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 join to the growing story of the tailors.
“In those days,” continued Ishvar, “it seemed to me that that was all one could expect in life. A harsh road strewn with sharp stones and, if you were lucky, a little grain.”
“And later?”
“Later I discovered there were different types of roads. And a different way of walking on each.”
She liked his way of putting it. “You describe it well.”
He chuckled. “Must be my tailor training. Tailors are practised in examining patterns, reading the outlines.”
“And what about you, Om? Did you also help your mother to collect grain?”
“No.”
“He didn’t need to,” added Ishvar. “By the time he was born, his father — my brother — was doing well in tailoring.”
“But he still sent me to learn about the stinking leather,” said Om.
“You didn’t tell me that,” said Maneck.
“There are many things I haven’t told you. Have you told me everything?”
“Learning about leather was to build character,” explained Ishvar. “And to teach Om his history, remind him of his own community.”
“But why did he need reminding?”
“It’s a long story.”
“Tell us,” said Dina and Maneck, in unintentional unison, which made them laugh.
“In our village we used to be cobblers,” began Ishvar.
“What he means is,” interrupted Om, “our family belonged to the Chamaar caste of tanners and leather-workers.”
“Yes,” said Ishvar, taking the reins again, “a long time ago, long before Omprakash was born, when his father, Narayan, and I were young boys of ten and twelve, we were sent by our father, whose name was Dukhi, to be apprenticed as tailors…”
“Teach me how to use them,” said Om.
“What?”
“The knife and fork.”
“Okay,” said Maneck. “First lesson. Elbows off the table.”
Ishvar nodded approvingly. He commented that it would impress everyone and increase Om’s worth when they went back to the village to find him a wife. “Eating with fancy tools — that’s a great skill, like playing a musical instrument.”
Dina’s quilt started to grow again. With the tailors sailing vigorously through Au Revoir’s export orders, remnants piled up like the alluvial deposits of a healthy river. She sat with the patches after dinner, selecting and blending the best of the recent acquisitions.
“These new pieces are completely different in style from the old ones,” said Maneck. “You think they will look all right?”