Those delicious letters, p.10
Those Delicious Letters, page 10
Did Sameer get this crazy idea from Anju? Was he having a torrid affair with ‘Love, F’, the client in Miu Miu heels? I tossed around the word ‘torrid’ silently on my tongue a couple of times. It tasted acrid like bile.
‘Sorry, had to reply to some stupid email from the CTO. So, what were you asking? About the fish?’ Jai was saying, putting away his phone, his long tapering fingers drumming on the table, the tea still nowhere in sight.
I nodded silently in response, my mind no longer interested in the conversation. I desperately needed the tea – a cup of steaming chai – to dip my face into its soft ginger steam and hide my tears.
‘I am not yet sure, but I think I will try to perfect my doi maach. That and the malaikari. The last two times I attempted, the gravy got all curdled up…’ Jai’s voice trailed into intricacies of the gravy and his mother’s doi maach with fish that was so fresh that it could be used raw in a curry.
I was thinking of Sameer. Of the life we had. Almost eighteen years. Two daughters. Twenty vacations. So many movie nights. Sameer’s spicy scarlet dim kosha. My creamy Alfredo. Umpteen dining-outs. Millions of fights. Billions of kisses. Hugs. Tears. Pain. Joy. It was okay. Maybe it was not magical. But solid, good, nice. So nice that I wanted to hold on to it. I did not want a break. I loved Sameer. Not in a Qayamat Se Qayamat Tak kind of way, but in the sense that I didn’t want to grow old with anyone but him. We could work this out. We WILL have to work this out.
‘I have to learn to make the best doi maach. It is my son’s favourite. We always end up eating out when he visits, but his mother doesn’t like that. This time I want to cook all his favourite food.’ Jai’s voice, weighed down with his terrible guilt, was cut abruptly by the moustachioed owner’s bored ‘Chai’.
Two terracotta cups in brick red, almost like kulhars but not quite, were put in front of us. The cups were filled to the brim and a little of the brown tea splashed on to the table. The moustachioed man didn’t bother to clean it up. Instead he placed a steel plate on the splotch. Two samosas, their proud nose high in the air, sat on it. A small bowl of dark tamarind chutney stood guard.
Jai held his cup in the palm of his hands and gripped it tight. I sank my face to the level of my cup, taking a deep breath. A sweet and warm scent of ginger, cinnamon and maybe black peppercorns rose up my nostrils and nudged the cells in my brain, putting them back in order – pushing the sad cells to the back row, spiking up the sharp, curious ones.
‘You have a son? He doesn’t live with you?’ I asked and almost immediately bit my tongue for sounding so inquisitive.
Jai was looking out of the same grimy window I was looking out of a few moments earlier. Life played out there. He continued staring at the sun-dappled pavement outside as he spoke softly, ‘Ananda. Nine years old. Ananda means joy, the happy kind of Joy, unlike my winning Jai. Only, I didn’t win.’
I took a long sip of my tea. Despite the moustachioed guy’s apparent lack of interest, the tea was good. It was sweet, milky and had been simmered for a long time with the spices. The liquid felt good at the back of my throat. With each gulp, I could feel the warmth radiate through my veins. And finally, when the sharpness of the peppercorns, the sweetness of the cinnamon and the boldness of the ginger had reached my heart, I found myself saying, ‘I will teach you how to cook the fish. You will be making the best doi maach in two weeks’ time. Ananda will love it.’
Seriously? Even Piyu and Riya don’t like my doi maach. Wait, I actually had never even cooked doi maach!
‘Oh no, you don’t really have to. You must be busy with your family and I don’t want to impose or anything, I will try to find a recipe online,’ he said, more polite than happy. ‘So, how is Sameer? You both should come over some time.’
‘I have plenty of time. It is Sameer who is busy.’ I smiled bravely.
Take a break. Have a Kit Kat. #idontlikebreaks
52 likes. Sameer is one of them.
I accepted Jai’s friend request and then spent an hour looking through his photo albums. Ananda was indeed a happy little boy and charming too just like his dad.
Bhadra
(August – September)
Bhadra is the fifth month of the Bengali calendar. After Asharh and Shrabon, the two months of heavy monsoon, Bhadra is when the rain slowly recedes giving way to a stuffy, humid month when you pine for the dark clouds to return once again. Radha, Lord Krishna’s consort, was born on the eighth day of this month.
I didn’t know any of this of course. I googled.
It was already the second week of this month and there was no letter yet. Perhaps the old lady realized her mistake. Maybe she is now laughing with her granddaughter over the blunder she had made. I had been hoping that she would at least send a thank-you note for returning the mail but then I was also expecting too much. I was late by four months in returning them, wasn’t I? She could have taken me to court for that, probably?
I missed the blue missive, the rounded Bengali script in navy blue ink. Its absence created a void in my life or maybe there was a void already and this just made it look wider. I had grown so used to those letters. Waiting for the recipes they carried and trying them out had been giving me a new zeal in life.
I had started believing that there was someone across the oceans watching over me, who wanted to share her precious stories with me. The letters had stirred up my ‘hiraeth’ for a home I can no longer return to, and at the same time had also made me brave to face my memories.
And the food! How do I live without those recipes now? They had helped me pick up where I had left off, to bring back the memories I was so scared to dive into. I was slowly morphing from Rachel Ray to my own mother in the kitchen, which would have never been possible without those letters.
I sat at my desk with these thoughts running through my head like slow-moving local trains, savouring the sights and tastes that the last four months of letters had brought. I was in a stupor, daydreaming, when Kajol rushed in, her jhola flying behind her, and dropped a thick brown envelope on my desk.
She panted heavily like an unfit marathon runner as she declared, ‘I am coming from the bank. We have a deficit. I think we have to downsize. Since Claire was the last to join, she will be the first one to go. We cannot pay her salary any more.’
Her words sounded dark and ominous, like someone had dropped a bomb in our small office. Claire was an intern. She was paid minimum wage. What would we save by letting her go? It did not make sense. I found Kajol’s decision erratic, just like she herself was.
‘You cannot just decide like that. I have a 20 per cent say in what this company does and I vote for letting Claire stay,’ I said, emphasizing on the words ‘vote’ and ‘stay’.
Kajol let out a short laugh that sounded more like a whimper than a laugh really, and then said, ‘Vote? Who is asking for a vote? Are you going to vote to raise money to take care of the deficit or is it going to come from your piggy bank?’
I turned red at Kajol’s words and tried to keep my calm. ‘Why can’t we do something else, like increase our earning potential? We can diversify our services. Get more clients?’
‘More clients? From where? No one wants to hire small companies like us any more. They can get the same level of job done way cheaper using an off-the-shelf product. And for more polished and expert services, they would rather spend money and go to the bigger companies who have the glitz and glamour. No author wants us to publish their book. They all want to go to the big names. If only we could get a break with a good novel.’ Kajol sounded exasperated. I was not exactly sure how a good novel would solve our problem at this point, but I couldn’t think of any other solution, so I kept quiet.
She pulled up a chair, put her head down on my desk and said in a resigned voice, ‘I am so tired, Shubha. All I wanted was this business to survive. To prove that we could do it. That independent small businesses run by women can work. That we women are empowered.’
If you ask me, the last part of her rhetoric sounded like something one would say while giving a mayoral speech. But I knew she had legitimate concerns. Kajol then started snoring, her head on my desk, the brown envelope she was carrying still secure under her arms. I guess she had a long night with her nth boyfriend yesterday. Kajol was capricious and I didn’t always agree with her whims, but today I genuinely felt sorry for her. This company is her child and losing it would be terribly hard on her. If only I could do something to help.
Maybe I should go on GoFundMe. But would people be convinced enough to fund us? I wasn’t sure though; saving a failing business doesn’t exactly stir up emotions in people like saving a cute puppy does.
I gently pried the envelope away from Kajol to get a good look at the bank statement; although lifting her toned arms was quite a task. And then I got a jolt. This was the same envelope I had sent back last month with the letters and my note. This was not the bank statement.
‘Address not found’ was stamped across it in purple. Was this a sign? Was God trying to tell me something? I had edited too many church newsletters to believe in signs.
I nervously opened the envelope and along with the four blue letters that I had sent back, out tumbled a fresh, new fifth one. As always, this too was addressed to ‘Shubhalaxmi Sen-Gupta’. A shiver went down my spine and an electric spark of happiness was signalled by billions of neurons in my brain.
Kajol was still sleeping. I tried to shake her arms, but she only moved away and snored louder. I had to take a decision. I knew if I let this moment pass, my resolutions would just skitter away. Kajol’s idea was probably our only chance to save Right-to-Write. And I would have to do it.
‘Kajol, I will write that book for you. I will try my best to do what I can. We have to save Right-to-Write,’ I shouted with my mouth near her ear. Kajol snored more sonorously.
I then googled ‘How to write a book?’
There were 5,380,000,000 results in 1.07 seconds.
6
I am at the PTA meeting today at Riya’s middle school. Well, I was kind of forced to be here. Don’t get me wrong but I am just not one of those dedicated PTA moms. I don’t have that kind of drive in me. My responsibility towards the PTA starts with paying the membership fee at the beginning of each school year and ends with the tray of cookies I send for the teachers’ luncheon.
Years ago, when Piyu was in first grade, or maybe it was second, I had very excitedly signed up to be the PTA class mom. I had no idea what it entailed; all I knew was that it was a mandatory part of being the mother of a school-age child. The first holiday party that I was supposed to organize for the tiny six- and seven-year-olds was a Halloween party. I was over-the-top excited about it, drawing up menus and scouring the Internet for party game ideas. And then it started.
First, I think it was a text from Josh’s mom, or maybe Kevin’s. A little boy with blonde hair and a cherubic smile in Piyu’s homeroom. ‘Josh is allergic to peanuts. Please make sure that the snacks are nut-free.’ Okay, no problem. I scratched off all the almond cookies and peanut butter blondies from the snacks menu.
Next it was an email from Diya’s mom. Diya with the pigtails and glasses, who is now in high school and dresses like a hooker. ‘Diya cannot have anything with eggs in it. In fact she cannot be near anything that has eggs and that includes egg-laying hens!’
I had wondered at the time if any of it was even real? What snacks could I even serve then that kids would love but had no eggs or nuts in it? No cakes or cookies for sure. I had ultimately come down to fruits and chocolates, and maybe chips. That would have to do, I had firmly decided.
‘I think as a class mom you should promote the kids in the class to eat local, vegan and wholesome food. Please don’t give Miles any fruit that has travelled thousands of miles or has been picked by underpaid migrant farm-hands. Thank you.’ That had been a text from a certain Mrs Dextapose.
Seriously? Who were these people? What was I supposed to feed seven-year-olds on Halloween? Pumpkin? I had been so stressed out arranging that single party for eighteen six- and seven-year-olds that for a whole month I had been afraid of my own phone’s message tone. I quit soon after, having decided to never go back again and the very efficient Mrs Dextapose, with her neat shoulder-length hair, had gladly stepped in. I never heard her complain even once.
But middle school is apparently a different game. The PTA moms here don’t have to organize parties or arrange snacks; the kids are self-sufficient and full of angst. So, the PTA decides to have frequent meetings to discuss how to raise more funds and promote STEM. Or is it STEAM? I don’t know any more. Too many new acronyms every year.
They made this meeting mandatory for all PTA members. I am surprised to see the number of mothers present at 9.30 in the morning on a Tuesday. All sleek and shiny moms in skinny jeans and sporting their newest boots with the first sign of fall. It is mostly mothers, a smattering of fathers maybe, sipping coffee or some healthy green juice from glass mason jars and looking very determined about STEAM. There is something about PTA and women, a close bond.
The first thing I notice as I look around is the hair. Smooth, cascading sheets of hair. Well, not always sheets, because a lot of them are wearing it short, but all of them are indeed smooth. Silky too. In different shades of colour. I don’t know why I have never noticed these gorgeous heads before, it is not that they have all magically sprouted just today. Some are pitch black with hints of red, at least that I have seen before. Also the blondes with dark tips, ombre as Piyu says. But there are more. Silver blondes with lavender, red brunettes with gold, ash blondes with pale blue streaks shrieking for attention. It is gorgeous, all this hair; so well cared for.
I imagine all these women having a perfect marriage and posting smiling family photos on Facebook in colour-coordinated clothes that even matched their hair. Maybe they have perfect husbands too; the ones with perfect teeth and six-pack abs, who come back home every day at six to sit with them and watch the same show on TV. Okay, maybe not exactly watch TV; instead they probably have great sex every evening, but still.
Is it their hair doing the trick? Does my hair bother Sameer? I have never heard him say anything about it, but maybe that is what he wants to get away from. Maybe ‘Love, F’ has perfect waterfall brown hair like they show in Pantene commercials. I look sideways and then surreptitiously finger my own crowning glory. Yep, frizzy, dry, no character. All of a sudden I feel very conscious of my hair’s characterless-ness. I need to get that keratin thing Neela had suggested.
While the PTA vice president drones on about how a robotics lab can help the kids, I type K-E-R-A-T-I-N in my phone. By the time the meeting ends, I have complete knowledge about all kinds of hair treatments and colours. I have even booked myself an appointment with Neela’s stylist for a hair makeover today afternoon. It was not an easy feat. I had to slink out of that awful meeting for twenty whole minutes to get that appointment. Hair salons are busier than a doctor’s clinic in flu season. They could only fit me in because there was a last-minute cancellation, as they pointedly let me know.
So, later in the afternoon I slip out of office for my appointment. It is one of those salons which look like a spa. There are terracotta pots in the lobby with water cascading down and potted green palms in odd-shaped brass urns. Only the name of the salon is a bit eerie – ‘Hair today, Gone tomorrow’, it is followed by the caption – ‘That’s why we are here!’ I don’t know if all these puns about ‘hair’ and ‘here’ is a good thing. Will they take my hair seriously?
My heart beats fast and I am second-guessing my decision. I have had frizzy hair all my life. I cannot imagine cascading, smooth hair on my head. What will that feel like? Will it be uncomfortable?
I walk up to the lady at the front desk, a young girl actually, who flashes me the perfect fake smile and asks me to take a seat. ‘Kaila will be with you shortly,’ she says in a sickening sing-song tone. Kaila? What kind of name is that?
Fifteen minutes later, a guy in a canary yellow muscle tee and man bun strolls towards me. His jeans are so freaking tight that it may as well be glued to his thighs. With an Iron Man-like body, he looks more like a gym trainer than an expert hairdresser. I hope he will concentrate on my hair and not notice my lack of a strong core. I try to focus on the positive though. Maybe Kaila will fulfil my dreams!
‘Okay, so what do we have here?’ he asks with a lot of enthusiasm and lifts strands of my hair to examine them closely. There are lots of tsks and hmms as he furrows his brows and examines my hair like it was a strand of rare DNA. I feel apologetic for both my DNA and hair.
He then guides me to the shampoo station with a raucous laugh. ‘Sweetie, I will do my best with what has been given to me.’ I can’t figure if those are words of wisdom or he is joking about my hair, and so I give a meek smile.
Kaila washes my hair with his strong hands. His lithe fingers on my scalp feel very relaxing. Had he not been engaged (I noticed a ring), I would have married him. I don’t go to a salon that often but when I do, I just love to give up myself to the shampoo person. Total submission. That is the best part before a cut. I can fall asleep on the shampoo chair. But I try my best to stay awake and concentrate on the perfume of some unknown tropical flower that engulfs me. I could be in Hawaii for all you know. I am almost on the verge of dozing off in contentment when Kaila asks, ‘So, what conditioner do you use on your hair?’
‘Er … I don’t know. Depends. Whatever is on sale when I am at the store!’
Kaila roars with laughter, spraying water all over my face as the faucet slips from his grip. Once again I can’t tell if this is deliberate and if he is rolling his eyes at my answer. He will probably tell Neela later what a klutz I am.
