Fishy Chronicles 42: Blink, Blink. It’s Gone

I tasted the liver dish, but it wasn’t the culinary masterpiece that was Aunty Leila’s. I still didn't know what Aunty's dish was really called.

“Are you sure it's not a Parsi dish that you're mistaking for something Iranian?” Genie needled. I took a deep breath. 

I clicked my tongue once. The children playing downstairs used the tongue click to indicate nonchalant disagreement. Though it was a vulgar, impatient sound, it was a no-nonsense negative.

                                       ******

This is a fictional series about a 30-something Mumbai-based narrator whose former pet fish and former manservant have returned to stay awhile. Personal equations are different now.  

In this episode, the narrator cancels a lunch with family but is unwilling to say why.

                                       ******
I could see Genie shift uncertainly. After being the butt of his jokes all evening, I had started reacting to his comments – when pushed to respond – with tongue clicks and snorts. 

“What makes you think it's not a Parsi dish?” Genie said. This time he poked me hard between my shoulder blades with his elbow. 

“It's not.”

“How can you be sure?”

“It's called Lah Dee Dah Leila Liver."

“So?”

“So, even if Uncle was making a joke of it, he was serious about respecting copyright. So, he's bunged in Aunty's name to show she's the recipe's original creator.”

“We followed the recipe and it didn't turn out the same.” I turned around and glared at Genie. He moved back a pace, held up his hands and grinned. “Can't you just call her and ask?”

“No!”

“Why not?”

“She doesn't like me.”

“How do you know that?”

“She never shared recipes with me. But I’d see her reciting them to Uncle and correcting his version.”
Genie tsked tsked behind me. Aunty Leila closed up whenever I turned up and hated my ex even more. She usually left soon after. Which was a pity, because she was a beautiful, magnificent woman and clearly lived life well. To me she was a star, a personality – someone I wanted to spy on even more than Roma's crush, the actor Arushmaan Verma (https://viewfromthetopofthetank.blogspot.com/2019/05/fishy-chronicles-21-love-thy-neighbour.html).

Genie tsked tsked again, this time in my ear. The only times Aunty Leila had called me was to ask about Uncle Nigel’s passing and his memorial service. His relatives had refused to entertain her calls and she called me and wailed in sorrow. She was in the US with her son then. The keening sound and the depths of her distress were awful. It left me in tears, feeling worn out and hollow. 

Uncle's relatives had been suspicious of all his friends, especially those who visited often. He had been a bachelor with a very wide social circle and there was not a thing his family could do to contain his extraordinary joie de vivre.

I looked at Uncle's recipe. Genie had decoded it, but I wondered if some ingredients were missing. When he had too much to drink, Uncle would toss in powders that I hadn't seen before. Until then I assumed they were new ingredients. 

“Do you know what I think?” Genie pushed my head into the recipe book and held me pinned down. I struggled and screamed in frustration, trying to free myself. Would Genie have dared make so much body contact if my parents had been alive!

“What?!” I finally screamed, thanking my stars that I was pressed into the pungent spice-smelling recipe book and not into the wet kitchen platform.

“I think Uncle's recipe is a Parsi one.”

“And Aunty Leila’s name in the title?” I said, trying to look at Genie. For a long time I thought it was the Parsi dish Alleti Palleti – I'd checked with a friend and YouTube too. But what was the Leila angle?

“All flights of fancy,” Genie said from above me. “No connection with the dish unless there's someone immediately around. Uncle thought Leila was larger than life – literally an exotic Iranian dish. Hence, the fancy title.”

“Huh!”

“How else do you explain Dikra Bomanooooo, Aloo Picky Tikki... or Govinda Jinga (prawn).”

“Right.” I didn’t know a Govinda. Maybe the actor? I was certain Uncle and Govinda hadn't rolled in the same circles.

“Now that we have that business cleared, you can tell me why you cancelled lunch with the Lonavala group,” Genie breathed into my face, his eyes boring mine. I felt panic. My head was still pinned under Genie's arm and there was no wiggle room between the platform and his body. 

The Lonavala group were the folks from my holiday a couple of weeks ago – my cousin Roma and assorted family. I could feel Genie's breath fan my face every time he exhaled. I kept my eyes trained on the water bottles in front of me. Their outsides needed washing. There was a cobweb forming in the corner – between the empty bottles of ketchup and wine that I wanted to recycle and hadn't got around too. Suddenly the dishcloth landed on my face, my whole world going dark. “Hey!” I started to struggle and kick backwards. 

“Hey, you yourself. I want to know what is going on! You dashing out early in the morning and returning a mess late in the evening. You’re losing weight. Not eating... not cooking! I was surprised you actually wanted to cook this dish. And Roma has been calling me everyday to find out what's going on with you and why you aren't taking her calls!”

I stopped struggling. Roma knew why. Talking and giving her explanations were more than I could handle. Her father, my father’s older brother, had also called. I could anticipate his derision and, hence, had not picked up the phone. Here I was... no job, no money. I was a damned mess.

My ears flattened painfully against my head with the pressure of Genie leaning over me to look into my face. “Roma didn't tell you?” I said.

“She threatened to turn up if you didn't call her back.”

“Not now. I can't bear to listen to an I-told-you-so lecture.”

“Maybe you’re judging her harshly.”

I tried to wriggle around to glare at him, feeling intense rage, but I couldn't move. Two could duel – so I clamped my mouth shut and stayed still. I heard my phone ring. It rang for an eternity, and several times. It could only be Roma. She had been calling me for days. I was surprised she hadn't come home and thrashed me.

Genie leaned closer, “Have you never thought that she might be the only one who cares for you?”

I felt rage peak, but I soon started feeling like a shit. Roma was the only one who cared. The only one who called regularly. Who dragged me to family dos when the rest of my family had forgotten me.

The phone stopped ringing. After five minutes, Genie's phone – in his pocket – started to ring. I groaned. He pulled it out, “Yes, Roma. Just a moment.”

He placed the phone on my ear and I listened to Roma ordering me to come home, telling me that they were worried about me and that all would be okay and that it was only money that I had lost. 

“Did you hear what I said?!” Roma panicked. For once my cousin didn't sound impatient with me. She seemed genuinely upset. 

Genie spoke into the phone, his voice deeper than usual. “Yes, Roma. She heard.” He cleared his throat. “We'll call you back in some time.” He switched off the phone, righted me and wiped my tears with the dishcloth from which I got the faint odour of rancid oil.

He pulled me into the sitting room, made me sit on the sofa and pushed tissues into my hands. After several days of tension and fear, I finally had a good cry. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Genie asked.

I shook my head, looking down at the white tissues in my hands. 

“Okay. I'll make tea. We can talk about it later,” he said.

“You know what it is?” I asked, blowing my nose. 

He hesitated. “Yes.”

“How?”

“I used to drive Papa to the bank.” He took my hands and held them tight.

“I've lost my savings of the past eight years,” I told him, unable to look him in the eyes. The bank I was banking with had folded suddenly.

“Not all of it, surely.”

“Most of it. The bank had offered two percent more of interest than the others. It made sense to move my money there since I had quit work and I'd been hoping to live on the interest. Now it seems I'll have to go back to work and cut expenses in every way I know how.”

We sat and listened to the children playing outside. I felt bleak. I hadn't been able to summon up any interest in cooking lunch for the Lonavala group. Worse, I wasn't sure I'd be able to hide my worries or appear happy.

I’d been looking forward to my sabbatical ever since I divorced and both my parents passed away. I had kept my resignation secret from my closest family and friends, all the while hoping I'd propel my vague plan in motion – I was going to travel around India and come back in several months. It was the most adventurous I'd ever been.

And now, it seemed, it wasn't going to be. 

From where I stood, I was going to stay poor, I had no support and I only seemed to be making more stupid decisions every day. And now, the whole world knew.