The waiter saw it too. “You should use Camel Paste, sahab, it will stick it strong.”
Maneck nodded. He drank what remained of the coffee and dropped the pawn back in the box.
“My son also plays this game,” said the waiter proudly.
Maneck looked up. “Oh? Does he have his own set?”
“No, sahab, it is too expensive. He plays in school only.” Noticing the empty cup, he offered the menu again. “Two o’clock, sahab, kitchen is closing soon. We have very nice karai chicken, also biryani. Or some small thing? Mutton roll, pakora with chutney, puri-bhaji?”
“No, just one more coffee.” Maneck rose and went to the back, looking for the wc.
It was occupied. He waited in the passage, where he could observe the brisk kitchen activity. The cook’s perspiring helper was chopping, frying, stirring; a skinny little boy was scraping off dirty plates and soaking them in the sink.
Despite the chrome and glass and fluorescent lights, something of the old Vishram remained, thought Maneck — kerosene and coal fuelled the stoves. Then the wc door creaked open, and he went in.
When he came out, the table nearest the kitchen had been vacated. He decided to take it. The waiter darted across to remind him his second coffee was waiting at the other table.
“I’ll have it here,” said Maneck.
“But it’s not good, sahab. Kitchen noise, and smell and all, over here.”
“That’s okay.”
The waiter complied, fetching the coffee and the chess set before retreating to discuss with a colleague the whims and idiosyncrasies of customers.
Someone called out an order of shish kebab to the kitchen. The cook’s helper stoked the coals and, when they had caught, arranged a few on a brazier. Skewers loaded with chunks of lamb and liver were placed over it. The coals perked up as they were fanned.
How they glowed, thought Maneck — live creatures breathing and pulsating. Starting small, with modest heat, then growing to powerful red incandescence, spitting and snapping, their tongues of flame crackling, all heat and passion, transforming, threatening, devouring. And then — the subsidence. Into mellow warmth, compliance, and, finally, a perfect stillness…
The Vishram’s lunch hours had ended. Past three o’clock, the waiter began hinting apologetically, with a weak attempt at humour. “Everybody ran back to office long time ago, sahab,” he smiled. “Scared of their bosses. But you must be a very big boss, only you are left behind here.”
Yes, only I, thought Maneck.
“You are on holiday?”
“Yes. Bill, please.” He glanced inside the kitchen again. The stoves were off; the cook’s helpers were cleaning the place to get ready for the dinner patrons. On the brazier, the coals had crumbled to ashes.
The total for two coffees was six rupees. Maneck placed ten in the saucer and walked to the door.
“Wait, sahab, wait!” called the waiter, running after him. “Sahab, you forgot your paakit on the chair! And also your game!”
“Thank you.” Maneck slipped the wallet into his hip pocket, and took the chess set.
“All your things you are forgetting today,” the waiter laughed a little. “Be careful, sahab.”
Maneck smiled and nodded, then opened the door, stepping from the air-conditioned chill of the Vishram into the afternoon sun’s harsh embrace.
Gradually, it became difficult for Maneck to make his way along the pavement. He realized he was walking against the flow. Evening had fallen while he had wandered the city streets; people were spilling urgently out of office buildings, heading for home. His watch showed a quarter after six. He turned towards the railway station, to let the human tide carry him forward.
The brunt of the rush hour had passed, but the high-ceilinged concourse continued to reverberate with the thunder of trains. There was a line at the ticket-window. He remembered a story he had heard about ticketless travel, once upon a time.
Abandoning the queue, he jostled through the crowds to get to the platform. The display indicated that the next train was an express, not scheduled to stop here.
He looked around at the waiting passengers — lost inside newspapers, fidgeting with luggage, drinking tea. A mother was twisting her child’s ear to drive home some lesson. A distant rumbling was heard, and Maneck moved to the front of the platform. He stared at the rails. How they glinted, like the promise of life itself, stretching endlessly in both directions, silver ribbons skimming over the gravel bed, knitting together the blackened, worn-out wood of the railway ties.
He noticed an elderly woman in dark glasses standing next to him. He wondered if she was blind. It could be dangerous for her so close to the edge — perhaps he should help her move to safety.
She smiled and said, “Fast train, not stopping here. I checked the board.” She took one step backwards, motioning with her hand to draw him back too.
Not blind then, just stylish. He returned her smile and remained where he was, hugging the chess set to himself. Now the express could be seen in the distance, having cleared the bend in the tracks. The rumble was louder, growing to a roar as it approached. When the first compartment had entered the station, he stepped off the platform and onto the gleaming silver tracks.
The elderly woman in dark glasses was the first to scream. Then the shriek of the pneumatic brakes drowned all other sounds. The fast train took several hundred yards to stop.
Maneck’s last thought was that he still had Avinash’s chessmen.
Under the tree where the cobbled walkway met the pavement, Om dropped Ishvar’s towrope, and they settled down to wait. A bird startled in the dense foliage above them. They kept glancing at the wrist-watches of passersby whom they pestered for alms.
At one o’clock they left the pavement and trundled over the cobbles. The shrubbery and the garden wall of the Shroff residence shielded them from the neighbours’ view. They made straight for the back door, keeping close to the side of the house, and knocked softly.
Dina ushered them in. She filled water glasses for them and, while they drank, dished out masoor in plates from Ruby’s everyday set on the sideboard. How many more years could she do this before Ruby or Nusswan found out, she wondered. “Anyone saw you come in?”
They shook their heads.
“Eat fast,” she said. “My sister-in-law is coming back earlier than usual.”
“It’s very tasty,” said Ishvar, carefully balancing the plate on his lap.
Om grunted his affirmation, adding, “Chapatis are a little dry, not as nice as yesterday. You didn’t follow my method or what?”
“This fellow thinks he’s too smart,” she complained to Ishvar.
“What to do,” said Ishvar, laughing. “He’s the chapati champion of the world.”
“They are from last night,” said Dina. “I didn’t make fresh ones. I had a visitor. You’ll never guess who.”
“Maneck,” they said.
“We saw him passing half an hour ago. We knew him in spite of his beard,” said Ishvar.
“Didn’t you talk to him?”
They shook their heads.
“He didn’t recognize us,” said Om. “Or he ignored us. We even said ‘Babu, ek paisa’ to get his attention.”
“You have altered very much from when he knew you.” She held out the platter of chapatis. “Have another.” Ishvar took one and shared with Om, tearing it in half.
“I told him you would come at one o’clock,” she continued. “I asked him to wait but he was getting late. Next time, he said.”
“That will he nice,” said Ishvar.
Om shrugged angrily. “The Maneck we knew would have waited today.”
“Yes,” said Ishvar, scooping up the last bit of masoor from his plate. “But he went so far away. When you go so far away, you change. Distance is a difficult thing. We shouldn’t blame him.”
