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)

Fishy Chronicles 48: Rocky Start In Amritsar

From top left, clockwise: a view from a hotel room with a window; a street near the temple; the Golden Temple complex; the dome of the Akal Takht.
(Photos: A. Peter)

“What the eff!”

I turned to look at Anjali. She was looking around our hotel room in Amritsar in disbelief and... disgust.

“What?”

“There are no windows in this room! Did you know?”

“Er... er... no.” I felt claustrophobia clutch my throat. I looked around and there were indeed no windows. I hadn't had a good feeling when I entered the hotel. A couple of brawny men had lounged on a sofa near the lobby and leered at us.

The guys at reception had made us wait unreasonably and looked at us and cracked jokes. In one corner I could hear a man berating his wife for some nameless sin. Chill, dude. Everyone's on holiday here. I had glared at the back of his oily head until he turned around and glared at us and the world in general.

My glance returned to Anjali. She was in a rage. She ran out of the room. “Anjali, wait! Where are you going!”

“To give those idiots a piece of my mind.”

“Wait!” But Anjali had run out. I grabbed my purse, and pulled out the card key from its socket and chased her down the stairs. The lift was still meandering downwards, too slow for my firebrand friend.

“There are no windows in our room. Yet it's called an executive suite.”

“You booked it, madam. You should have checked,” the man in the suit, behind the tall counter, said coolly. 

“It wasn't in the details,” I stammered, wondering whether it was something one had to keep a track of while booking hotel rooms. What else had I missed?

“It's the first time I've been in a hotel with no windows,” Anjali continued. 

“None of our other customers have complained.”

“Give us another room – with a window!” Anjali said, annoyed.

The man didn't budge, nor did his expression change. “There are none available right now. The hotel is fully booked.”

“How come?” 

The front desk manager took a second look at Anjali. “Er, Guru Nanak's birthday celebrations. And this is a tourist city. We are full year round.”

“Ok, look into your computer and change our room.”

“No room vacant, madam. All booked.”

“You didn't check.”

“I don't need to. We don’t have empty rooms.”

“How many rooms in this hotel don't have windows?” Anjali asked.

“Eh?”

“How many rooms don't have windows?”

“All the rooms in that wing... er, upto the third floor.”

“How come?”

“That was the way the building was built...”

“Was this building meant to be a hotel when it was first constructed?”

“Sir!” the man backed away and bumped into his superior. They spoke in hushed tones and the superior came to the desk and reiterated, “We don't have rooms with windows available at this time.”

“Is that why you had a massive discount on the room? And then you charged us a full rate because I tagged along, even though we're sharing a double bed and nothing technically has changed in the room? In fact, I paid extra money for the room assuming there was a window.”

“That's the deal, madam. Take it or leave it!” 

Anjali turned to me, “Show me the original booking.”

I hunted for the email on my phone and showed her the booking details. We then went online to the site and located the room. Nothing. There was no way to push our case. 

“Have you paid the full amount for both days?” Anjali asked me.

“Yes.”

“I think we should write this up on TripAdvisor. Wouldn't want anyone else to get conned. Come on!” Anjali grabbed my arm and marched me towards the lift. “Don't look back, keep your back stiff and hold your head high,” Anjali hissed. 

We relaxed in the lift. “What now, Anjali?”

“Nothing. We grab dinner and roam about the whole place the next two days and remember to try and not look into the street – through the wall. Just rely on our imagination – from an aerial perspective,” Anjali grinned.

We freshened up and made our way downstairs again, our moods considerably improved by the peg of rum each we had consumed and our phone calls to Fish, Genie and Roma.

                                                    ****** 

This is a fictional series about the narrator, her former pet fish and man servant. She's broke (see past episodes) and unemployed now but has decided to travel to Amritsar, Punjab, to visit the holiest shrine of the Sikhs. She's joined by her best friend Anjali.

                                                    ****** 

Though we were slightly nervous, the doorman organised an autorickshaw for us. We agreed on a price and set off.

“Hold on to your purses tightly, madams. And put it between you, not on the outside,” the driver said. 

“Purse snatching, you think?” Anjali murmured into my ear. We tucked our purses between our hips, shivering despite our sweaters. 

“Probably. But the driver doesn't seem keen to explain.”

“Hmm. Did you notice his eyes?”

“Yes.” The driver looked careworn, but cut an elegant picture with his lean physique swathed in a thick black shawl, red pagadi (turban) and drool-worthy grey eyes. I looked at Anjali and grinned. He did not fit our idea of a smoking hot Punjabi man, but we dutifully stared our fill. We nodded and smiled when he started pointing out the local sights until he let us go, reluctantly, in front of the restaurant Bharawan Da Dhaba. He was smiling now – the effect of us asking him questions non-stop. Roma's dad would have told us we were flirting with him.

“Why is there only vegetarian food on the menu?” Anjali's mouth curled downward. 

“Ah. I forgot to tell you. No meat is served near the Golden Temple.” Anjali's head whipped up in disbelief. 

Poor Anjali. She'd come to Amritsar hoping she'd bite into a large tangdi (tandoori chicken leg). When she wrote, she rarely cared to eat and was usually skinny. She had been a non-vegetarian in a strictly vegetarian household and I was partly to blame for her gastronomic deviation. I shared my tiffin with her all through school and when her parents found out it had been too late – she had even eaten beef and loved it.

“Seriously... I was hoping for some mutton. Kebabs. Legs. Anything that's not a leaf or a legume.”

I fished out my phone. “There are places we can try tomorrow.” I looked at the dark outside, the poorly lighted street looked empty even though the restaurant was packed. I looked back at Anjali and she smiled. We moved closer to the wall to let a family share our table. We finally settled on a special Amritsari kulcha and rajma chana and paratha and paneer. Absolutely divine, though bland unlike the spicy, masala-filled dishes that were passed off as Punjabi in Mumbai.

                                                     ******

Even though it was past 11pm, we got off our rickshaw a way off and walked back slowly chatting and laughing. It felt creepy in our lonely lane and finally we felt relief when we saw our shady hotel.

I say shady because now there were some goon-like entities in the lobby and a couple of gaudily made up women tightly squeezed into the sofas with the men. 

I didn't want to look at Anjali. Roma would have given me a stiff lecture there and then about my extraordinary lack of good sense clinging to my extraordinary thrift. “No wonder you got a 75% discount, sweetie,” Anjali said, “I'm just surprised the hotelwallas claim they have a full house.” A swear word escaped her. “Which hotel do you know has ever been full. Bloody liars!”

“Madam, madam, wait!” a man called out to us. We stopped near the group lounging on the sofas. Anjali looked at them carefully and then looked away. The receptionist smiled at us apologetically. “Madam, we have a room vacant. Perhaps you'd like to move there.”

“Yes,” I said. I felt Anjali pull me back. 

“You said there was no place. Does the room have a window?” she said.

“Er, yes, madam. Window in the room. It will cost you Rs1,000 more. I'll send up staff now to move your luggage.”

“You made me pay extra for joining this madam in her room. As far as I can see, there are no facilities. Even the towels are threadbare and look brown. And a window is just that. It is supposed to come free with a room and one isn't expected to ask for it.”

The receptionist and I stared at Anjali. She was in a killer mood. Ordinarily I would have supported her but it was nearly 11pm, we were in an unfamiliar city and the guys on the sofa were now looking at us with great interest.  

“Er, the manager...” the receptionist pointed behind him at the smarmy supervisor.

“Take it or leave it?” Anjali said.

“Er...”

The lift doors opened and Anjali grabbed my arm and pulled me into the lift.

We eyed the receptionist coolly while the door closed. “Why couldn't we have just taken the room?” I was curious.

“Just felt like being contrarian. But I got the feeling they were having fun with us. Are you bothered by our room? Except for the lack of a window, which we wouldn't have been able to open, and old-looking towels, I think the room is decent.”

I nodded. In any case, we didn't notice. We spoke all night, ate snacks we'd brought with us and in the morning made it downstairs to breakfast just in time. We shared a table, in the crowded dining room, with one of the ‘goons' and his girlfriend of the previous night and were pleasantly surprised to find they were easy to talk to. He was long haired and had a long beard, with streaks of grey in both, was well built and wore a tight grey t-shirt and tight jeans. I saw his leather jacket of the night before hanging on the back of his chair. His girlfriend looked demure, dressed in a light pink kurta churidhar and fluffy cotton dupatta. He told us he had brought her to Amritsar to take her to the Golden Temple and they spent the mornings praying there and the evenings roaming about the markets. 

They gave us tips on things to buy and how to bargain. And, strangely, suggested we buy heeng (asafoetida), which, he said, was sold in its solid form in the market. A little later, I understood why. He was a foodie and cooked to bust stress. 

When Anjali told him I loved cooking, he showed us a picture of his latest stash of spices and I told him how I had discovered my mother's, grandmother's and great grandmother's recipe books and was trying to decipher them. 

At the end of breakfast, when Simran had kissed our cheeks and hugged us, we felt chastened, and ashamed, at how we had assumed the worst based on how they had looked. Clearly our powers of reading people were rubbish. 

We ate breakfast like we wouldn't get a morsel of food for the next few days. We walked to the temple, felt awed, subdued and touched by the faith of those around us. We spent hours there, until we began to feel hungry. We slowly walked out, had a watery lassi at a nearby stall and proceeded to debate a non-veg lunch. If we didn't spend too long eating, we were going to take a shuttle to watch the lowering of the flag ceremony at the Attari-Wagah border. 

Anjali looped her arm in mine and pulled me into a solar powered rickshaw. The cold weather was a plus. We'd just have to wing the windowless room and tacky towels. I'd already identified things I wanted to take back and that would mean a proper hunt around Amritsar's streets.

And I had a plan.
                           

The Harmandir Sahib or Golden Temple (Photo: A. Peter)

More street scenes. Everyone's walking towards the Golden Temple complex. Bottom left, devotees in front of the holy lake, taking a dip and praying. There is a separate area for ladies to enter the holy lake. At right is the Harmandir Sahib or Golden Temple, the holiest shrine of the Sikhs. A visit to the langar is a must. Amazing community spirit - comes through in the way work is shared and the spirit is one.
(Photos: A. Peter)