The Cambridge Curry Club (14 page)

The day she developed the mandatory infatuation for her French teacher at the Alliance Française, Durga met Vivek Thadani. An overcrowded bus had failed to stop; at the sight of another overflowing bus approaching, a young man suddenly detached himself from the impatient queue to lie supine on the road. The bus stopped. The young man winked at Durga as the
passengers
swarmed of single mind up the steps of the bus. He arose, nimbly joining the last eager passengers as they boarded.

‘What’s happening? Why have we stopped
suddenly
?’ asked a woman anxiously, looking out of the window.

‘Accident,’ replied another succinctly.

‘Who?’ quavered a fearful elderly man, trembling as he held his newspaper and his breath.

‘A young man,’ contributed a passenger in the front seat near the exit.

‘But I can’t see anything,’ sulked a plaintive voice from the rear. ‘Can’t you move your head?’

‘Do you think this is the cinema?’ another said reproachfully. ‘Next you’ll want popcorn.’

‘
Arre
, she can’t see anything because he’s dead,’ announced a peering passenger. ‘He’s under the wheels.’

‘
Hai!
’ screamed a few voices in panic, and a large, perspiring woman burst into tears that fell on her
basket
of spinach, giving it a fresh, dewy appearance.

‘Calm yourself. These things happen,’ murmured a stranger gently.

‘It is in the hands of God. Time and place decide everyone’s fate,’ agreed a hard-faced woman in a snug salwar kameez.

‘But what a place to choose to read!’ exclaimed another woman.

‘What? He was reading? In the middle of the road? These students of today …’ The hard-faced woman clicked her tongue disapprovingly. Several passengers followed suit until the bus reverberated with a click, click, click.

‘What was he reading?’ inquired an eager voice.

‘
Arre
, does it matter whether it was a book or a bus ticket? He has gone to heaven now.’

‘I think he was lying down,’ confided an elderly passenger.

‘
Hai!
Suicide?’ shrieked a woman attempting to peer over the oily heads of her companions.

‘The driver is looking under the bus,’ reported a man in a vantage position.

As several passengers rushed for a better view, the young man slipped into a vacant seat and winked cheekily at Durga. As she subsided beside him, he buried his face in the pages of a newspaper.

‘He must be a jilted lover,’ concluded the hard-faced woman. ‘He must have decided to end his life in a dramatic way to show her how much he loves her.’

‘But then she should have been there to see it,
otherwise
what’s the use? His life will have been wasted for nothing. Where is she? Could she be on the bus?’ asked an agitated voice at the rear of the bus.

Several sharp eyes roamed the bus, pausing
momentarily
over Durga’s wooden face.

‘Maybe his girl is under the bus, too?’ suggested a new, unseen voice.

The women looked as if they would burst into fresh tears, until a calm voice in the front said that was unlikely. That only happened in television soaps.

‘
Arre, chalo, chalo
, come on, we are getting late,’ shouted a man impatiently to the bus driver.

The large woman had a renewed bout of tears.

‘A young man has died, and you are bothered about being late?’ yelled the hard-faced woman. ‘He is
someone’s
son, someone’s brother, and now he will never have a wife, or bear children. Shame on you!’

The man subsided, embarrassed. The driver climbed back into the bus. He glanced at the tiny picture of Ganesha pasted to the corner of the windscreen and bowed his head in thankful prayer. He had been
convinced
there was a man lying on the road; now he could no longer be certain. ‘It was only a goat, and it ran away,’ he announced to the passenger in the first row.

The driver’s verdict spread like bushfire. As the bus lurched forward, several passengers began to scramble for seats now as scarce as small change in the shops. A couple searched in vain, and the woman glared at Durga and the head buried in the newspaper. ‘Look,
they are nicely sitting in our seats,’ she grumbled, but her meek husband ventured, ‘Never mind, at least no one died under this bus.’

Everyone agreed. No one wanted a ride in a chariot of death. Durga saw the newspaper shake, hearing little snorts. Soon she was giggling, her face red and puffy. The hard-faced woman nudged her companion. ‘Look at these youngsters, no respect for death.’

The bus emptied opposite the post office near the Hanging Gardens. The driver hurriedly lowered
himself
from the seat to stand outside the bus, mopping his brow. Fate had saved him this time, but it was a sign: there was danger lurking on the roads. He would take up a job in an office canteen instead. At least he would not mistake food for anything else.

The newspaper was lowered and a cheeky grin emerged. ‘Hi, I’m Vivek!’ he announced. ‘Did you enjoy the ride?’

‘That was a really stupid thing to do. You could have been killed.’

‘But you noticed me, didn’t you? And now you’ll never forget me.’

Durga never forgot. Vivek was inseparable from his motorbike, calling it Moody Baby, and unknown to her mother Durga had soon travelled the length and breadth of Bombay. The lights of the Haji Ali Mosque in the middle of the sea twinkled as they sped towards Bandra, her hair a pennant in the wind. Durga’s mother frowned; who could have imagined bus rides to college could cause such damage to her daughter’s hair? She prepared herbal concoctions using areetha and shikakai as shampoo substitutes, and oiled her daughter’s hair with angry tugs.

Two years later, Durga’s mother found out, and her first question, fearing much worse, was whether Vivek had held Durga’s hand. Vivek made her laugh, said Durga. Her mother was sufficiently alarmed to discuss the matter with her husband. ‘I think Durga should settle down,’ she said firmly.

He protested, ‘But she’s only twenty-four. She’s just finished the double MA and she’s applying for the scholarship to Cambridge.’

‘Let her get married and continue her studies. We should start looking now,’ insisted her mother, lips
sewing
a thin line. ‘She should not get into the wrong company.’

Vivek, the son of a businessman who manufactured matchboxes, was not the right company, she asserted, and the nonsense about him making Durga laugh was just that – nonsense. He was hardly going to set her alight. She should find a life companion with an
intellect
to match. Durga’s mother awaited the impending visit of Mrs Kamath, friend of Aunty Sarojini and community matchmaker.

Mrs Kamath was a florid woman with a heaving bosom that moved like a rusty pendulum; her large gold earrings and prominently displayed mangalsutra, a gold chain with black beads and gold pendant, were not only a symbol of her married status but a calling card. She settled down comfortably to ‘ladies talk only’. As she bit appreciatively into the pohe snack prepared with reluctance by Durga’s mother, she
confided
, ‘I have “n” number of boys lined up for Durga. Just say the word.’ She patted the sofa with a plump hand, inviting the mother to move closer.

‘First of all,’ began Durga’s mother firmly to Mrs
Kamath, ‘you should understand that my daughter is highly intelligent. She wants to study for many more years and we want a boy who understands that. We would like the two to get married first, and study together later. Durga would like to go abroad, so we are willing to wait until the right one comes along.’

‘Of course, anyone who knows your cultured family would expect that only, no question. Best match will be found. Now can I have her horoscope?’ humoured Mrs Kamath.

The family stood firm. Horoscopes would not be necessary. Mrs Kamath sensed steel; years of experience had taught her it would buckle and melt like butter.

Dressed in an orange silk sari for the occasion, Durga’s mother stood uncertainly in front of her
wardrobe
mirror before dabbing
Chanel No. 5
on her wrist. The bottle had lain in pristine condition since they had left England eleven years earlier. It was a frivolous gesture for a serious business.

Sitting uncomfortably in the opulent living room, Durga and her mother were boldly examined by a middle-aged couple seated on a silk sofa across the room.

‘Where is your son?’ asked Durga’s mother for the second time as a servant brought in silver glasses of rose sherbet on a silver tray. Ignoring her question, the man addressed Durga. ‘As you know, we are a well-known industrialist family in Maharashtra. We believe that girls should be educated, of course, and it is
commendable
that you want to continue your studies, but our daughter-in-law is expected to look after this family first. It is a lot of responsibility, and she must be ready for this status and position.’

‘How many in your family?’ inquired Durga’s
mother, directing the question at his wife. The husband answered proudly, ‘We have three eligible sons.’

‘But which princeling are we supposed to meet?’ asked Durga’s mother. ‘You’ve seen my daughter, but not a single one of your sons is here. This is not a cattle fair.’ She rose hastily to her feet. ‘Enough of this
nonsense
! Come, Durga, let’s go!’

Mrs Kamath meekly apologised as they drove away. Rich people were ‘like that only’, she prattled, but there was no need to fret, she had already found another, the ‘best’ match for Durga.

‘The boy is from a good Saraswat Brahmin family. Engineer. Good-looking, tall, fair, very fair. Lives in America, New Jersey. Your Durga can continue
studying
there. These American universities are first-class. The boy has no sisters, no brothers. And on top of it, his parents live far away. Only slight problem and you know I am telling you honestly, I never hide anything, the boy is moody. You see, what happened is that he was married,’ confided Mrs Kamath. She placed a
warning
hand on Durga’s mother. ‘No, no, just wait. I know what you must be thinking and what you are going to say, but he was married for a short time only. He is as good as new.’

‘What was the problem, then?’

‘Nothing much. He had a child, poor thing, dead at birth and then the wife had a nervous breakdown and she left him. These things happen, nobody’s fault. Since a long time it is over. He is on his own. Only thing, he gets a little angry. Moody, shouts a little, but when he is married again, when there is another child,
everything
will be all right.’

Durga’s mother terminated the conversation.
‘Really, this Mr Fair-Very-Fair-Shouter needs
professional
help, not yours or ours. We send him our prayers and good wishes for his complete recovery.’

‘Your mother knows what’s best for you,’ concluded Vivek when Durga described the meetings with Mrs Kamath.

‘How can you be so sure?’ she asked as they walked along Juhu Beach in the sunset. The sand was warm and sticky under her feet.

‘Never mind that. When are you going to apply for the scholarship to Cambridge?’

‘Soon, but what are you going to do with your life?’ she wanted to know.

He grinned. ‘Make bigger and better matchboxes, what else? You go ahead and do the fame thing for both of us. Remember, even if you do this marriage stuff, make sure you study and do something great with your life. Don’t become a housewife buying brinjals in Dadar market, I’m counting on you.’

Durga had little time to pursue either the advice or the application; her father had a heart attack the next day. The doctor pronounced it mild, but Durga’s mother abandoned her books and ministered to her husband with alternating panic and calm.

It was weeks since Mrs Kamath had successfully brokered a match; she planned her next visit to Durga’s mother with care. Mrs Kamath was no longer her usual ebullient and persuasive self; her daughter’s marriage had been under strain over a property wrangle, and she herself suffered from headaches and back pain. The
doctor’s
diagnosis was bad for business; depression and matchmaking were an incompatible combination.

‘I have come with five proposals, not one,’ she
gurgled. ‘This time you will not say “No”, I know that. Your pretty daughter is in such demand, really!’ Mrs Kamath shuffled the order of the ‘proposals’ with
practised
ease. ‘See, the first one is a really good offer, but they insist the girl should be a computer engineer. That too, software, only. The second family wants blood tests after the boy and girl have decided, because nowadays, these modern people you know, they want to be sure the couple can have children. And healthy children, also. The third wants quick marriage, there are four brothers next in line. It is a joint family. The fourth is a college lecturer, he lives a little bit far away – in Mangalore.’

Mrs Kamath put down her teacup with finality.
Satisfied
with the results of her strategy, she said, ‘So you didn’t like the other four? Never mind. No
problem
, what is the hurry? Durga is young, beautiful and intelligent. We can wait two years, three years, five years, whatever you say. But I thought that with Bhausaheb’s health problem, God grant him long life, but you know how these illnesses suddenly come upon us, you are so sensible, I know you will want to have everything settled at the right time. Now I have one last offer. Of course, I will have to see about this one if you like him, because the boy is very much in demand, but if you are keen I can give you the details.
Chitpavan
family. He is a doctor doing research in Cambridge. Parents and sister live in Pune. He will return after studies, that much I can tell you.’ She paused. ‘Also handsome.’ It had been a masterstroke to pretend to gather her handbag in a hurry. Durga’s mother asked her to stay for another cup of tea.

Dip dip. That was what the tea-seller at Nasik Station had said as Durga arrived from the riverbanks, the immersion of her parents’ ashes over. She had asked for tea. ‘Will a dip dip do?’ He had mimicked the dunking of an imaginary teabag in the chipped white cup he slid under her nose.