Fishy Chronicles 45: Genie Gives Gyaan

“What's happening to your Amritsar plan?” Genie opened the lid of the big pot and drew the aroma deep into his lungs. I could see his mouth water.

“If you wait 15 minutes, you can have the chicken stew with bread,” I told him.

“Trying to change the subject?” he said, putting the lid back on the pot.

“What subject?”

“Your trip to Amritsar."

I shrugged and shook my head.

“Do you know, you're not a good liar.”

“I don't know what you're talking about.”

“Okay. Let me put this in perspective for you. A few weeks ago Roma told me your tickets to Amritsar were booked, including hotel stay. This was before the bank collapsed. Yesterday she asked me if you were all packed.”

“Couldn't she have asked me?” I felt angry at my cousin Roma. I had fobbed her off a couple of times regarding my finances, my trip, etc. I felt I had to face up to everything on my own. Plus, I didn't want to hear sanctimonious lectures from my relatives.

“Do you remember giving Roma a straight answer?” Genie asked. I turned away and sliced some Madras onions for the final seasoning. Roma and Genie tackling me together seemed like an onslaught. Whose side were they on?

This is a fictional series about the narrator, her former pet Fish and former manservant Genie. The narrator is preparing lunch for her Lonavala group (refer to FC 27 and FC 36) and Genie advises her to continue with her sabbatical and travel plans despite her current personal setbacks.

Genie nudged me and continued to do so until I was pinned to a wall. “Pushing me about is not going to work, Genie. It really is none of your business.”

“Aha! So Roma was right. There is an Amritsar trip all planned and paid for. So why aren't you going?”

“Ask Roma!”

“I'm asking you!”

“I don't have the money now.”

“I'll lend it to you.”

“You've done enough. Besides, how long will you subsidise me? Do you know that some of the money in the bank was your back wages that I'd consolidated and put into a fixed deposit. How many times have I tried to give it to you!” I felt my temper rise. I felt sudden panic. What if Genie asked me for the money.

He put his arm around my shoulders, “Once and for all, I am not going to take that money.”

“Why not?”

“I never asked for a salary.”

“But Papa said he paid you!”

“We had an arrangement.”

“Sorry. I don't buy that.”

“Well, it has nothing to do with you.”

I pushed Genie, but nothing happened. I felt pain in my side, a combination of my bruises resulting from our ill-fated day at the bank (read about it here) and being pressed into the wall now. “Can you stop pushing me? My body is aching.”

I felt him laugh and glared at him. He smiled, “When is your trip, my dear?”

“Why?”

“I'll lend you the money... only because you will gain nothing out of backing out of the trip. You might as well go and enjoy yourself.”

True. I wasn't going to get a refund. And I had to get used to the idea that the world hadn't stopped moving and that I had to move on. My parents had lost money this way and history had repeated itself despite me knowing better.

But the other thing was I needed to stretch the little I had and didn’t want to borrow until I had no choice.

“If you feel badly about it,” Genie's voice interrupted my thoughts, “you can pay me back.”

“I don't have money, remember.”

“It's a temporary situation. You'll get a job eventually. No point wasting an opportunity to travel.”

“Yes, but what if I don't get a job or my money...”

“Silly girl! How did you become so pessimistic. It's a setback – one of many. It’s only a matter of time before it will stop affecting you.”

I knew that was true. Hard times don't last, Papa had said even when things were bleak.

Genie looked into the vessel again. “Shall I make you a few appams... before the guests arrive, Genie?” He contemplated the contents. Genie and I always waited till our guests had eaten until we had our meal, so I said, “Just a couple so that it keeps you till the guests finish eating.”

He shook his head, slowly – a rare moment of indecision for Genie. I immediately put two appa chattis on the stove to heat.

“No,” Genie said, feebly.

“Why stay hungry.”

“But we should wait till the others have eaten... what if we fall short?”

“Hah!” I had made enough batter for 14 people times ten appams and some more in case there were surprises. One could never tell when appams and stew were on the menu... as I had cause to experience.

I rolled the batter gently around the sides of the chatti and Genie took out his plate and had another sniff of the chicken stew.

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.

Fishy Chronicles 37: Secrets

I took the ancient recipe book from the bookshelf. The hardback cover was discoloured and crumbling. All the recipes were in Malayalam and I had rarely opened it to look.

The fat arm's-length book looked like an accounts ledger. It was tied in a bundle with two other recipe books. At some point my mother started buying recipe books and making notes in them and saving clippings from magazines in a folder.

I wondered why I needed to look at them at all - their owners were dead. I wouldn't be able to ask them about measures or how the dish should taste. I didn't know if I'd cook these family dinner dishes. Could I get Aarav and Aditya interested in cooking? Aditya liked to help, especially when I made cakes. He seemed to like the baking process and was smitten by the cookie moulds. I even made an apron for him. We agreed his father needn't know about it.

I untied my great-granny's book. It smelled of dried damp and dust, making me sneeze.

"Bless you." I felt the sofa sag. Genie took the old book from me and opened it. Tiny handwriting crammed the aged, brown pages. The corner of one disintegrated in Genie's hand. Small holes pock-marked the pages. Clearly, insects had found the ink and paper delicious. Genie turned the pages carefully until the writing became spidery and erratic and the recipes stopped and seemed to turn into notes. Water had spilled on the pages, blotting the ink in places. I pointed it out to Genie.

"That's not water. Most likely tears."

Coldness pressed my heart. "W-What?"

"Nothing."

I grabbed his arm. "What do you mean? Why did you say tears?"

He looked at me and a soft sigh escaped him. He pointed at the small crinkles in the page. "See the randomness of the ink blotches? The person seems to have cried. The stains are not there in the previous pages." He turned the pages as quickly as he could without damaging them. "The handwriting seems to be the same all through, so it could be your great grandmother."

"Or grandmother." Suddenly I wasn't sure whose book it had been. Mummy hadn't been keen to write in it even though she had had a wonderful relationship with her grandmother and had filled her own book with her grandmother's recipes.

We set aside the old book and opened Mummy's. The first page had my mother's maiden name and 7 June 197X written at the top. The maiden name was crossed out and her married name scribbled below. Flowers decorated the sides of the page and it instructed us not to read its contents.

We flipped through. Her handwriting changed over the years and the recipes were noted down more haphazardly the older she got.

Then I found a small piece of butter paper. A heart was drawn in it and my parents initials entwined in the heart in Papa's handwriting. Seeing my parents as young lovers was... strange.

Several pages later, there was a conversation in the margin of a recipe.

Papa wrote, "Tell her to stop it."

Mummy: "How?"

Papa: "Use your magic. Tell her it's not on and to forget it."

My eyes scanned the page. There was no date. I grabbed the book from Genie and turned pages back and forth, but couldn't find a date or who my parents were referring to. We went back and began to read again.

Mummy: "She's too stubborn. You try. Speak to her gently else she may get upset and we won't be able to solve things."

Papa: "Let's see. Do you think these people will leave soon? I've got a headache."

Mummy: "I'll get you some balm."

Papa: "Balm won't work in this case."

The conversation ended abruptly. We turned pages but couldn't find the rest.

"Just to confirm - that's Papa's and Mummy's handwriting, right?" Genie asked.

"Yes. But... it was written a long time ago. Do you think they're talking about me?" 

I skimmed the pages to see if I could pin the recipes to a period. Some pages later I found a magazine clipping with the date at the top of the page. 12 July 1990. That ruled me out - I was too little for serious mischief. 

"I don't think it's you they're talking about," Genie confirmed. "Did anyone live with your parents and you when you were younger? Around this time?" he pointed at the date on the page.

"Lots of people turned up and stayed. Especially relatives. And Papa and Mummy had many servants then."

"Okay." He closed the book on my fingers. "I think we should stop."

I was taken aback by his sudden about turn as he was as interested as I to know who my parents' headache had been.

"Okay," I said slowly, trying to figure out what had just happened.

"Go to bed," he said.

"Okay."

Genie looked taken aback by my response, but his face soon returned to its factory settings.

                                         ******

This is a fictional series about the narrator, her former pet fish and manservant, and now friend, Genie. Fish and Genie have returned from their travels and are staying with the narrator. Previous personal equations have changed. 

The narrator decides to mend her mother's and great grandmother's recipe books. In her mother's recipe book she spots a curious conversation between her parents. She finds tears dotting recipes in another book, written in a script she cannot read.

                                         ******

I couldn't sleep. I wondered if I had insomnia. The phone rang, jolting me further into wakefulness.

Roma asked, "When are you going back to work?"

I hesitated, "Soon. Why?"

"When were you planning to tell us you stopped working?"

"What?"

"So you've been holed up in your flat for months..."

"Not months..."

"... and Genie is now in town. Anything I should know?" she said, sounding irritated.

"Nothing. There's nothing to say."

"Georgy's friend at Bombay Sentinel said someone told him you had quit - that he hadn't seen you for months."

"That's true. I haven't seen Parag for months. But I was working there till a month ago. I've taken leave."

"Why?"

"Just wanted a break."

"For what?"

"Just."

"WILL YOU TELL ME WHY OR NOT?!"

"I've told you before... I'd been asking the boss to let me go on long leave."

"No, you have not!"

"I have. You just haven't been listening, bogged down with your own problems."

"Rubbish! Even Anjali doesn't know!"

"Oh!" I said involuntarily. I hadn't told my best friend, nor did I think Roma devious enough to check with Anjali first. 

"Oh, oh, oh! You remember now, don't you!" Roma said triumphantly.

"Yes. There's no need to get your knickers in a knot. This is precisely the overreaction I wanted to avoid. If the news gets out, every relative I've never heard of is going to ask me what I'm going to live on."

"What are you going to live on?"

"My savings."

"Hah!"

"See!"

"You don't have money!"

I swallowed a retort. My cousin was being rude. It had taken me a long time to muster the courage to ask my boss Leonard D'Silva to let me go on leave without pay.

"Are you looking for another job?" Roma demanded.

"No."

"Why not?"

I felt exasperated. "I'm looking for a rich husband. Oh, but I'm divorced with fish children. Good night, Roma. Let's speak when both of us are in a better frame of mind."

I was going to cut the line, but Roma said, "Wait, wait, WAIT!"

"Yes?"

"Georgy's told his parents."

"Shit!"

"And my parents too, Sweetie! Just fix on a good, unshakeable explanation."

"All of them think I'm an aimless flake!"

"That's true. I just wanted to warn you. Good night."

                                        ******

I glanced at the clock. It was past 2am. I was in deep shit!

I got out of bed. Genie's bedroom door was closed and I walked quietly into the sitting room. In the dim lamplight left switched on for Fish, I could see them bobbing up and down gently, fast asleep.

I picked up my mom's recipe book moved to the window and sat on a chair. I used my book light to re-read my parents' conversation, but couldn't place the person they were talking about. I thought back to 1990 - we were following Papa around the country.

"What are you doing?"

The book and light flew in the air and I fell off my chair in fright. Genie's hands grabbed me and pushed me back into my chair. I trembled, my heart racing madly.

"Wh-Wh-What... a-are you doing?" I said nervously.

"Roma called me."

Shit! 

"She asked me if we were having an affair, were married, whether you had quit your job and how we were surviving without an income. I assumed, she meant yours."

"Shit!" Genie looked angry. I didn't think my cousin would go so far as to drag Genie into it! "Er, I'm sorry about Roma, Genie..."

"Why did you quit your job?"

I struggled to find an appropriate answer. My desire to leave had many elements. "I was unhappy for a long time. I wanted a break..." I said lamely.

"Couldn't you have found another job and then quit?" He asked, his expression softening.

"No. I tried to take a sabbatical but management wouldn't agree. Finally, I just resigned."

"Why didn't you tell anyone? Anjali or Roma?"

"Everyone has their own problems and I didn't want their advice, however well meaning it might be."

We sat quietly. I was surprised Fish were still slumbering considering the racket we had just made. "Do you want tea?" Genie asked. The clock said 4:16am.

"You're not going to say anything?" I asked him.

"No."

"Why not?"

"You're old enough to know your mind. I'm sure you've thought things through."

I felt panic at my looming empty life and income-less future. "And if I haven't... got a plan?"

"You'll wing it." Genie walked off before I could say anymore. I picked my mother's book off the floor and saw the faded colour photo near it. I trained my light on the photo. My handsome young father had one arm around my mother, who was holding me - a baby then, and his other around his pretty sister Saroj. My cousin Eva looked exactly like her mom in this photograph. Aunty was very pretty in a pink kurta salwar with a long thick braid gracing one shoulder and bangs on her forehead.

I heard Genie coming out of the kitchen. I slipped the picture back into the book and put it on a nearby stool. Everything could wait... including my crazy thoughts.