fight at a ration shop, it was impossible to win when you depended on them for your food. Someone said the swelling on his neck might burst if he got too excited.
“This swelling is also caused by rascal banyas!” he raged. “They sell bad salt — salt without iodine! These fat, greedy banyas are responsible for all our suffering! Blackmarketeers, food-adulterers, poisoners!”
The grain truck rolled away. A sprinkle of wheat from leaking sacks marked the place where it had stood. A barefoot man in a vest and short pants quickly collected the spilled grain in an empty vanaspati tin, then ran after the truck to its next destination; tonight he would eat well.
The attendant engaged the scales, and the shop began serving again. The appropriate entries were made in Dina’s ration card. Besides the usual sugar and rice, she bought, under the tailors’ guidance, her full quota of red and white wheat as well as the allotment of jowar and bajri, which they said was very tasty, very nourishing, and, best of all, not expensive.
They watched the scales while each item was weighed, gazing up at the pointer till the beam came to rest. A cloud of dust rose when the man tipped the pan into Dina’s cloth bags. The grain cascaded with the sound of a soft waterfall. Afterwards, the tailors took the bags to the mill.
In the evening Om grew a little anxious about his chapati reputation. He mixed the flour and kneaded the dough more strenuously than he normally would have, concentrating hard while rolling out the chapatis, trying to make them perfectly round. A wayward arc meant that the dough was squished into a ball and rolled out again.
At dinner, everyone complimented his success. The praise was also delivered in the speed with which the eight he had made vanished. Pleased, he decided to make twelve from now on.
The cats came miaowing as soon as the window opened. Maneck told Ishvar and Om the names he had given to some: John Wayne, who liked to swagger about, implying he had the alley under control;
Vijayanthimala, his favourite, the brown and white tabby, prancing as though in a film-song dance sequence; Raquel Welch, sitting languidly, stretching, never deigning to rush to the food; and Shatrughan Sinha, bully and villain, from whom the scraps had to be thrown far, to give others a chance.
“Who is John Wayne?” asked Om.
“American actor. Hero type — sort of like Amitabh Bachchan. Walks as though he has piles, and onions under his arms. Always wins in the end.”
“And Raquel Welch?”
“American actress.” He leaned closer. “Big breasts,” he whispered, while the miaowing continued below the window.
Om grinned. “Good thing I made extra chapatis today. Looks like she’s enjoying them.”
“What’s going on?” said Dina. “Now you are teaching my tailors your bad habits. Please shut that window.” She wondered if something uncontrollable had been started here, with all this cooking together and eating together. Too much intimacy. She hoped she wouldn’t regret it.
Ishvar stood aside while the two boys carried on. “They say it’s a blessed deed, Dinabai, to feed dumb animals.”
“Won’t be so blessed if they come inside in search of food. They could kill us with filthy germs from the gutter.”
In the wc, the tailors’ urine smell that used to flutter like a flag in the air, and in Dina’s nose, grew unnoticeable. Strange, she thought, how one gets accustomed to things.
Then it struck her: the scent was unobtrusive now because it was the same for everyone. They were all eating the same food, drinking the same water. Sailing under one flag.
“Let’s have masala wada today,” proposed Ishvar. “Rajaram’s recipe.”
“I don’t know how to make that.”
“That’s okay, I can do it, Dinabai, you relax today.” He took charge, sending Om and Maneck to buy a fresh half-coconut, green chillies, mint leaves, and a small bunch of coriander. The remaining ingredients: dry red chillies, cumin seed, and tamarind were in the spice cabinet. “Now you two hurry back,” he said. “There’s more work for you.”
“Shall I do something?” asked Dina.
“We need one cup of gram dal.”
She measured out the pulse and immersed it in water, then put the pot on the stove. “If we had soaked it overnight it wouldn’t need boiling,” he said. “But this is fine too.”
When the boys returned, he assigned Om to grate the coconut and Maneck to slice two onions, while he chopped four green and six red chillies, the coriander, and the mint leaves.
“These onions are hot, yaar,” said Maneck, sniffing and wiping his eyes on his sleeve.
“It’s good practice for you,” said Ishvar. “Everyone has to cry at some time in life.” He glanced across the table and saw the fat white rings falling from the knife. “Hoi-hoi, slice it thinner.”
The dal was ready. He drained the water and emptied the pot into the mortar. He added half a teaspoon of cumin seed and the chopped chillies, then began mashing it all together. The drumming pestle prompted Maneck to add cymbals with his knife upon the pot.
“Aray bandmaster, are your onions ready?” said Ishvar. The medley in the mortar was turning into a rough paste, yellow with specks of green and red and brown. He mixed in the remaining ingredients and raised a bit to his nose, sampling the aroma. “Perfect. Now it’s time to make the frying pan sing. While I do the wadas, Om will make the chutney. Come on, grind the remaining copra and kothmeer-mirchi.”
The frying pan hissed and sizzled as Ishvar gently slid ping-pong sized balls into the glistening oil. He pushed them around with a spoon, keeping them swimming for an even colour. Meanwhile, Om dragged the round masala stone back and forth across the flat slab. Maneck took over after a while. Drop by precious drop, the green chutney emerged from their effort.
Dina stood savouring the fragrance of the wadas that were slowly turning mouth-watering brown in bubbling oil. She watched as the cleanup commenced with laughter and teasing, Ishvar warning the boys that if the grinding stone was not spotless he would make them lick it clean, like cats. What a change, she thought — from the saddest, dingiest room in the flat, the kitchen was transformed into a bright place of mirth and energy.
Thirty minutes later the treat was ready. “Let’s eat while it’s hot,” said Ishvar. “Come on, Om, get water for us.”
Everyone took a wada apiece and spread chutney over it. Ishvar waited for the verdict, beaming proudly.
“Superb!” said Maneck.
Dina pretended to be upset, saying he had never praised her meals with superlatives. He tried to wriggle out of it. “Your food is also superb, Aunty, but it’s similar to my mother’s Parsi cooking. That’s the only reason my tastebuds didn’t go crazy.”
Ishvar and Om were modest about their efforts. “It’s nothing. Very simple to make.”
“It’s delicious,” affirmed Dina. “Maneck’s idea of eating together was very good. If I knew from the beginning your food was so tasty, I would have hired you as cooks, not tailors.”
“Sorry,” Ishvar smiled at the compliment, “we don’t cook for money — only for ourselves and for friends.”
His words stirred her familiar residue of guilt. There was still a gulf between them; she did not see them as they saw her.
Over the weeks, the tailors expanded their contribution from chapatis, puris, and wadas to vegetarian dishes like paneer masala, shak-bhaji, aloo masala. There were always four people, or at least two, bustling about the kitchen in the evening. My bleakest hour, thought Dina, has now become the happiest.
On days that she made a rice dish, the tailors had a break from chapatis but went to the kitchen to help, if they were not out searching for a room to rent. “When I was a little boy in the village,” said Ishvar, cleaning the rice, picking out pebbles, “I used to do this for my mother. But in reverse. We used to go to the fields after the harvest and search for grain left from threshing and winnowing.”
They were trusting her with bits of their past, she realized, and nothing could be as precious. More pieces, to
