Tea for Two and a Piece of Cake (22 page)

Rohit acts like there is nothing wrong. He is not bothered about the bandage on his head or on his arm. He is his usual active self and is now reaching out for Akash’s sunglasses.

Akash chuckles and says, ‘That is my boy. My brave baby soldier,’ and there is a surge of pride in his voice. I am so grateful for Akash’s presence.

I call up Mrs B and tell her that even though Rohit has had to have six stitches, he is fine now.

Tanya immediately wants to talk to me as she has been waiting for my call.

‘Mummy, what happened to Rohit? Is he okay? I am scared, Mama.’

‘Don’t worry, baby. The doctor fixed it.’

‘Has he given medicines for Rohit to eat?’

‘Yes baby, he has given painkillers.’

‘What is that, Mummy?’

‘Baby, I will come there and explain everything. You give the phone to Mrs B and be a good girl, okay? Mama and Akash are coming there just now.’

‘Okay, Mama. See you soon,’ she says, as she hands over the phone to Mrs B.

I tell her that we will soon be on our way home.

It is only when I am getting into the car, and I see my phone ringing and flashing the Spar guy’s number, that I even remember about the party order which is still to be completed.

‘God, Akash, it’s the guy from Spar for the ajinomoto and spring onions,’ I say.

‘Yeah, so I will drop you and Rohit home first and then go and pick it up,’ he says calmly.

‘Akash, look at the time!’ I say in horror. ‘It is 4.10 p.m. and we haven’t even finished chopping yet. We have to reach home, start cooking and be there by 7.15 p.m.’

Then I suddenly remember that I had left the noodles boiling on the gas when we had rushed out to the hospital.

‘Oh no!’ I shout, starling baby Rohit. ‘I left the noodles boiling on the gas. We are screwed Akash, we’re fucked big time,’ I say.

‘Shit,’ says Akash as he steps on the pedal.

And in that one word, he has totally surmised the situation we are now embroiled in.

We are really neck deep in it. And I don’t see any way out.

Trust in Me

A
s soon as we open the door to our apartment, the stench of burnt food hits us. The stove is still burning brightly, and the noodles in the vessel are an unrecognizable gooey mess at the top, yellowing in white circles in the middle, while its charred remains at the bottom and the sides stare back at us.

Akash and I peer into it and then look at each other. My heart sinks.

The tension of the whole day and this anticlimax is too much for me to bear, and I dissolve into tears. Akash is immediately at my side.

‘Calm down, Nisha, calm down. You do one thing. You go make tea,’ he says.

I look at him like he has gone crazy.

All the hopes we had, all the dreams we had built up, have
burnt
in front of our eyes and this guy wants
tea?

‘Okay, baba, if you don’t want to, I will make it,’ he says as he goes into the kitchen. He disconnects the gas cylinder from the hired stove and connects it back to my kitchen.

And he emerges a few minutes later with two perfectly made steaming cups of tea.

‘Tea for two,’ he announces.

‘No piece of cake?’ I ask.

‘Eh?’

‘Mrs B’s wisdom. She says it is the piece of cake that makes all the difference while serving tea.”

‘I am the cake here, Nisha, Want a bite?’ he smiles.

‘I don’t want a bite. I want to chop you to bits. You are the one who got me into this mess in the first place. And look at us now. The Magic Saucepan has shut down even before it started. A fine opening it has turned out to be.’

‘It ain’t over till the fat lady sings,’ he says, and I am surprised that Akash knows that usage.

‘I did not know you are an opera kind of a guy Akash. You do surprise me! You know about Richard Wagner’s Opera Suite?’ I ask, suitably impressed.

‘Oh, is that phrase from the Opera?!’ he asks.

‘How did you know about it if you haven’t heard of Richard Wagner?’

‘It is a common expression in sports reporting, Nisha. That’s where I heard it. Probably at an NBA game,’ he says. ‘Anyway, why are we sitting here discussing the fat lady’s vocals when there is so much work to be done? You go get dressed and wear your saree and everything you had been planning to wear.’

‘Yeah, right. And we will go there and entertain them by dancing or what? Ladies and gentlemen, Nisha and Akash will present an item number for us!’

‘Arre! Do as you are told for once. Leave it to me. Let me keep our little soldier with me. You go get ready.’

‘You are kidding, right?’

‘I am not. Now GO,’ he says, as he gives me a gentle push and takes baby Rohit from my hand.

The day’s excitement has been too much for Rohit, and he soon falls asleep in Akash’s arms.

As I get dressed in a very elegant chiffon saree, I notice just how much weight I have lost. I have indeed never been this
slim
before. The saree drapes around me perfectly and accentuates my curves, making me feel so sexy in it. The whole effect is understated elegance, as I slip on my favourite pair of diamond earrings, the ones that Samir had gifted me when we had got married.

‘No woman ever hated a man so much as to return his diamonds,’ someone once said. I wonder if it is true. But I still do not hate Samir. One part of me is of course furious at his betrayal, but another part of me somehow knows that a part of it is my fault too. The angry e-mail he had sent, did have a huge underlying patina of truth in it. That is why it left me with such a foul taste.

Still I felt we could have worked out things, had he given me a chance. But Maya being in the picture has changed everything irrevocably. It is still a stabbing pain when I think of them together. So I sweep it aside and look at myself in the mirror once more and am really pleased with what I see.

I step out and see that Rohit is fast asleep and Akash has placed him on my bed and is lying next to him. He has smartened up and changed too.

He looks at me and stares. And finally he says, ‘Nisha, you look stunning!’

I smile and say a thank you. It has truly been a very long time since a man paid me a compliment, perhaps the last time was before I became a mother! I do feel wonderful.

‘Now Akash—man to the rescue, fair damsel. Give me fifteen minutes. You go and leave the little soldier with Mrs B, and then off we go,’ he says.

‘Can you tell me what is all this about? And it better be good, Akash. I really don’t want to leave Rohit in this state with Mrs B,’ I say, still not comprehending. Is Akash taking me out somewhere to get my mind off the lousy day it has been? If that be the case, I am going to kick him so bad. The last thing I want to do is go out and eat at some fancy place, leaving my injured child behind.

‘Just go and leave Rohit, and don’t tell Mrs B about the burnt food and all. Tell Tanya to behave and you meet me downstairs in fifteen minutes, okay?’ His instructions are precise and crisp, and something about the way he says it makes me follow him without asking too many questions.

Fifteen minutes later, we are in Akash’s car headed towards Fort. I am very curious now. And I beg him to tell me what this is all about.

‘Listen to this,’ he says, as he fiddles with the controls in the car’s music system and turns up the volume.

A song which I have never heard before comes on:

Trust in me in all you do

Have the faith I have in you

Love will see us through

if only you trust in me

Why don’t you, you trust me?

Come to me when things go wrong.

‘Wow!’ I say. Who is the singer?

‘Etta James, though Eddie Fisher has sung it too,’ he says, singing along.

‘Why don’t you trust in me in all you do?

Have the faith that I… I have in you

Oh, and love will see us through, if only you trust in me. Yeah…yeah yeah

Why don’t you come to me, when things go wrong, cling to me and woh, and I’ll be strong

We can get along, we can get along, oh, if only you trust in me,’ Akash sings.

I watch Akash humming away the tune, surprised at how melodious his voice is.

It is now 6.10 p.m., and the street lights have already been turned on to illuminate the streets. We have crossed Haji Ali and are now headed towards Breach Candy hospital.

Akash pulls over and stops the car.

He tells me to come out while I am still wondering what the hell he is up to. Then I see a street-food stall, not even a stall, simply one operating out of a cart. There is a guy standing next to it, busy tossing noodles in a huge wok. A delicious aroma wafts towards us, making the food look
very
appetizing.

Then it strikes me!

‘No, Akash! We can’t possibly do that!’ I exclaim, the sheer audacity of the plan poking me like a sharp pinprick.

‘Of course we can, and we will. Watch me,’ he says.

He talks to the guy and expertly strikes a deal. The guy cannot believe that we want such a large quantity of food at such short notice. He must have thanked his lucky stars, as we seem to want almost his entire stock for the day.

Akash and I watch as the guy pumps up his stove to make a very high flame on it.

‘He does seem to know his stuff, Akash. Chinese cooking has to be done on very high flame,’ I tell Akash.

‘And look at the way he has chopped the veggies too, Madam; it is right upto your exacting standards,’ says Akash, as he points to the carrots, french beans, and shredded cabbage, all neatly chopped and stored separately in large containers.

‘How can we pass off street food as our cooking? What if they hate it or, worse, what if they discover this?’

‘That is a risk we will have to take, Nisha. You need to be cool about this. It’s better than cutting a sorry figure with no food, isn’t it?’

Forty-five minutes later, we have our main dish and two side dishes with as. As a bonus, the guy has thrown in some delicious fried chicken too for starters.

‘Try kijiye, Madam, aapko bahut pasand aayega,’ he says confidently.

He is indeed right. I have no doubt it will be truly delicious, but I am still petrified of what we are doing.

Akash has arranged all the food neatly in the serving containers which Ahmed Bhai had sent over, along with the cooking ones, in the back seat of the car. So, this is what Akash had been doing when he sent me to Mrs B’s house for fifteen minutes. He had been loading all the containers in the car.

We have ample time now to drive to Malabar Hill, which is where Mrs Singh lives.

We arrive well on time, and my heart is thudding in my ribcage like a muffled loudspeaker.

Akash calls up Mrs Singh and tells her we are outside her apartment. Mrs Singh tells us to come upstairs with the food and says that she will tell the security to let us in.

Her apartment is on the eighth floor, with a huge terrace and a landscaped garden which faces the sea. It is very tastefully done up and even though, in my eight years with Samir, I have seen many opulent south Mumbai homes, Mrs Singh’s apartment manages to impress me. The party is taking place on the lawn and the guests are yet to arrive.

She has already placed her serving containers on the table.

The hired help greets us and shows us into the kitchen.

Akash is carrying the main course and the chicken dish and I am carrying the starter and the vegetable dish. We place it all on the kitchen counter and then we turn around and see Mrs Singh approaching us.

‘Hello, Akash!’ she greets him with warm familiarity.

‘Hello. Mrs Singh. May I introduce you to Nisha, the person behind The Magic Saucepan,’ he says, as I smile and shake her hand.

‘I must say, it smells divine!’ says Mrs Singh.

I feel so embarrassed, I want to sink into the floor.

I squirm as I manage a feeble thank you, and Akash shoots me a warning look.

Mrs Singh says that she wants to serve it in
her
serving bowls as they coordinate with the plates, while the refills can be had from the kitchen.

She opens the containers we placed on the kitchen counter, inspects them, and says that it does smell delicious. And then she asks about the starter and says that she had not ordered it.

‘Oh that is complimentary, Mrs Singh. It is a kind of fried chicken which will go perfectly well with the drinks you serve. I do hope you like it,’ I manage to say.

Her face breaks into a smile, and she assures me that she will surely taste it later.

I ask Mrs Singh if I can arrange the food on the table, and also ask her if she wants me to stay around for the full duration of the party. I expect her to say a yes, but she surprises me when she tells me that she has enough staff who can handle the serving and the refills. She says it is the food that she was very particular about, and since Akash had raved so much about me, she wanted to try it.

I thank her politely, but inside I am terrified she will find out about our little deception. This is how conmen and people who commit frauds must feel after duping innocent people. I find it very hard to hold on to the truth, and it is only Akash’s soul-piercing warning looks that stop me.