The Cambridge Curry Club (17 page)

Mallika’s spots soon followed, dotting her face,
competing
with her eyes for size and luminosity. They never arrived singly, only in hordes, unannounced and inopportune, always staying the night, littering her forehead and both cheeks. If squeezed, an exposed spot like a lone student demonstrator resorted to angry retaliation, rallying support until it was a red army of protest.

While the boys were merely bullying Mallika, three of her classmates in Year 11 had become pregnant. To the proud approval of her parents, Mallika, the ‘boffin’ and ‘swot’, topped the school and Sixth Form College,
breezing into Cambridge University. She had dutifully followed her parents’ advice and earned the respect of her peers; the rest, thought Swarnakumari, was best left in the hands of God, although of late she had been wondering whether Weight Watchers could accelerate the divine pace.

The arrival of the African family next door was the opening of a new world for Mallika, piercing the
boredom
of her cottonwool existence. Joseph had lived
outside
Sydney, and he described Bondi Beach and the surf, the Blue Mountains and the colours of the sunset, Australian dreaming and four thousand years of
aboriginal
history, the Great Spirit, the Wandjina and Ngalyod, the Rainbow Serpent, and the sun as a woman wandering across the sky spreading light and warmth. He told her of the legends of the lizards, wombats and emus, of waratah stems and watering-holes, of desert oaks and manburrangkali lily roots and the aboriginal belief that all life, whether human, animal, fish or bird, is deeply connected to a vast, unchanging web of
relationship
through the universe.

The discovery of a stubby funnelweb spider in his mother’s slipper on a wet day precipitated the family’s hasty departure from the continent. Mallika had
listened
open-mouthed in Joseph’s bedroom decorated with boomerangs and aboriginal and African paintings and a didgeridoo and African drum.

It was an innocent friendship whose beat slithered its insistent way in colours of red ochre and white pipeclay into her modest, neat room a few feet away. A torrent of yearning to discover new worlds took hold, refusing to shake and fall to the ground like the graceful yellowed leaves of the lilac outside her window. Mr Chatterjee
had been right: Joseph was a danger to Mallika; but not in the way he had imagined.

Swarnakumari was still lost in thought as Heera unpacked her lunch at the table and observed, ‘You know, Swarna, every day we eat cold lunch just because Lady Di says the shop should not have food smells. We are not allowed to eat warmed-up Indian food in here.
Arre
, what nonsense! Such a bloody hypocrite, setting up this shop to impress her fancy friends like that Vicky woman and calling it IndiaNeed! Tell me, does India need her? What feeling does she have for India? The only connection is that her father was born in some cavalry cantonment in Shimla in 1933. So what? He’s not bloody Rudyard Kipling, is he?’

Durga entered with the milk and flipped the shop sign to
Closed
as Heera continued, ‘And why does she call her Siamese cats “Jaipur” and “Udaipur”? D’you think I will ever name my goldfish “Manchester”? Anyway, it’s a big name discussion again, so forget it.’

‘Raj nostalgia,’ ventured Durga.

‘You know, I was just telling Swarna, it’s so stupid that Lady Di doesn’t allow us to heat up our food here. All that nonsense about Indian food smells! I know I should have told her right away from the beginning, but from next week we’ll use a hot-plate, all right? I’ll tell her straight on her face if she says anything, “You call us your ‘Curry Club’, don’t you, so then we
are
going to eat our Indian food.” Let it smell, who cares?
Arre
, in fact, if we started serving Indian snacks in here, the customers would come running
because
of the smells.’

‘Including those on crutches.’ Durga set the milk on
the tea tray. ‘The natives are getting restless. Mutiny. The subaltern speaks.’

‘Where did you get the milk from? I hope you went to the Co-op. Lady Di knows it’s cheapest there. I can see your guilty face – why didn’t you walk that bit extra? Anyway, put the receipt at the till before you forget. Now have some samosas, girls. I got them from Sangeeta Chopra on the way here. I’ve not been feeling that well, but never mind, can’t resist. Did you see her photograph in the paper yesterday? She was standing next to the Mayor at some college do, posing in front of the big samosa she had made. It was twenty-seven inches long. How she made it, I don’t know.’

‘Or why,’ said Durga.

‘She does the catering for many Cambridge colleges, and she makes those children of hers roll out the pastry – small kitchen. I think her husband has gone for good; someone saw him at Yarmouth sitting in a car with an English girl. Why are you not eating? There’s chutney too.’

‘I am fasting – my Guru Ma’s birthday,
na
– but I am just thinking, could it be this Sangeeta has sold you some part of the same big samosa? It could be so stale,
na
?’

Heera considered the possibility while sniffing a samosa. ‘Hmm, all right, don’t eat it, girls, you never know. I tell you, no offence, but we clever Indians are like spring water in a well. The deeper you dig, the more you find. By the way, I was thinking we should meet outside the shop sometime. We should all get to know each other better. Durga, I know nothing about you. You never talk about yourself, and Eileen, you’re always rushing about. So I was thinking, why don’t we
have a Diwali get-together? I would have invited you to my place, but it’s in a mess. Shall we go out? Any suggestions?’

‘What type of food? Indian?’ asked Eileen.

‘
Arre
no, are you mad, or what? What sort of treat would that be? D’you know, the other day some of us neighbours met for dinner at an Indian place near Castle Street. The food was not bad, I must admit, but I spent the evening thinking how much better my own cooking is.’ Heera chortled.

‘And cheaper, too,’ Durga reminded her.

‘You know how I am, girls. I have to talk, so I told the meek little waiter he must be shivering in his pants when he sees Indian customers like me, because he must know we won’t like the dishes or the prices. Poor chap, what could he say – he just smiled politely.’

‘I never eat out,’ said Durga.

‘
Arre
, you’re not missing anything. I once went with the Essex wife of Bob’s colleague, you know how these goras are – they always want to go for an Indian – we were in London and we went to a place called “Curry in a Hurry”. First of all, what a name!
Arre
, how can you have curry in a hurry? And that in a place looking like All Bar One? I ordered special Kashmiri dal, and I’m not joking, girls, the waiter brought a huge white plate with dal put only in the middle – the same size as a doughnut. There was a big coriander leaf stuck on top, and paprika sprinkled all around the empty sides of the plate.’

‘What did you do?’ asked Swarnakumari, her
curiosity
aroused.

‘I ate it, of course. Jacqui was tucking into her tikkas and korma, but I felt like a fool because I was thinking
of my mother and my childhood. The pot of dal at home used to be huge, and my mother always made extra in case guests dropped in. She loved to cook lots of good food for everyone. That’s the way we Sindhis are, you know.’ Heera blinked furiously and her voice
faltered
. ‘Sorry, girls, I’m just remembering my mother. I never knew the last time I saw her that it would be the last time.’

There was silence; sharp, fragile, a laden cloud threatening to burst sutured skin.

Swarnakumari said with finality, ‘Dal is dal.’

The others nodded.

‘Shall we try the noodle bar on Mill Road, then?’ asked Eileen.

Heera spoke slowly, ignoring Eileen’s question. ‘You know, girls, there is a big difference between being an Asian born here, coming from East Africa and coming from India out of choice and free will. When you come here from India, even if you try, India doesn’t let you go. It’s funny, but after all these years I still
automatically
convert English money into rupees sometimes.’ She chuckled. ‘And I keep a rupee coin in my purse for good luck. Shall I tell you something else? Sometimes I go into the Grafton Centre on a Saturday just to be in a crowd again. Not for shopping. I want to be pushed and shoved by everyone, but then I start searching for the old faces that I know I will never find there. And in any case, no one pushes me, and if I push them by mistake,
they
say “Sorry” to
me
! It must be the same for you, Swarna, we both came here only because of our husbands – but maybe it’s difficult for Durga to understand.’

Had Durga spoken, the words would have stretched
all the way round the room, each letter bold on a fluttering white square, boxed row upon row until, forming a chain, they seized an open window and trailed behind a plane soaring in the distance. Letters in the sky appeared smaller, but lived longer.

‘So when are we going out?’ persisted Eileen.

‘I will ask Your Uncle and let you know,
hanh
. Lunchtime will be good, evening time is difficult for me.’

‘Before I forget, anyone interested in buying my friend Rama Prasanna’s book on South Indian cooking? She’s giving a discount – normally it is £6.99. If you buy two, then it’ll be £5.99 for each,’ said Heera.

‘Why to take two? It’s the same book,
na
?’
Swarnakumari
was puzzled.

‘Like crutches,’ said Durga helpfully.

‘
Arre
no, what’s this nonsense about crutches all the time, Durga? I mean two copies in case you want to give someone else a Diwali or Christmas present. I promised her I would ask you girls, but I also told her straight, no Asian will spend money on cooking books. At the most, one
bakra
– one sucker – will buy and then everyone else will borrow. A friend of hers called Aparna even bought the book and then gave it back and coolly took a refund the next day. What a cheeky
monkey
! Poor Rama was quite upset, but I told her, “Straight case of book photocopying by Aparna’s
husband
in the office. Nothing you can do about it.” Eileen, you must be thinking we are all mad. Even when we’re not eating, we still talk about food.’

Diana had previously attempted to manoeuvre Eileen out of the Thursday shift and into the Monday slot with Betty and Mary, but Eileen had refused, a
steely edge to her voice. She would work on a Thursday, or not at all.

‘Has Mrs Wellington-Smythe said anything about the Christmas decorations for the shop? We must start soon,
na
.’ Swarnakumari deflected the conversation away from the cookery book she did not plan to purchase.

‘Relax, it’s only October. What’s your hurry? Who feels Christmassy in the wind and autumn leaves?
Arre
, let Diwali come first. Why would anyone want to buy Christmas wrap just now?’ Heera paused. ‘Actually, I could be wrong. A cheap and cheerful nine-metre roll might interest a few early birds,’ she said meaningfully.

‘Present company excluded, of course,’ retaliated Durga.

‘We should be the first with the Christmas window display,’ continued Swarnakumari earnestly.

‘By the way, I put the blond wig in the window on the way out, Swarna. Don’t worry, it won’t disturb your display,’ said Durga reassuringly, as they cleared the lunch table.

‘No prizes for guessing who it is this time,’ laughed Heera as the telephone rang. ‘IndiaNeed, good
afternoon
… Yes, Mrs Wellington-Smythe, it’s Heera here … Yes, we just had a photograph taken for the paper … But you told me not to disturb you and that’s why I didn’t ring … You’ve already told the
photographer
not to use it? Yes, I understand … Yes, I’ve been here all the time during shop hours … Yes, I’ve locked up every Thursday this month … Yes,
of course
, I’m here all the time, and the rest of the volunteers come and go … Yes, sometimes I
do
buy things from the shop, but I always …
I always pay
. Yes, I remember we
talked about those thefts … No, I didn’t realise it was always on a Thursday … Yes, I know it’s a Thursday today … Yes, I will tell everyone to look out for anything unusual today … Yes,
of course
I’m closing at five … No, I’m not leaving early. Yes, I will call if …’ She replaced the receiver in a daze, turning to the three women. ‘Did you hear that? Did you hear that? She thinks I’m the thief.’

Swarnakumari asked, ‘What are you saying?’

Heera’s voice rose. ‘She thinks I’m a bloody thief! You heard, didn’t you, just now? Girls, she is saying I am a thief!’

‘Are you sure?’ asked Swarnakumari.

‘Yes. You know how she is. First she ticked me off
again
for opening the shop ten minutes late. It was only ten minutes. You three were standing outside waiting for me and you didn’t complain, so what’s her problem? Then she changed the subject, talking about the thief and Thursdays, so smooth, and she said, “Do be extra careful, watch the customers today, and don’t forget to report anything unusual,” but girls, I know she meant me.’ Tears of outrage shimmered in her eyes.

Swarnakumari trembled. ‘A thief in the shop today? What will he do to me?’

‘Let’s see, the thief could be male or female, of any age, size, shape, weight or colour, shabby or
well-dressed
, a batty old man, a student, young mother, anyone at all. Or maybe there’s a whole gang out there. But I doubt anyone would want to attack you, Swarna, for reasons that I won’t go into now,’ said Durga comfortingly.

Heera called out impatiently, ‘Girls, girls, aren’t you listening? What d’you think I’m telling you? She
suspects
me! Who the hell does she think she is? I’m telling you, I’ve had enough now. I live a comfortable life, and I am not doing this for the money. I took this job only because I needed to sort something for myself in my mind. Looks like I made the wrong choice, didn’t I? I ended up sorting other people’s rejects instead. What’s a charity shop, after all?’