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 44: Bust-up At The Bank

I could feel Genie raise himself to look at the chaos unfolding. There were people screaming and crying and running about for cover.

I pushed his elbow off the back of my head and raised myself to stare in disbelief.

Some moron had half-heartedly driven his car into the bank's shutters.

I say half-heartedly because the bank's shutter over its main entrance had caved, but not given way. People were picking themselves off the ground and a mob was now trying to open the door of the car.

When it didn't open they started kicking and banging the car. I looked for Kuriakose Uncle. He was in a distant corner – Aunty and he staring at the scene with some distress. Near them a group of churchwallas were trying to lift them off the ground. I saw people running.

When we were able to compose ourselves, we got up from the ground and stared at the scene unfolding. The crowd rocked the car and people screamed and shouted.

Genie strode into the crowd and I ran after him. I knew he was going to try and save the bugger in the car. 

This is a fictional series surrounding, Genie, Fish and the narrator. The narrator has lost most of her money in a bank scam and is at the bank waiting for RBI* officials to turn up and explain the next course of action (Fishy Chronicles 43). However, an upset depositor drives his car into the bank's entrance and is set upon by an angry mob.

I grabbed Genie's arm and was dragged someway ahead until he shook me off. He plunged in and was pushed about by the angry crowd when he managed to get close to the man whom some of the crowd had managed to pull out of the car. They had smacked him about. There was blood on his face and he looked disoriented. I jumped into the crowd and felt terror immediately. I was pummelled and pushed violently and someone squeezed my right breast. In a rage, I poked a man in the eyes and everyone else within my flailing reach. I felt strong arms pull me towards the car. People rained blows on us and the motorist who started it all crawled into the car and sat dazed in the driver's seat. 

Genie pushed me into the car and I fell on the man's lap and his hands held me down involuntarily, instantly making me anxious again. I wriggled out, looking for a weapon in the idiot's car. I saw a magazine on the dashboard, rolled it and threw myself into the crowd again, hitting whoever I could reach with the makeshift stick.

Only, now, there were policemen beating everyone with sticks. We were pushed into the car's sides by people trying to escape the lathi charge. I felt the unbearable press of the bodies and screamed in pain feeling the door handle of the car press into my lower back. I punched, scratched and tore wildly at the people in front of me and I felt them move backwards slightly. But the police had them sorted. They thrashed everyone within reach and soon the crowd pushing us started thinning. 

I was pulled roughly and thrown to the side. Everyone was babbling at the same time, but the police were oblivious. They lunged for the man in the car and pulled him out. One policeman waved his lathi and hit a few more people before the space in front of us widened. I was pulled off the ground roughly and pushed in front. I tried to protest, as did the others, but we were thrashed some more and a while later we grew silent. 

It is amazing how quickly the sight of men in khaki can disperse a crowd. Even the chaiwalla had grabbed his kerosene stove, vessels and stand and disappeared. I couldn’t see any of the churchwallas or the Kuriakoses. Trouble had turned everyone's feet in to wings and they had miraculously transported themselves elsewhere. 

I heard a sharp barking in Marathi and I was let go immediately. Genie grabbed my arm, tucked it in his, nodded, smiled and shook hands with the Sub Inspector. I could hear the man say that Genie would be called in for questioning, but the SI smiled all through that threat and Genie started moving away.

“But, but...” I turned and saw people being herded into a large blue police van with strong grills on the windows. I couldn't see the car's driver.

“Shhh. Hurry up!”

“But...”

Once out on the road, Genie walked fast towards our car, opened the passenger side door, pushed me into the seat and shut the door. He immediately got into the driver's side, started the engine and took off.

“But... we're going the wrong way!” I said.

“Okay.” 

“Genie!”

“Didn't you notice the police vans and barricades blocking the road back there?”

“Er.” I waited a few minutes to ask a vexing question. “Arief?”

“Yes?”

“Where did he go?”

“No idea.”

Genie's white t-shirt was ripped, it was dirty and his hair was messed up. He had a bruise forming on his left cheek and blood from his split lip had dripped onto his shirt.

He saw me staring at him. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Stop somewhere and I'll look at that cut on your lip.”

“Mouth to mouth?” Genie's mood suddenly lightened.

I boxed his arm and he groaned. I felt bad immediately. “Sorry!”

“That's okay.” He parked near a building and turned to look at me. He turned my face towards him and gently touched my jaw. I winced. “We'd better go to a doctor.” 

“Yes. Best,” I said glumly. My left eye was shut, swollen and painful. My body was sore and my right side hurt. Besides, someone had pulled a handful of my hair and I felt blood on my sore scalp. 

Genie started the engine and slowly moved out on to the street.

“How is it you were able to get the SI to let us go?” I prodded Genie.

“I told him what happened. That we weren't involved.”

“Huh.” From the corner of my eye I saw Genie look at me and turn away his head immediately. “But... the let-off seemed inordinately quick,” I said.

“Maybe.”

“Perhaps if I was alone I'd have been on that van.”

“You were lucky today,” I saw the corners of Genie's mouth turn up.

“How do you know that policeman?”

“We've had chai together.”

“Interesting. How come?”

“Wouldn't you have wanted to be a fly on the wall then.”

“Indeed.” I waited for Genie to elaborate, but the silence stretched. “Well?”

“What can I say,” Genie shrugged his shoulder slightly. “It was a happy coincidence... for us... that Jeevan was there. Once he understood that we were protecting the driver, he let us go... with the proviso we'll present ourselves at the police station whenever we are asked to.”

“He didn't ask for our details.”

“He knows our address.”

“Convenient!”

“Yes,” Genie grinned.

“You're pulling a fast one on me, Genie!”

“Tchah, tchah, tchah! So distrustful even after knowing me so many years.”

“Bullshit! Don't make it about me!”

“What's there to say. I know him. We go back a long way. He knows where to find us and it was our lucky day,” Genie was grinning, his eyes firmly on the road ahead.

I glared at him. I was going to get to the bottom of this. Hopefully. Someday.

Genie stopped the car and pushed up his dark glasses. I was surprised it hadn't got crushed in the melee. Or perhaps he had never taken it out of the car. I couldn't remember. He leaned towards me, forcing me to press backwards into my seat, and opened my door. He turned his head, too close for comfort, and murmured, “Go in. I'll be right there.” 

I was annoyed and didn’t respond. I got out shakily and turned towards the clinic. I held back, groaning silently. There were women standing up in the open area of the waiting room. Some of them started to smile. I saw some Peaceful Society ladies staring after the car and not taking their eyes off Genie.

Suddenly the day seemed endless. Luckily, no one was interested in me. As soon as the sexy Genie stepped into the waiting room, a seat became vacant, he was pushed into it and women began to fawn over him. 

“... oh dear...”

“... are you hurting?”

“... the wound looks painful...”

“... which idiot would dare lay a hand on you!”

“... you poor, poor, poor thing...”

I wanted to vomit. I closed my eyes tightly to block out the sight and sounds. Ugh!

I felt a body sit next to me. I opened my eyes and Genie grinned. He answered all their questions patiently. Soon, the other patients graciously waved us into the doctor's chambers.

“Oh my God! What happened to you!” Dr Sharma said. He immediately started looking at my eye, while Genie gave him a swift, sanitised version of today's events – minus our brush with Sub Inspector Jeevan X. 

“Well,” the doctor said, after working swiftly on us, “going by your injuries today and what I've just heard, both of you were very lucky. I'm giving you painkillers. Get these x-rays done and show them to me today. Off you go. Next!”

We said goodbye to the other patients and set off towards the car. Hopefully, the day would seem better after a painkiller. We gulped our respective doses and went off to the hospital. 

*RBI = Reserve Bank of India

Fishy Chronicles 43: Trouble Brews At The Bank

I waited till Genie left the flat and then changed hurriedly.

I was at the door, looking through my purse to see if I had my keys, when I heard Penaaz, “Where are you going?”

I turned to see Fish treading water and watching me. Did I want to answer them? For sure they knew where I was going. “Out.”

“What do we tell Genie when he returns?” Gregory asked, innocently.

“He won't notice,” I said.

“Unlikely. That's the first thing he asks us when he returns home,” Portas said, folding his fins against his chest.

“Tell him I've gone grocery shopping.”

“He bought groceries yesterday... including the ingredients for Saturday's appams,” Pervez said, copying Portas's posture. Our appam and stew plan with the Lonavala group was back on (https://viewfromthetopofthetank.blogspot.com/2019/07/fishy-chronicles-27-mutiny-at-pretty.html).

I drew in a deep breath. Sometimes this felt like an inquisition. I had forgotten to feed Fish this morning – I'd cleaned the tank but been preoccupied. Perhaps that’s why they were cranky now and grilling me. Their beef cake would take ages to thaw, so I dropped some processed fish food into the tank.

There was immediate uproar.

“Slow-releasing food again!” Portas shouted, zipping around the tank in a rage. I looked at the fish food canister. I had indeed poured in the wrong fish food. I only stored food Fish liked, but they hated the slow-releasing variety that I used when I was travelling and couldn't find someone to feed them.

“Are you running away?” my darling Dimitri said, panic in his voice. Suddenly Fish were still and silent.

“Don’t be silly, guys. This is my home. Besides, where else could I go?”

“Are things so bad...”

“... do you have debt...”

“... do you owe money...”

“... Genie will take care of everything... don't worry...”

“... running away from home isn't going to solve anything...”

I felt tense listening to Fish. The chatter stressed me unreasonably, reminding me of the mess I was in and the gaping crevasse of hopelessness I was staring at. I opened the door and left.

                                                             ****** 

This is a fictional series about Fish, Genie and the narrator. She does the rounds of her bank, which collapsed swallowing her savings, and meets Arief there. He takes her for a drive and contemplates jumping off the Worli Sea Link Bridge. She convinces him to have tea with her, but...

                                                             ****** 
Several minutes later my phone began to ring. It was Genie. Fish had a lot of time on their hands. When the phone wouldn't stop ringing after 30 minutes, I messaged Genie that I had errands to do and would be back by 4pm.

“What errands?” he texted back.

I stared at the masses standing before the shuttered bank. It was going to be another long day. I messaged back, “Bank work". I waited for another message, but there was none.

I walked about slowly, trying to smile at people who looked familiar. I could only see Kuriakose Uncle from church, who, at this moment, looked pale and ill. He was sitting on the ground and was being fanned with a newspaper by his wife. Other worried church members hovered around them. I hesitated and then slowly started moving towards them.

I felt a hand grip my arm and pull gently. I looked back.

“What are you doing here, Arief!”

“I could ask you the same question.”

A group shoved me out of the way and Arief steadied me and pulled me towards him. We stood and watched people banging the shutters of the bank angrily. There had been a rumour that RBI* officials were going to visit, but none had turned up. It felt hopeless.

Arief cleared his throat. He looked stressed, his face was tight and he ran his hand through his hair.

“How much did you lose?” I asked, instantly regretting the question.

“I'd rather not say.”

I nodded. Suddenly I didn’t feel alone, but I didn’t feel better.

“Want to get a coffee?” Arief asked. He pushed through the crowd, pulling me along by the hand. We walked silently into a small side street and he opened the driver's side door of the large SUV. I got in through the other side.

We sat quietly not talking and then he began to drive. After 15 minutes I asked where we were going, because Arief had had a fixed look on his face and had rubbed his stubbly chin often.

“Vashi Bridge or Worli Sea Link. Which do you prefer?”

“For what?”

“Let's throw ourselves off the bridge. End it all.”

“Let me off here.”

“No.” Arief looked angry and his jaw hardened. He came to an abrupt stop on the side of the road and unlocked the doors. “Well?” He asked when I didn’t budge.

“How much petrol do you have?” I dreaded the thought of leaving Arief alone. What if he actually went through with his silly plan.

“What?”

“How about we go to Sanjay Gandhi National Park and jump in front of the lions.”

“Sounds very painful. I might lose my nerve.”

“So, then, if you haven’t decided on the MO, let's get a cutting chai and sit somewhere we don't have to pay for AC or extra petrol.”

“Any suggestions?”

“How about Bandstand. There are bound to be chaiwallas there.”

He started the engine and then had a thought. I raised my eyebrows.

“Would you get mad at me if I asked you a Genie question?”

I tried not to sigh. “Is it personal?” Who was I kidding. Every Genie question was personal.

“How come Genie isn't with you today?”

“What a silly question. Ask me the next one.”

“No. Seriously. How come?” Arief asked curiously.

“... I left home when he wasn’t around.”

Arief gasped in mock shock and I pounded him with my flimsy purse, angry with myself for being conned.

“Seriously, how could Genie bear to let you go out alone. Does he know about your money?”

I hesitated. “Yes. He knows.” Yesterday Genie had ordered all the groceries we would need... for a year, including sanitary napkins, soap and garbage bags. We had had an argument. Rather I had tried to argue and he had carried on cleaning the loft. Finally I told him the foodgrains would rot and gave him a list of the things he had missed and we needed. We had to return provisions because we didn't have place to store them.

The kiranawala came back, grinning knowingly at the two of us. How I hated that look. But just then a mosquito drove his skinny mouth into him and the shopkeeper screamed in pain. I grinned. My Nobby was a star – he had trained his friends to lurk and bite.

The kiranawala almost fell backwards. He had lost his goodwill with Genie too, because he looked daggers at the man. He hurried out and I closed the door.

I looked up and caught Arief watching me carefully. “What?”

“The talk is there's something going on between you.”

I opened the door, streaked across the road and ran into a side street. My phone rang. I could hear running footsteps behind me and panicked. I ducked into a building, ran up the stairs, heard faint footsteps, took the lift down and ran into the restaurant next door. There was a side entrance and I quickly exited through that and jumped into a rickshaw. No bus for me today. I felt my phone vibrate.

“Hey! What was that all about?!” Arief shouted.

“Some ground rules for you! Genie and I are friends and have known each other for years. He was protective then, more so now. If you want to put a different, dirty twist to it you can bugger off!”

“Just telling you what everyone's saying.”

“I KNOW WHAT EVERYONE'S SAYING AND IT’S LAZY CRAP!”

There was silence for a long time and I wanted to rage some more but also wanted to hear how Arief would apologise. Plus, I didn't want to be rude... to a friend.

“You didn't need to shout,” he said softly, sounding annoyed.

“Did you get the picture?”

He cut the line and I laughed.

                                                             ****** 

I went back to the bank, not wanting to face Fish or Genie. I groaned. Arief and Genie were sitting on a low wall near a chaiwalla and sipping tea from small, murky glasses. What was it about men. The camaraderie between the two was unmistakable, yet an hour ago the goat was interrogating me about Genie. Bah!

I walked towards them and Genie smiled and ordered a tea for me. He made place on the wall, luckily on his other side. He was grinning from ear to ear.

“Where have you been?” he asked.

“I went to the aquarium.”

“Meet anyone we know?”

“Yes. Moby Dick and Rudy the shark. I watched them do the marine mammal waltz. The other fish cheered. Record turnout at Taraporevala Aquarium.” (Read about Rudy here   https://viewfromthetopofthetank.blogspot.com/2019/09/fishy-chronicles-38-in-jaws-of-nightmare.html).

“Is that so?” Genie's dimples grew deeper.

“That is so. The internet is on fire. That is today's taaza khabar**.” I couldn't help it, I smiled.

He handed me my chai and the three of us clinked our glasses and said "cheers".

We took a sip and suddenly there was a loud sound of shattering glass and we ducked involuntarily. There was a crashing sound and I felt Genie's arm around me, pushing me into the ground and keeping me there. All about me I heard people screaming and running and angry shouts. I closed my eyes and kept them shut, feeling absolute terror.

(Continued in https://viewfromthetopofthetank.blogspot.com/2019/11/fishy-chronicles-44-bust-up-at-bank.html )

                                                             ****** 
*Reserve Bank of India; ** Breaking news

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 41: Eggs Extraordinaire

“Why did you postpone lunch?” Genie asked, leaning against the kitchen doorway, effectively blocking my chances of escape.

“Er, yes.”

“And?”

“And?”

“Why did you cancel?”

“Who told you?”

“Zeba. Roma. You ordered coconuts and rice and then cancelled the order.”

“Okay.” I tried to stay nonchalant. I continued to shred the potatoes. I was going to deep fry them later... if Genie stopped interrogating me. He was now standing next to me, his eyes boring a hole into the top of my head. I dearly hoped he wasn’t doing a pensieve or a Professor Dumbledore on me. I tried to push past the wall of muscle, but only felt his finger duelling with my chin to try and lift it to make me look at him. Finally he gave up and pulled his index finger away. Genie bent double, leaned down, planted his elbow on the untidy kitchen platform, turned his body my way and smiled. Someone else would have looked comical in that awkward pose, but Genie refused to fit an ‘anybody’ mould.

I took in his wholesome form. There was barely space to squeeze through between the fridge and Genie's buttocks. It was unfair – handsome guy, small space, unbidden lust, you name it. Plus nothing was going to happen.

I sighed and turned back, wondering what to do. I moved three paces to the sink and poured water into the bowl with the shredded potatoes, then put three tablespoons of salt in the mix. I saw Genie's mouth curl.

“What!”

“You don’t need to take it out on the potatoes – salting them to death!” Genie said.

I laughed. “Monkey! I’m making those little chippies that go with that Irani dish.”

“Aha. I see. You're trying to replicate Aunty Leila's liver dish. Do you even know what it is called?”

I didn’t. Aunty Leila was a friend of Uncle Nigel. Her family had farms in Nasik, but she, an Iranian Muslim, had married a Parsi and moved to Mumbai, many many years ago. Her food had a wholesome and sometimes rustic quality, which Uncle had attributed to her early years in Shiraz, Iran. When I told him Shiraz was a major city in Iran and was unlikely to have ever been a village or rustic, he laughed.

I always hoped Aunty Leila would feel sorry for him and want to cook Uncle Nigel a meal, because then I learned something new. I needn’t have fretted, Uncle gave me his recipe books.

Only there was a problem.

Genie leaned over Uncle's book and smirked. “Let me get this straight, you tried to cook it before with this recipe, but it didn’t taste like the real thing.”

I thought Uncle loved me too much to want to finger me from his spot in the netherworld, but, at times, especially when I tried to reproduce a dish, I felt it was a distinct possibility. 

                                       ******

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 tries to replicate an Iranian dish from Uncle Nigel's recipe book but hits a road block.

                                        ******

I felt a gentle poke. “Well?” Genie asked.

“Yes. It was awful. Of course I couldn’t feed it to anyone and...” another poke, “... and Uncle did not seem surprised.”

Genie took the book and read the recipe closely and then flipped pages back and forth.

I moved closer to him, “What are you looking for?”

“Uncle's egg recipes.”

I took the book from his hand. I had never looked at those simply because I made them well, and I had favourites. I opened the book to Uncle's versions of Akoori and an egg curry.

I could feel Genie's breath on the back of my ear. “Well?”

The recipe was weird. Someone would die of food poisoning with the measures and ingredients Uncle was using. Uncle's meals were legendary. He had had the best vessels and the most exotic condiments and his talent suffused his meals. But these instructions were preposterous. I wondered why I hadn’t noticed before. One recipe was even named Dikra Bomanooooo. I kid you not about the number of Os. Around the recipe he had drawn little hearts being shot at by obese, naked archers.

“Cupid, not naked archers,” Genie corrected me. I gave him a dirty look and went back to look at the instructions. “Do you want some advice?”

“About what?” I asked, feeling frustration bubble up. Genie took the book from my hand.

“Don’t you think Uncle was more complicated than you gave him credit for?” Genie placed the book on the platform, located another recipe, held a bunch of pages upright with his index finger and thumb and compared the two recipes on either side.

I hopped in frustration, “Of course! He was a brilliant man...”

“I wasn't talking about his brains. We know he was brilliant and extraordinarily creative. But don’t you get that everything he thought of was well considered, that they didn't, and wouldn't, make sense until they were supposed to?”

I was flummoxed. Genie was speaking like a drunk philosopher. And I couldn’t understand a thing! I took a deep breath. “Come again,” I said through clenched teeth.

“Come closer. Have you ever known Uncle to share anything of importance easily?” Genie asked, still comparing the recipes.

Much like yourself, Dude! I stared at Genie's handsome profile and enormous moustache. I pulled the end of his large moustache and his head whipped around and he glared at me. I grinned and moved closer, trying to concentrate on the recipes but thinking about moustache-pulling retribution.

“The measures and ingredients are ridiculous,” I said.

“What exactly is?”

“The quantities.”

“How about the ingredients?”

“They’re too exotic and shouldn’t find a place in this recipe,” I pointed at an Indian egg dish – in fact a Malayali egg roast. For sure, Uncle had got this from one of his neighbours. For a while Mr Mathai suspected Uncle of trying to have an affair with Mrs Mathai, until Uncle came back from a foreign trip with a bottle of Chivas Regal and told Mr Mathai his ugly secret. After the Chivas, Uncle became a welcome guest in the Mathai household.

I felt a poke and dragged my attention back to the book. “See, if Uncle planned to use these recipes, there’s got to be a method to his envisaged madness.” Another nudge. “Right?” Genie looked at me, nodding his head and looking at the book and back at me in turns.

“Do you have a girlfriend, Genie?” The look of shock was well worth the annoyance he had put me through. I grinned, pulled the book closer to me and stared at the numbers. For instance, Uncle had written “50 grams Epsom Salt. Stir in...” All his recipes had Epsom or some weird variety of salt in it, but no actual rock or table salt. “Chop 30 barracudas and grind by hand.” How the hell did one catch a deep sea barracuda? Would any part of a barracuda fit into Uncle’s mortar? How many months would it take him to grind 30 very large fish and how many thousands of people would that feed? I had had utter confusion looking at his recipes, but while he was alive I had just watched him cook and, a little later, written them down.

“Anything strike you?” Genie prodded, sounding annoyed.

“Everything's multiplied by 10. Some ingredients are code words. Like barracudas, probably coming from Uncle's fascination for sea life, could be chillies, because,” I flipped several pages that mentioned dishes I knew well, “Epsom salt and barracudas figure in all of them and could only be salt and chillies... in the recipes, I mean,” I looked up, happy. A light bulb had suddenly flickered into life and was blasting bright. And I realised Genie was way smarter than I had given him credit for. But what did I really know about him? And why was he staring at me that way?

He blinked and pulled the book back towards him. He put his head back and laughed. “What's cow? Three cows, roasted and powdered? I wish I’d known Uncle Nigel... a little more at least.”

“Yeah. I wish I did too. This book is crazy.”

“It’s not meant for the faint hearted or lazy people.”

I eyed Uncle's lovely old world, curly, large handwriting. This trick recipe book wasn’t a joke for Uncle. It had a special rack to hold it and had many of his prized recipes in it. Some of his mother's too. Yet, everything in it seemed like a game.

“You know what I think?” Genie murmured in my ear, his arm on my shoulder.

“What?” I mumbled back.

“He didn’t want just anyone to have it.”

“He had a strange way of showing it.”

“I’m thinking you’d have figured it out and enjoyed the game in time.”

Oh! I was so slow. Of course, that’s what it was. I was being challenged and being shown something I’d never see otherwise. I had to keep myself open to possibilities. Loosen up. Stop clinging to clichés. Etc, etc, etc. Uncle had left me the strangest things. Keys. A briefcase full of objects I could make no sense of, some more in cartons in my loft. Old books that collectors had begged me for, but I had resisted selling. His will was being contested by some of his relatives, but it was ironclad – so his lawyer said. I dreaded meeting them. One of his cousins called me a gold digger at the lawyer's office. I had...

“Hey!” Genie shook me. “Are we going to make this dish or not?”

“You're going to help me?”

“Of course! You’re never going to figure it out on your own.”

I held back my irritation. Genie's point was debatable. I could see Genie look at me slyly from the corner of his eyes and a slow smile appeared. “At least, I think you'll need my help figuring some of these codes,” he tilted his head at the book.

“Yes. Two heads are better than one – in this case, at least. Come on, let's crush some barracudas and toast those cows.”