The Tiffin (7 page)

chapter nine

THE TINKLING OF A PRAYER BELL woke Kunal. Shafts of sunlight beamed at him through the bars on the window. Sleep receded and the world around him came into focus; a clean white room swirling with golden light, honks of impatient traffic from outside, a hint of sandalwood incense perfuming the air, and hard tile digging into his back.

He sat up. He was still sore, but a good night's sleep had made the pain bearable.The events of the previous night flooded his head and the sunshine lost some of its golden sheen. He had hidden the letter Mrs. Seth had thrust at him, unable to show it to Vinayak last night. It was his mother's and he wanted to read it first. And he had, standing in the tiny bathroom in Vinayak's room. The short letter revealed so much: the mistake his mother had made as a teenager by getting pregnant out of wedlock; his father's name; how he had ended up with Mrs. Seth; but above all, the fact that his mother loved him.

But why hadn't she returned in a week? What happened? Did she find his father? Were they together now? The one week had turned into thirteen years and she still hadn't returned. There were so many questions and no answers.

His thoughts turned to Mrs. Seth. How must she have felt, saddled with a child she hadn't even asked for? He shook his head, trying to rid himself of the image of her as he'd fled the dhaba. Her piercing shriek still echoed in his ears.Was she all right?

He slipped the green bangle from his pocket and ran his fingers over its glassy surface. Mrs. Seth had given him something to hold on to, something to believe in even though she had lost all hope that his mother, her friend, would ever return.And for a moment he was glad she had lied.That green bangle had helped him through many a dark moment. And then there was the money she had given him last night. In her own way she had loved him and he would never get the chance to thank her. He blinked back tears that threatened to spill out.

But he had to look for his mother now. He had to find out the truth, no matter how painful. He couldn't live with a lie any longer. And no matter how many A. Patels there were in Bombay, he would find the right one, even if it took him forever.

Unable to sit still, he got to his feet. It was still early, only seven in the morning by Vinayak's old watch that lay on the floor beside his cot, but already the heat had bite. Cool tile pressed against the soles of his feet as he padded to the window and looked out at the chawl.

The U-shaped building embraced a bare patch of earth with a lone, scraggly tree. Impaled on its topmost branch were the tattered remains of a red kite.Women were lining up near the communal tap in the centre of the yard to stock up on water before the supply was cut off for the day. Plastic buckets lay scattered around them like colourful flowers. They gossiped and laughed as they awaited their turn.

Kunal pushed his face against the bars and peered out. On either side, doors lined the corridor as far as he could see. A balcony with steel railings ran the length of the narrow corridor overlooking the courtyard. In front of every room, an assortment of clothes hung from flimsy lines attached to the railing.

“You okay?” said Vinayak softly.

Kunal started and turned around.

Vinayak lay in bed, cradling his head in his hands, watching him.

“I think so,” said Kunal.

A comfortable silence stretched between them.

“Do you want to talk about last night?” asked Vinayak. He sat up and swung his feet to the floor. “You seemed very upset. Why did you run back?”

Kunal shook his head, annoyed at the sudden lump in his throat. He wasn't ready to talk about this yet, not even with Vinayak. He glanced out the window and asked the first question that popped into his head. “How many people live in this chawl?”

“It was made for about a hundred people but three hundred actually live here,” said Vinayak.

“I see,” said Kunal. He couldn't think of anything else to say.

A man dressed in a holey vest and shorts walked past the window with a mug of water and a newspaper tucked under his arm. His eyes flicked towards Kunal briefly as he passed. Within minutes, another walked past. He too was carrying a mug of water and a newspaper.

Kunal looked at Vinayak. “Surely they're not going to the station for ... to ... er ... you know what I mean.”

Vinayak had a twinkle in his eye. “Only ten rooms in this chawl have an attached bathroom. The rest have to use the communal toilets located at either end of the corridors on each floor.Twenty years of service with the dabbawallas has earned me one, or by now we'd be lining up on the landing with a mug of water just like these people. Every week someone is beaten up or forcibly dragged out because he took too long.”

“Are you serious?” said Kunal. He had to smile.

“Maybe, maybe not!” said Vinayak. He massaged his legs, sighing. Thick blue ropes of varicose veins snaked up his legs and into his pyjamas, bunched up at the knees. “Thank God it's Sunday,” he said, stifling a yawn. “We'll get you settled before I go to work on Monday.”

“Will you help me find a job?” asked Kunal. “I can't sit around doing nothing.”

“One thing at a time. Let's get some breakfast first,” said Vinayak. He scratched the mass of grey curls that peeped from the open neck of his rumpled kurta. “I'm hungry.”

“I'm not,” said Kunal.The thought of food reminded him of the dhaba.And Mrs. Seth. If he were still there, he'd be serving breakfast to the crowds with her hovering over them, barking out orders. Sundays were particularly busy at the dhaba and, in spite of everything, he longed to hear her voice once more.

“I'll ask you that question when a plate of the best breakfast in Bombay is in front of you,” said Vinayak.

“You'll make breakfast here?” asked Kunal. His eyes flicked to the bare counter at the back of the room.

“No one uses this kitchen now,” said Vinayak abruptly. “We'll be eating out.”

Before Kunal could ask why, Vinayak had walked into the bathroom and shut the door.There was so much about Vinayak he did not know and wasn't sure if he should ask.Where was his family? Were they coming back soon? Maybe that was the reason Vinayak had mentioned this was a temporary solution. But did this mean he had a week, a month, a year before Vinayak sent him packing?

Kunal turned back to the window. A woman in a bright orange saree was bathing a child. The young boy, clad only in soap suds, ran around the muddy courtyard shrieking with joy while his mother chased him, laughing and admonishing him simultaneously. Round and round they ran; blurs of orange and brown. Did the boy know just how lucky he was? He touched the note in his shirt pocket, tucked close to his heart.

“Your turn,” said Vinayak. He was dressed in clean clothes with wet, slicked-back hair. The fragrance of soap and toothpaste filled the room.

Kunal shuffled to the bathroom. Vinayak put a hand on his shoulder. “Wipe that gloomy look off your face. Things can't be all that bad on a sunny morning like this. And after breakfast you'll feel a lot better, I promise. So hurry up!”

ON THE WAY OUT THEY passed a dozen people lined up along the corridor and on the staircase, each armed with reading material and the inevitable mug of water. Vinayak caught Kunal's eye and winked as they hurried past. Kunal couldn't help but grin.

Sunshine Restaurant and Bakery was located the next street over from the chawl.A tantalizing aroma of freshly baked bread reeled them into the shabby yet clean eatery. Even at this early hour it was crowded.

“Hello-o-o,Vinayak! Who's this scrawny chicken with you? And what happened to his face?”

“Morning, Rustom.” Vinayak greeted the massive proprietor, who looked more like a wrestler than a shopkeeper. He was perched on a stool at the entrance of the shop behind a white marble counter on which stood a cash register. Piled behind him were blackened trays filled with freshly baked crisp buns. Even as he greeted them, Rustom continued working, wrapping the buns at top speed in a piece of newspaper and handing them to customers.Though the line moved rapidly, it never seemed to shorten.

“Another tray of buns up front,” hollered Rustom in the direction of the kitchen. “So, who is this?” he asked Vinayak again as they stood beside the counter waiting for a table.

“Kunal,” said Vinayak. “He's staying with me for a few days. This
pehlwan
had a run-in with some ruffians, but nothing to worry about. He'll be all right in a week.”

“Then bring him here every day,” said Rustom. “We'll fatten him up with our good food. At least he'll hold his own the next time.You'll have the usual?”

“Yes please,” said Vinayak. “But Kunal may want to choose what he wants.”

A waiter led them to a table and slapped a couple of menus, encased in cracked plastic, on the table. He sucked on a pencil stub, waiting for their order.

Kunal scanned the menu. There were so many mouth-watering choices; omelettes, scrambled eggs, mutton cutlets, maska pao, kheema bun, baida roti. The list seemed endless. He put it down. “I'll have what Vinayakji is having.”

“Chai and maska pao, right?” said the boy, glancing at Vinayak and gathering up the menus. Vinayak nodded. The boy walked over to the pickup counter and placed the orders.

Kunal gazed around him. It was the first time he had ever sat at a table and ordered a meal. He felt grand as he leaned back in his chair and waited for his breakfast, which he would eat sitting down.Waiters smiled and joked with the customers as they delivered steaming plates of food.

The aroma of fried eggs mingled with the fragrance of spicy omelettes and mutton cutlets. But the smell that stood out was freshly baked bread with an underlying hint of sourness, which Kunal just could not get enough of. He sniffed so deeply and so often that Vinayak asked if he had a cold.

Occasionally, Rustom strode through the dining room, barely managing to squeeze his huge frame through the narrow gaps between the tables, greeting customers and even helping with clearing the dishes when it was extra busy — something Sethji would never have done.

“They all seem so happy here,” said Kunal softly. “And Rustom is so different from Sethji.” His stomach dropped at the mention of his former employer's name.

Vinayak leaned over and patted his shoulder. “That part of your life is over. You'll never go back there again, so stop worrying! It's Sunday and we both need a break.What would you like to do?”

“I'd like to see the financial district,” said Kunal.The words jumped out of his mouth as if they'd been waiting there forever. The moment he uttered them, he knew it was the only thing he wanted to do today.

“Financial district it is,” said Vinayak.“It's where most of the tiffins are delivered anyway. I'll take you to see the Queen's Necklace at Marine Drive, too. Have you seen it before?”

Kunal shook his head. He didn't know the Queen's necklace was in Bombay, or why it was at Marine Drive. “Never been beyond Andheri Station and the area around the dhaba. That's where most of my deliveries took me.”

Their breakfast arrived. The waiter plunked down their food and tea, left a chit of paper with “Rs. 5/-” written on it, and zipped away.

Kunal devoured the breakfast with his eyes first. Crisp brown buns, the size of his palm and oozing with golden butter, squatted on a plate giving off the most delicious fragrance. His stomach growled in delight.Vinayak was already biting into his bun, showering the table with crumbs. Kunal picked up the still-warm bread and took a large bite. Oh yes, he thought as he crunched up the mouthful, Rustom had named his restaurant well; this was definitely sunshine for the stomach.

Moments later both plates were empty. Kunal licked the butter from his fingers and sat back sipping the sweet lemony-minty tea.

“Hey, Kawas,” Vinayak called out, reaching for his wallet. “Take care of this bill, will you?”

“I'd like to pay for my share, please,” said Kunal. He dug out some coins from his pocket.

An expression of surprise and extreme sadness flickered on Vinayak's face and then it was gone.

“If you want to, Kunal, go ahead,” said Vinayak. “You're your own master now.”

Kunal loved the sound of those words.

THEY STEPPED INTO THE street. A blast of muggy air laced with petrol fumes greeted them.

They walked at a leisurely pace while Vinayak pointed out various landmarks and interesting people.They stopped briefly to buy a meetha paan, which Vinayak stuffed into his mouth, and on they went.

Before long they were at Andheri Station. As soon as they neared the entrance, a stream of passengers swept them along, like leaves in a strong current, and deposited them into the bowels of the station. Vendors pushed gaudy plastic combs, cheap watches, and newspapers under their noses. Beggars ran to and fro harassing commuters for money, blessing and cursing them in the same breath. The smell of rancid oil and burnt milk hung in the air. After buying tickets they pushed their way onto the platform.

A dirty yellow-and-brown train slid into the station. Some commuters squatted on the roof, very close to the electric wires.They didn't seem in the least worried as they sat clutching their ragged bundles, surveying the crowds below them with disdain. A few had boarded the train while it was still in motion, no doubt wanting to bag the vacant seats before the rest got on.As soon as the train squealed to a halt, a crowd of commuters surged towards the compartments trying to board, and were pushed back by an equally large crowd trying to get off. Tempers began to flare.

“Abey,
chutiye
, let me get off!”

“Arre,
gandu
, I have to get on. Can't miss this train.”

Vinayak held Kunal's arm tightly as they joined the crowd and were pushed on board by hordes of bodies behind them. They squeezed into a corner and waited as people poured in.

The compartment was stuffed beyond capacity, and the stench was overpowering. Kunal identified Dabur Amla hair oil, a sickeningly sweet perfume, and rotting fish. The rest of the smells were indistinguishable but just as bad. He took shallow breaths, hoping the train ride wouldn't be too long. Already his maska pao was starting to climb up his throat. The train jerked its way towards their destination, but no one fell over. There wasn't room for it. Kunal could see nothing outside, so instead he focused on reading the various advertisements plastered along the interior of the train.There were advertisements for family planning, cooking classes, and how to cure piles. Kunal read them all, quite fascinated.

“Marine Lines!” said Vinayak. “To the door, quick.” As the train slowed, Kunal and Vinayak fought their way through the densely packed crowds to the exit.

“Please let us through. Excuse me. Sorry. Excuse me.This is our station,”Vinayak said as he steadily dragged Kunal towards the door. Kunal held his breath as many a sweaty armpit brushed past his nose.

The train stopped. They were ejected onto the platform along with a dozen other passengers. Kunal breathed deeply at last and smelled salt air. They walked the length of the platform, climbed a few stairs, and crossed a flyover high above the zipping cars. Even from here, Kunal could see the ocean spread out ahead; a dark grey mass of water mirroring a sky bulging with swollen clouds of rain.

Kunal leaped down the last few steps and dashed to the concrete parapet and the tetrapods. He stood there, his arms outstretched, staring at the expanse of water and the hazy row of buildings beyond, shrouded in smog.

“This is beautifu— ughh!”

A wave crashed against the parapet, drenching him. He shuddered and spat out a mouthful of salt water.

“This is Marine Drive, Kunal, and the first rule of standing so close to the water is ‘keep your mouth shut!'” said Vinayak, laughing. He pointed to the buildings in the distance. “That tall building is the Hotel Oberoi Towers. And that one, with the circle on top, is the Air India Building. He faced the opposite direction. “And if we go that way, we can see the Gateway of India and the Taj Mahal Hotel. So, which way do you want to go?”

“Financial district.That's all I'd like to see today,” said Kunal.

Vinayak looked at him curiously, but thankfully did not ask any questions. Kunal volunteered no answers.

A cool wind swept up from the water. People hurried past, clutching umbrellas. Vendors were busy unfurling scraps of plastic and draping their food and wares in anticipation of the imminent downpour.The sea turned darker, more violent.

They passed a vendor in a plastic cape and hat, selling cornon-the-cob. His small coal stove was perched on a stand and protected from the wind by a blackened piece of tin folded all around it. Two gunnysacks lay at his feet, one filled with the raw fruit and the other with husks.The sweet smell of cooked >corn perfumed the air.

“Want to try one?” asked Vinayak. “They're delicious.”

Kunal shook his head as the first fat drops of rain spattered the sidewalk. People scattered across the street to the doorways of buildings, to bus stands, to any shelter they could find. Vinayak grabbed his hand and they raced to the nearest bus stand. They squeezed in with a dozen or so people already standing there. Kunal watched the ocean hiss and swell in front of him. The cluster of buildings in the distance was almost obscured by the veil of water. Somewhere in that little corner of Bombay was his mother. How was he going to find her?

As suddenly as the rain had started, it stopped. The sky cleared to a beaming blue and a light breeze tickled the surface of the sparkling water.

They resumed walking along the steaming sidewalk and reached the financial district a short while later.Vinayak wound his way through it, street by street, pointing out the buildings the alphanumeric codes on the tiffins represented. Kunal trailed Vinayak quietly. It suddenly dawned on him: this area was vast, block upon block of space, buildings packed together as densely as the compartments on the local train during peak hours. It would be difficult — impossible — to find his mother here.

Vinayak gave him a gentle nudge. “You'd better pick up your chin. It's sweeping the sidewalk.”

“What d'you mean?” said Kunal. He hated that Vinayak could read him so accurately.

“Most dabbawallas have six months of training to go through before they can make a delivery on their own.You'll have to worry about it only if you're accepted.”

Kunal wanted to tell Vinayak why it was so important for him to be accepted; that his future depended on being able to find his mother. He opened his mouth and closed it again. Maybe some other time. He did not feel like explaining just yet. He stared at the dusty sidewalk. Had his mother ever walked here? Was he treading in her footsteps?

For lunch they went to a street vendor and bought a Bombay sandwich — layered with boiled potatoes, cucumbers, tomatoes, and green chutney.

As the day dribbled away, they turned once more towards the waterfront. Just before they emerged from the huddle of buildings,Vinayak said,“Close your eyes; I have a surprise for you.”

Kunal promptly obeyed.Vinayak planted his hands on Kunal's shoulders and propelled him forward a few steps. “You can look now.”

Kunal opened his eyes and his jaw dropped.Across the street at the water's edge, a row of glowing streetlights ran along the sidewalk, gently curving towards the horizon.

“That, Kunal, is called the Queen's Necklace,” said Vinayak softly.

“I never knew streetlights could look so beautiful,” Kunal said, unable to tear his gaze away from the graceful arc of lights against the backdrop of the blue-black ocean. “I could stand here forever.”

Vinayak smiled. “I felt the same way when I first saw them. Still do.”

They stood quietly, side by side, at the tip of Marine Drive, where the sidewalk ran out and the sea, speckled with golden lights, began. The gentle lapping of the water, the gradually deepening evening, and the smell of salt air filled Kunal's senses, pushing out the worry. There had to be a way to find his mother and, if he thought hard enough, it would come to him.

Kunal was quiet on the train ride back home.

“What's up?” said Vinayak. “Too much thinking is not good for one's health.”

“How long can I stay with you?” asked Kunal.

“As long as it takes to get you on your feet,” said Vinayak. “That is my promise to you.”

As Kunal closed his eyes that night, the day played itself out again, ending with the breathtaking vision of the streetlights.