortunately, he didn’t touch me again. Shaken, I dashed home with the strangeness of it all reverberating in me - a middle-aged queer father proposing a relationship, his young daughter agreeing to a date with me.
Tomorrow seemed unbearably far away. I could have slept on my old bench at Victoria, waiting. Long as it was in coming, tomorrow did come. But not she whose eyes had promised so much.
It was one of those yawn-Monday nights at Indian Magic, beginning too early, and with no end in sight. Ranji came up for a minute to complain. ‘Arse-splitting boredom this’ with balls-all to do.’
Only Jagan and I were on duty - the ‘hire’ n ‘fire’ two were not needed on Monday nights. Prohit had flu and Mr Swami had sent him home early in the afternoon with orders not to spread it around. But fool Prohit had spread it around. Mr Swami became bad-tempered as the evening groaned on. He felt his left wrist with his right hand every ten minutes and fumed, ‘Hmm,’ at the absent spreader of the abominable bug.
‘Mr Swami, you ought to go home,’ I said at nine. It was hauntingly quiet - eight guests all told, all evening.
‘Yes, boss. Health first money second,’ Ranji said. Just then, in walked his friend, Rameshwar.
‘Was passing away. Thought I’d look by,’ Rameshwar said in English. He was always ‘passing away and looking by’. He wore his usual black coat, hat, muffler and gloves. We told him the boss was sick. This made him take his right glove off and feel his friend’s wrist. ‘You are fool, if you ask me, Gokul.’
‘And what are you, Rameshwar?
‘You’ve got it. And you are home coming in my car.’
‘Best thing you are doing taking boss home, Lord Rameshwar,’ Jagan said. Everybody called Rameshwar ‘Lord’ Rameshwar because of his striking resemblance to the Foreign Secretary, Lord Alec Douglas Home. Rameshwar loved it.
Indian Magic Page 8
