Fishy Chronicles 51: A Nasty Encounter

I pressed the button at my elbow and the car window slid down quickly. Ice-cold air hit us and I hurriedly raised the window until a thin slit allowed the air to blow across the tops of our heads and ease the suffocation I felt in the closed space. The Sikh driver’s eyes met mine in his rearview mirror. I looked at Anjali beside me in the car, but she seemed unconcerned. She was probably used to the cold in the hills. I had spent time with her twice, but hadn’t cared for the lack of amenities. Now we were on our way to Amritsar’s international airport at 5am.

“How did you find out I was going to Amritsar?” I asked Anjali.

“Roma.”

“What would you have done if I had cancelled the trip?”

“Gone by myself,” she grinned.

“So easy, is it?”

“Yes. But I wanted to spend time with you, so I’d have told you eventually… that is if Roma and Genie hadn’t been able to convince you to carry on with the trip.”

That seemed how it would have panned out. “Do you want to do anything specific in Mumbai?”

“I’ve got some meetings. But I thought we could go to the beach and do some time pass with Roma, Georgy permitting, of course.”

“You think he’ll permit?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Do you think he’s becoming more possessive of Roma?”

“Not really.”

“He’s more demanding now.”

“Why do you say that, Anjali?”

“When Roma asked if she could join us at Amritsar, he nearly blew a gasket. Then he told his parents, who had a thing or two to say.”

“Shit.”

“Yes. Roma wouldn’t tell me what they said, but she said she didn’t speak to Georgy for two days.”

“Why didn’t she say something to me?” I asked, feeling bad for my cousin.

“You have your own problems,” Anjali said.

“Still... she could always take a break with me. I’m not judgy, especially where her in laws are concerned.”

“True. But I think you were the reason they had a fight.”

“She told you?”

“No. She wouldn’t say and you know Georgy and his parents – they have a thing for you… and ‘your ways’.”

I couldn’t disagree because it was true. As far as my cousin’s in laws, the Kurians, were concerned, and even though I was younger and Roma was too difficult to sway, I was a bad influence in every sense – divorced, their grandchildren adored me and I was painting the town red just by being single. And, now, I was apparently being waited on hand and foot by my parents' handsome former man Friday, Genie, and, in all probability, was indulging in immoral activities. Clandestinely. I was debauched and pulling the wool over the eyes of every God-fearing Christiani relative I had.

I felt a sharp poke in my side. “I do not know how Roma married Georgy… but if she had taken a good look at her in laws I’m sure she’d have run. Fast,” Anjali said, forgetting that she had told me this several hundred times.

I couldn’t understand what Roma saw in Georgy either. Or his family. But now it was too late. And unlike me, she was not a quitter. And unlike me, her in laws were scared of her, which was worth chicken shit.

“Like they say, get your head out of the gutter and live your life,” Anjali mumbled absently.

I felt riled. “Who are they?”

“The universe. My guru.”

“You don’t have a guru.”

“Right. But we give too much importance to society and the people around us.”

“You have to if you want to live among them. There’s a hierarchy and codes and rules.”

Anjali still looked out of her side of the window, but she took a deep breath and her mouth tightened. She turned her head sharply, “Do you want to marry again?”

Yes! No. She glared at me – angry at my indecision – her eyes narrowed and her nostrils flaring. She was angry with me, because of me, for me. Many years ago I had sought her out in Almora, in Uttarakhand, spending two weeks hiding from people, hoping and praying that I would disappear off the face of the earth... unable to deal with the mess my life had become. She had spoken to me, put her work on hold, walked about with me endlessly, understanding of my nervous, tortured energy, and then sat in the train with me on my journey home. And all through she had told me to “leave him". 

I hadn’t.  

And I had paid for it dearly.

                                                          ******

This a fictional series about the 30-something narrator. She is making her way back to Mumbai with her best friend Anjali when a person from her past reappears. She seems predestined to cross swords with him again. 

                                                          ****** 

“Can you believe it. The connecting flight’s been delayed again!” Anjali stomped off to speak to an airport official. She looked at peace when she returned. “The guy at the counter said we’d have to wait two hours. He wouldn’t say why. But I’m guessing it’s that,” she said tilting her head at the tall windows. Outside, the tarmac was barely visible under a thick haze. Probably smog. I was glad we were in the airport and not venturing out because the air was very bad. 

We walked about Indira Gandhi International Airport and had a leisurely meal at one of the restaurants and then settled into a couple of seats near our boarding gate. My attention drifted to a small boy who was spread-eagled on the floor. He was screaming and refusing to be picked up by the elderly woman, dressed in a sari and bulky sweater, accompanying him. Something about the woman seemed familiar, the fat bun, the gait, the perfect teeth bared in a snarl. And it struck me just as Anjali sat up straight and grabbed my arm. A tall, well-built man immediately went up to the child, yanked him off the ground by one arm and shook him angrily. Anjali’s grip tightened. I felt sick, and sorry for the child. 

A young woman, holding a baby, stood up and tried to pull the child away from her husband. People watched silently as the man bent and spoke menacingly into the child’s face all the while shaking him. I squirmed uncomfortably in my seat, reluctant to get up and do something. The elderly woman looked around casually and exclaimed, pointing in our direction. Her husband stood to have a better look at us. The young lady holding the child looked distressed and I felt intense pity for her.

Anjali and I stared back at them. We sat still. I felt numb and then anger slowly invaded my being. Relieved too that he wasn’t my husband any more. He stared at me, giving me a dirty look and then I heard and saw the people near us titter and smile. 

I couldn’t believe what Anjali had just done. She had formed her mouth slowly into an exaggerated pout and a loud kissy sound emerged. She grinned mischievously at my former family some way off. Disbelief spread over my ex's face and those of his parents. I couldn’t help it, I grinned too. 

The next thing I knew Anjali had balled her right hand into a fist, raised it up and with her other arm supporting it, jerked her fist upwards twice. I grabbed her arm and pulled it down before she could repeat the rude gesture a third time. But it was too late, the ex was in a rage and charging towards us. People turned around to watch, wondering what was going on.

I stood up in fright, but Anjali stayed seated, one leg over the other, staring calmly at the bull-headed pig. “Come on, Anjali, get up. UP! GET UP!” I screamed in fright, memories of this man’s evil temper rushing back. I tried to pull her out of her seat, but she was unmoved and pushed my hand away.

I stood still. I could not run away from my friend. My ex was by our side now, but Anjali’s calmness had thrown him and though he was livid he stood a respectful distance away.

“You bit… you! How dare you!” And he tore his gaze away from Anjali and glared at me furiously.

“You-you married again?” I stuttered, trying to deflect his attention from Anjali.

“What does it look like, you moron!” he snarled, spittle trying to escape his mouth.

“Just thought it’d have been a good idea if you’d got a vasectomy first.”

There was a stunned silence, and then someone laughed and he roared abuse and lunged at me. I screamed and jumped out of the way and in a couple of seconds he had tripped and fallen hard on his face. I realised soon that it was Anjali’s foot that had tripped him. He flailed in the small space between the chairs, trying to disentangle himself from the straps of various bags. Anjali threw my knapsack at me, grabbed her bag, stepped on his back and we ran as fast as we could. 

But we needn’t have worried.

Some men had now surrounded him and I could hear raised voices and someone shouting for security. We stood and watched from a distance. When a policeman started walking towards the crowd, Anjali pulled me away and we moved into a toilet and stayed hidden. About 15 minutes later, I held out my compact to see what was happening. There was still a group standing, though things had quietened considerably. I could see an airport security official giving my ex and his family a stern lecture and some male passengers standing close by and listening. 

When the ground staff called out our flight number, we watched people walk into the gate in single file. I could see the ex looking around him, trying to catch sight of us. His mother pushed her daughter in law and grandchildren ahead of her, her husband followed and then, reluctantly, her son. But the crowd around my ex husband looked at him coldly, and I could see the wariness in his body. A rare emotion.

A hand slapped my bottom and Anjali grabbed my arm and pulled me along with her. We smiled and nodded at the lady scanning the holograms on our tickets. 

I felt tense. “We’re on the same flight.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not scared, Anjali?”

“No. Why should I be?”

I stopped and glared at her. Anjali threw her head back and laughed. “What’s he going to do to us? Hit us? Shout at us? Scream? He’ll get arrested. How will he show his face to his neighbours and in church if he does, huh?”

Brilliant girl! “But what if he does come to our seats and…” Anjali’s index finger pressed my lips shut and she was smiling.

“Try to stop thinking, darling. If he wants to let off steam, he can. It would be fun to hear him. Do I think he’d do it in a crowded plane and court chances of an arrest. Absolutely not. So, if he comes around give him a spiel on a double vasectomy – as softly as you can, with a smile on your face. If you can. Okay?”

I nodded. That I could do. I had a repertoire I had perfected over years, always hoping I’d meet him one day and share it with him. Today seemed to be the day.

                                                        ****** 

Fishy Chronicles 50: The Surprise

Dear Diary,

We’ve packed and Anjali is under the covers and wrestling someone in her sleep. I’m not sure I should be waking her up, though I have had Fish tell me to wake up people in the throes of a nightmare. I beg to differ. This, however, seems to be a so-so nightmare. So, I will stay put, writing, and keep my ears alert for juicy mumblings in someone’s deep sleep.

My bag is packed and I feel embarrassed. I have all manner of sweets and eats and Anjali has a backpack with almost nothing in it. I am embarrassed by my deep-seated materialism. But I am also worried Anjali will not fit into a normal world. She bought a silver kada for Genie from a shop near the Golden Temple. I got him sweets and a kurta. I found eats and a book on the Jallianwala Bagh massacre for Fish. Genie was silent when I told him about it. I plan to borrow the book from Fish after they are done reading it.

The Partition Museum was heartbreaking. We found the experience incredibly distressing but lingered to hear all the stories of the victims of the Partition. We watched the videos at the museum and cried. We bought books on Partition stories, I want to understand it better, even though I’ve read many of Manto’s short stories set during the period. 

                                                               ******

This is a fictional series about a 30-something Mumbai woman. She is wrapping up a trip to Amritsar with her best friend Anjali. Anjali shares some news with her that makes her ecstatic.

                                                               ******

Our days in Amritsar were relaxed. We walked a lot – in the markets and around the main square. We met the lovers again (refer to FC 49) and this time we were on our best behaviour. We saw them in a restaurant and waved to them while leaving. Anjali spoke to the manager, slipped him money and shook hands with him.

“What did you do?” I asked.

“Tried to set something right.”

“How is bribing the manager going to help?”

“I was paying for Dharam and Simran’s meal, nutcase!”

“Oh!”

“Yes, oh! Come on. Let’s run back before they figure out what we’ve done.”

“Wouldn’t it have been better if you made a show of it?”

“No.”

“What if the manager pockets the money…”

“We’ll know when we meet the two in the morning.”

“We’re leaving at 5am.”

“Yes.”

“Breakfast starts at 7 – too early to grab a cup of tea with them.”

“That’s the idea.”

“But…” I lapsed into silence. I had been stringing Anjali along. Now I may have gone too far, because she marched ahead. After 10 minutes, she stopped by a road side seller. I caught up and ran my eyes over his tall stool, which held a tiny stove and some vessels and his offerings – black chana and some sort of bhajias, maybe moong, with chopped onions, tomatoes and chillies. She thrust a small plate into my hand and we ate the mix. It was definitely not moong bhajias and I wish I hadn’t put it in my mouth.

“It’s crap,” Anjali said with feeling, putting my thoughts into words, when we had walked away.

“Yes. Poor man. Trying to sell that in this chill weather.” We turned to look at the wiry, elderly man, who was now being buttonholed by two policemen. “Do you think we should help him?” I said before I saw him give the policemen some cash.

“You intend to give those two a karate chop? Look at the muscles on those arms and their height. They look like they drink lassis by the bucket.”

“Yes…” And they looked scary. We hurried away and eventually returned to the hotel. 

Just before Anjali went to bed, she told me in an offhand manner that she was coming back with me to Mumbai. She couldn’t hide the smirk when I jumped and screamed and whooped. When I had settled down, she had another bit of information for me that had me ricocheting off the walls. As I write, I still feel feverish with excitement. My diary, my feelings. I can write anything I want… including stuff that would make me cringe saying it aloud. Anjali said Genie had big plans for us. He’d got us tickets for the U2 show. WOOHOO!!!!!!

“There’s only one problem,” Anjali said.

“What?”

“He’s got only four tickets.”

We laughed. Tickets for Roma, Anjali, I and Genie, probably in that order. For sure there would be fireworks. My cousin Roma’s husband Georgy would not want her to go with us. He wouldn’t have wanted Roma to enjoy herself in any way, but the prospect of Genie being at the concert with us, or her, would most likely push Georgy into an advanced state of hysterics. He would likely sputter and be unable to form coherent words. He would, as Anjali once suggested, assume a malicious conspiracy was in place. All hell would probably break loose – jungle ishtyle.

“Don’t you think Genie went too far?” I said, despite thinking otherwise and enjoying Georgy’s yet-to-come numerous moments of extreme discomfort. Georgy wasn’t one of my favourite cousins in law, whom I could count on one hand. An unfair comparison.

“Yes, but we are a group. And if Genie’s buying the tickets, which I gather are not cheap, he should be able to tag along.”

“Yes, of course. But he could have asked Georgy if he wanted to come.”

“That’s like a Stranger in a Strange Land.”

I giggled. “Indeed. But things could Boomerang!” Hell, we would all want to be flies on Roma’s wall. Fish included.

“Could be worse,” Anjali said.

“How?”

“She could remain “a mystery” to him.”

“His Sixty Seconds in Kingdom Come. I’ll have to go to YouTube and check out those songs again.”

“You have one week to bring yourself up to date.”

“I always imagined Genie to be a ghazal music kind of guy.”

“To tell you the truth, I never imagined him listening to music. There’s so much we don’t know about him.”

“Yes.”

“We’ll have a good chance watching him at the concert.”

“I don’t know.”

“Why not?”

“I’d rather keep both eyes trained on Bono and company.”

Anjali took a deep noisy breath, smiled, changed into her night dress and climbed into bed. Soon she was breathing evenly – Sleep Like A Baby Tonight. It had to be the fresh cold air of the mountains and all the milk and fresh cream she was imbibing. And no TV, she once told me.

Anyway, we had a date. I hummed a tune… where Georgy’s streets have no name…

                                                               ******

Partition Museum, previously the Town Hall of Amritsar.
(Photo: A. Peter)

Fishy Chronicles 49: Lovers, Beware

“Is something bothering Anjali?” our newfound friend Simran said. I could detect tension in the words. She was being polite. Only I imagined it was a matter of time before the hot-blooded Punjabi lass walking beside me would race upto Anjali and gave her a whack to remember.

We had hooked up with Simran and her boyfriend Dharamveer in the evening. He had promised to take me to some interesting shops he’d found in Katra Jaimal Singh Market. We were going to look at spices, vessels, masalas, clothes, shoes and jewellery. Mostly I just thought he’d show me a little of Punjab that I thought I wouldn’t know to look for.

But I couldn’t understand Anjali’s behaviour. She had clung to the man since we left the hotel, jumped into the rickshaw with him – forcing Simran to ride with me in another rickshaw. Even though it bothered Dharamveer, the rickshaw had already moved and he turned and frantically gestured at Simran to follow in a rickshaw. 

Not that I thought for a moment Anjali was making a move on Dharamveer – even though we looked at him every now and then, surreptitiously. He was good looking and, even better, nice. By the looks of the two walking ahead of us in the narrow lanes of the market, I could understand Simran’s distress.  

“Don’t worry, she’s not making a move on him,” I said before I realised what I was saying. Simran looked at me, shocked. “Oh, that came out badly. I meant she’s not flirting with him.”

“Then what is going on there!” Simran waved a hand in their direction, red spots of colour coming to life in her cheeks.

“I don’t know. Let’s catch up with him… er… them. By the way, what does your boyfriend do?” 

Simran looked at me suspiciously. “Why?”

Yes, why? We were not going to see them again after today. And it was unlikely that we would keep in touch. Shit! What was Anjali doing! She was exchanging numbers with Dharamveer. And Simran almost ran towards them.

“What’s going on?” Simran said stiffly.

Her boyfriend gave her a nervous look and opened his mouth, but Anjali cut him off. “Ah, I’m sorry I hogged Dharamveer. I may need legal services and was asking for references. I’ve taken his number, I hope that is okay with you, Simran?” Anjali smiled.

“Er, yes, of course. What sort of legal advice were you hoping for?”

“There’s this guy who is basically stalking me. Though he says that I’ve based one of my characters on him.”

“Characters?”

“Yes. A character in one of my books. I’ve been trying to fob this man off, but he’s found out where I live and is threatening legal action. My publisher says the man doesn’t have a leg to stand on. No pun intended.”

“You’re a writer? What are the names of your books?”

Oops. Simran was swimming in rough waters. Anjali watched her for a while and then moved her mouth to form a makeshift smile. “Peepal Junction,” she murmured.

There were blank looks on Simran’s and Dharamveer’s faces. This was one of Anjali’s serious books – far removed from the sex-filled ones she was famed for. Peepal Junction was released two years ago and had fared poorly. But luckily the insipid reviews had not fazed Anjali and she kept writing both kinds of books. It was not likely that these two would ever get to know who they were dealing with. Her series surrounding a lothario mercenary were bestsellers several times over, which Anjali wrote under a pseudonym. She lived in a ratty little house in the Himalayas, barely ate and lived mostly for her craft. The only sign she was making money was her frequent travel, which only her closest friends knew.

“Interesting,” said Dharamveer into the silence. He scratched his head absently and then put his arm around Simran’s shoulders and pulled her forward with him.

“That was close! I thought Simran was going to hurt you,” I hissed at Anjali when we were at a safe distance.

“Why?”

“From behind it looked like you were coochie cooing. Of course, I didn’t think so,” I said when Anjali looked annoyed. “But, really, what were you talking about?”

“I want legal advice. When Dharamveer mentioned he was a lawyer I wanted to know where I stood.”

“Really? That bad?”

“I mean, no. At least, not yet. But it feels like I have to weigh my options soon.”

“What does your publisher say?”

“Says my disclaimers should take care of everything.”

“But?”

“It’s time to weigh my options.”

I nodded. I couldn’t say much. I had no clue who was following Anjali or why. But I imagine I would know when she was ready to tell me. “Where’s my copy of the latest book?”

“Ah, that. Publisher said to hold off on it until I weighed my options.”

“What? That sounds serious! What is this shit you’ve walked into?”

Dharamveer and Simran stopped and waited for us to catch up. We walked too slowly for Simran because she waved at us impatiently. Anjali and I looked at each other. We hated jealous women. We hated aggressive women even more. I do not know how we are best friends with my cousin Roma.

“Put on your sweetest smile, darling,” Anjali muttered under her breath.

We smiled sweetly and pushed our way between them – to their shock.

                                            ******
This is a fictional series about the narrator, her pet fish and former manservant. She is on holiday in Amritsar, Punjab, with her best friend Anjali. A day in the wholesale market with newfound friends does not end well.

                                             ******

The market proved a half-hearted effort for Dharamveer. He was overwhelmed by the drama unfolding in front of him – Anjali openly flirting with him, Simran’s jealous looks and increasing coldness and me a silent, enthralled spectator.

After a few shops and an argument between the lovers, Dharamveer suggested we go our separate ways. I poked Anjali in the ribs when I realised she was keen to prolong the lovers’ misery. She nodded reluctantly and we shook hands with the two.

“Not too soon,” Anjali smiled, watching them hurry into a wholesale shop.

“Why did you do that? You should have let them be… especially if you're hoping to get free legal advice from him. You may have scared him off for good!”

“He’s suggested someone I can approach. Even if Dharam doesn’t respond, I can get that information from the net or another Delhi lawyer. Besides, moody, broody, insecure Simran was asking for it.”

Indeed, Simran was. But having had my heart broken a few times, I felt sorry for her. Anjali must have read my thoughts, “Don’t go feeling sorry for that wretch.”

“Why not? We had no business wedging ourselves between them. It was unnecessary, especially as we got off to a good start!”

Anjali pulled me along and we entered a clothes shop, made the owner and his assistant pull out everything, showed no interest in anything and left. I wasn’t sure if the shopkeeper let out a swear word under his breath – so far all the tradespeople had been very courteous. It was doubtful we were going to buy anything – Anjali looked too preoccupied. In any case, we’d already bought shoes and spices with the lovers’ help. It was night now, though there was adequate light in the narrow lanes filled with people, carts, rickshaws, cycle rickshaws, cows, dogs and cow dung.

I looked for a kulfa shop and found one eventually near the city's centre. “What a fake dish this is! It’s a solid version of a kulfi-falooda, served on a plate. And it is bad!” Anjali said annoyed, trying to swallow the tasteless kulfa. I had to agree. So far, our adventures with food in Amritsar were disappointing. We compared incessantly the local dishes with the ‘Punjabi’ dishes we got in Mumbai – the former were bland and mild. I couldn’t help but wonder if this was a UK tandoori chicken situation. I once watched a chef in the UK make it. He threw in tomato purée, fried some evil red masalas in lots of butter, poured in water and, after a while, threw in the pieces of chicken, then lowered the heat for the excuse of a dish to simmer and garnished it with several spoons full of butter, cream and coriander leaves. I remember my parents and I watching the TV programme in disbelief. Millions of Brits were clearly being taken for a ride. The Indian version of the tandoori chicken was a vastly different affair and edible and tasty.

But there was hope yet. The sarson ka saag, that we had had bitter experiences with, literally, was excellent and swimming in butter. Plus, we got gyaan on its antecedents from a pair of older women seated near us, one of whom was a food blogger. Ms C said, “Sarson is bitter and usually mixed with palak (spinach) to tone down its bitterness.” We nodded and chatted about strange things. For instance, Ms C’s friend told us about how she hated the pakoras – apparently they were better in Mumbai – to the consternation of the food blogger who had loved them. We mentally crossed pakoras off our list.

In fact, the blogger had found the food a disappointment while the friend hadn’t. “That’s friendship, you know,” Anjali mumbled when the blogger and her friend left and our bill landed at our table.

“How?”

“They can beg to differ… on food.”

“Kuch bhi. Chalo, let’s go. We’ve got to pack. And go back to the Golden Temple one last time.”

“Why?”

“I hear it’s an awesome sight at night. We just have to go back and roam around there. Besides, we’re a pair of free birds on the loose at night in Punjabistan.”

“Do you realise we’ve barely ogled anyone since we’ve been here?”

“Maybe it’s because of all the turbans. Do you think we’re racists?”

“No. We’re just stuck in our ideas about male beauty and, sadly, facial hair and long hair don’t figure. Though, we have to make an exception for Genie. Truth be told, if we fell in love we’d surprise ourselves at how we hankered for one thing and something else overcame our reservations slyly and without our knowledge.”

“You seem to have put a lot of thought into it.”

“Just popped into my head. I’m going to use it in my book.” Anjali grinned and put her arm in mine. We walked out swinging our interlinked arms, much to the amusement of tourists and locals.

                                           ****** 

Cereals, lentils, dried fruits and soap displayed outside a shop in Katra Jaimal Singh market, Amritsar.
(Photo: A. Peter)

Golden Temple, Amritsar, at night. (Photo: A. Peter)

Golden Temple, Amritsar, Punjab. (Photo: A. Peter)