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)