THE GIRL BEHIND THE COUNTER
I leaned over the parapet of the balcony of my apartment
on the 15th floor. The preparations for the evening bhajan ritual had begun, I deduced from
the escalating hum downstairs. The building watchman was arranging gray Neelkamal chairs in a semi-circle
between a sleek red Honda and a black Chevrolet SUV. I looked back up at the
cacophony of skyscrapers. Yardley Gardens was one of Mumbai’s plushest
townships that my family had recently relocated to from the humble cobwebs of
Nashik. The westward sun made me squint and I withdrew to my cushy C-backed
bamboo swing, resuming the novel in my hand. There are few things as relaxing
as an evening breeze tickling you while you turn the delicious pages of Adiga’s
The White Tiger.
It was nearing six and I could hear the boys playing
football downstairs. In spite of wanting to join them, I stubbornly clung on to
my novel. I didn’t want to open my mouth and make a fool of myself. I remembered
reading ‘It is
better to stay silent and be thought wise than open your mouth and be proven
foolish’. Or was it the other way round? Immaterial, I wasn’t leaving.
My 10th standard was to start in a few days
time. You could say I was a little nervous. The relocation was a little bit of,
like they say, a ‘culture shock’ to me. My father had taken up a new job that
offered thrice as fat the pay of the previous along with a horde of benefits
like company quarters at this place, Tata sedan and discount coupons at various
dining joints. A
personal pizza was no more to be shared by the family. The visit to the
restaurants no more meant a strict decorum of mere daal, a paneer subzi and roti. I could unblinkingly order
appetizers to overpriced cokes without a warning eyebrow. Just the very thought
of them now made me hungry. I got up from the swing.
“Ma, can I have some money? I want to go out,
eat something,” I shouted as I went inside the house.
“Why do you want to go outside?” The voice came
from the living room. I spotted her knitting, red and white yarn balls by her
side. “Your grandmother has packed us some...”
“Mom!”
“These kids of today,” she muttered without
annoyance. She was quite jovial ever since we moved in, so much that in spite
of being the unwilling kitchen recluse that she is, she made me take a plate of
parathas to both of our neighbours,
without paying any heed to my “But what do I say to them?” What happened next
is something I fervently hope that twenty years later I will look back and
laugh at.
She set aside the half-finished scarf for my
grandmother and fished her hand into her purse that hung by the armrest of the
couch. All the years we stayed with my grandparents in my native town, there
was a non-stop bickering between mother and grandma. The day we left, I sneaked
a look at mother crying in my grandma’s lap and usually the stoic lady that my
grandma is; even she couldn’t hold back the Ganges streaming down her eyes.
“Don’t spend all of it,” she said. A crisp
hundred rupees Gandhi grinned at me.
The elevator doors opened to a shockingly
electric environment. I mean, when you come to such a colony, you expect people
to be silent and, what’s the word, ‘sophisticated’ to the point of being
considered curt. But with the noise these kids made with their Ringa Ringa and
catch and hopscotch and whatnot, I almost felt being back at Nashik. I avoided
eye-contact and went to the main gate. The path to the street was blocked by a
team of sweaty t-shirts and delirious outcries of boys of my age and less
playing football.
Let me tell you something about me and
football. First, I hate this game. Second, and by no way because of the first pointer,
I am no good at it; although, that doesn’t stop me from admiring a good game
when I see one. And admire I did the fat guy in the midfield as he dribbled the
ball between his legs. A tall stick lurched toward him. Our fatso quickly
defected to his left and furiously kicked the ball at a scared teenager who turned
reflexively to his side. The ball hit his elbow.
“Hand!” the fatso screamed in delight and duly
encashed the free-kick. I was impressed.
I looked at them from a distance, hoping they
would notice and call me over. Maybe they were too engrossed in the game or
maybe they didn’t care about a stranger gawking at them. I lay unheeded for. Sighing,
I made my way to the exit.
Spencer Mall is more of a two floored
convenience store. I was thrilled to spot an escalator and hopped right on. The
first floor hosts a small cafeteria consisting three chairs each around
circular wooden tables. There is a glass counter on the left where you get ‘The
best Frankies in town’.
Confession – I had no idea what Frankies were.
I wondered if they were so expensive that it would drive my pride of being loaded away.
At the first floor, one takes a U turn to face
the cafeteria. I occupied one of the empty tables and studied the menu. The
contents were reassuring. A basic vegetarian Frankie cost around forty and went
up to fifty five if you wanted many fancy fillings. Schezwan paneer Frankie
commanded interest. I went to place an order at the glass-top counter and there
she was – The Girl behind the Counter.
“Hi! And what would you like to have today?”
she smiled at my affably. It was almost a smile of recognition, as if she had
been privileged to have known me since ages and I was her favourite customer. I
bit on my braces – her perfect pearly whites probably never needed dental
treatment. The thick and sleek black tresses almost shone and one lock of hair
hung cutely on her dusky face. Her eyes were everything the on-screen actors
swoon to and poets write couplets about. You get it, don’t you? She was
probably a few years older than me; and wore a black t-shirt that read ‘Joe’s
Frankies’.
I tried to power up. Speak up, I screamed
inside and mentally rehearsed what I had to say. Just order as you would
normally do and say ‘Thank you’ when
you get it. How hard is it? A question popped in my head – how is schezwan
pronounced? C and h are silent, duh,
came the answer. How can two consecutive words be silent, I wondered. Well, it just sounds better, doesn’t it?
‘Sez-waan’, I reasoned. But this is taking too long, way beyond the line
that separates a customer from this pint-sized nincompoop. And was that sweat
on my forehead?
“Sir?” the girl asked unflinchingly, her
expressions intact. I hoped she wasn’t just pretending to be calm while hunting
for an alarm button under the counter.
“One plate schezwan paneer Frankie,” I said and
instantly felt proud that I didn’t stutter. Smooth,
I praised myself.
“That would be fifty rupees, sir,” she looked
into my eyes, smiling all the while.
I must tell you, gentle reader, that continuous
eye-contact is worse than brow-beating. You see, girls are not intimidating.
Only pretty ones are. I understand I sound shallow but I call upon the puberty-license.
Yours truly is no exception to this rule. I
feigned interest in the pile of tissues in the waste-bin behind her as I dug
into my pocket. Finally, I produced the hundred rupee note and extended my hand
to pay. At the same time, she stretched hers too and ended up accidentally
touching my fingers. I cringed as my fingers tingled, feeling like a biscuit
that’s been dunked in the tea a bit too long. I went back to the table with
eyes squeezed shut hard.
“Excuse me, sir,” I heard a voice in a couple
of minutes. It was her voice. She meant me. Me!
“One schezwan paneer Frankie.” She gave me a
roll with salad and cubes of cottage cheese lathered with sauce and gravy peeking
out of the open end.
She had pronounced ‘Schezwan’ as ‘Shej-waan’.
My heart sank. I felt like stabbing myself with a spoon. Smooth.
“Thank you, sir,” she said. “Hope to see you
again.”
That night, I slept smiling ear to ear. In
spite of having absolutely no dreams involving her, I woke up fresh as a
deodorant.
The next day I borrowed a fifty from mother and
pressed the elevator button. The same noise on the ground floor lobby, the same
guys playing the football, and this time, a penalty shootout. I saw Fatso taking
his position in the D and stopped walking. It was the Tall Stick taking aim
this time.
“Ready!” screamed the goalkeeper from Fatso’s
team. The next instant, the ball was kicked. Fatso used brute force and jerked
aside the guys from the opposing team standing on both sides and jumped high,
his head deflecting the ball to a corner.
“Foul!” alleged a hysterical bunch. Fatso
couldn’t care less and bent double laughing. Tall Stick pushed him to the
ground but Fatso was clearly having a time of his life. I grinned at him. I was
impressed. Again.
The same traffic, the same pedestrians, the
same road, the same mall, the same first floor and the same Frankie Girl. Bless
her. I walked up to her and went straight to the counter. Today, I had taken
special measures to make myself presentable. I was wearing my best pair of
shoes and my wrist sported father’s metal-strap Sonata watch. I had taken the
pain of applying small amount of face powder, just the perfect amount that
separated complexion from make-up. My gait was confident and tone smooth. I
went up directly at the counter and ordered without referring to the menu. She
gave me her known-you-since-ages smile and asked me to take a seat. There were
hardly any customers and the mood was relaxed. I took the seat facing her,
careful not to slouch.
She was an epitome of effortless grace. The way
she fluently dealt with cash, her eased-out demeanour as she mimicked one of
her colleagues, the elegance with which her features aided every word of hers
and the voice that wafted, an elixir to the ears... more I observed, more I was
drawn towards her. Ask what her name is,
I scolded myself. It won’t compromise the national security. But I knew I
wouldn’t. I dreaded the moment I would finish my roll and walk back. Finally,
she summoned me and I went up to the counter. Taking the Frankie, I turned
back. I wanted to disappear from the spot that made me feel like a coward. I hurriedly
walked to the escalator. I heard a minor commotion in the background but didn’t
bother to check it. Like I even cared. As I was just stepping on it, I felt a
pat on my shoulder.
It was her.
As my heart violently jolted into a see-saw,
she smiled at me. The same sunny smile. I smiled back stupidly, not knowing
what else to do.
“Sir, you forgot to pay,” she said.
As I lay on my bed that night, I wondered how I
could be so foolish. It was embarrassing. Or was it? She gave no other
indication of my lapse. What she did was exactly the opposite. She accepted the
money and said, “See you tomorrow, sir.”
I felt so invited!
Today is when this phoenix shall soar into the
blue skies of hope, I decided the moment I woke up, making up in clichés what
he lacks in style. She was not going to eat me up if I strike a conversation
with her. Being well mannered was her job description. Being myself just won’t
do. Besides, there is no big deal in asking a person’s name. I had Shakespeare
to endorse that.
I can, I
will, was the
day’s mantra. I enjoyed the movie I saw, chomped up some more Adiga, laughed
hard at the silliest of sitcoms and in an uber-confident mood, practised
pick-up lines in front of the mirror. I enjoyed the familiar noise of the bhajans, was enthralled by one of the
superb goals scored from a distance, relished the evening chirping and even
helped one of the ladies from the store with her shopping bag. This is it, I thought as I went up the
escalator.
It was yet another slow weekday. My palpitation
jacked up as I noticed her. She was not at the counter though, and occupied one
of the tables with a guy in his early twenties, deeply engrossed in a
conversation. As I walked towards her, as if almost on cue, I saw her
affectionately pulling his cheek. It was only when I reached the counter that
she noticed me.
“Customer, darling,” she whispered to the guy,
getting up in a rush.
“Hey, wait up,” the guy insisted, catching her
by her wrist.
“Oh no,” she began to protest. “I have to...”
“Come now,” the guy was persistent. “I am sure
he won’t mind giving us a minute. Would you, kid?”
That was my call. “Oh, n-no. Carry on.” I
somehow mumbled. I wanted to look away. I didn’t. I should’ve. I didn’t.
The guy kissed her on the cheek and she responded
by whispering something in his ear. “See you soon,” she said, waving him
goodbye.
She went behind the counter and adorned her
position. Giving me another of her well practiced smiles, she asked, “A paneer
chilly Frankie?”
I didn’t know what to say. Somehow, I managed
a, “Never mind,” and started walking out.
“Oh, I am so sorry,” she said apologetically
behind me, her voice dipped in desperation. “It’s schezwan paneer, isn’t it?”
I didn’t respond and followed a chirpy middle
aged couple out on their grocery shopping down the escalator. I rehashed the
events in my mind and tried to articulate what I felt being the unwilling
witness. Was I sad? Nope, that was not what it felt like. It was a funny feeling. I cursed myself – funny
won’t do, such words are what stupid people resort to.
I did like her, yes sir, most definitely I did.
Or did I? What was it that I felt for her? I stopped on my tracks as the word hit
me between the eyes – fascination. I turned and looked at one of the stained
glass windows of Spencer Mall. I was captivated by her, by the novelty she was,
like a Da Vinci painting, like an amazing novel. She was my white tiger. So why
did I turn back? Wasn’t today one of the most confident days? Why should it be
a ‘was’? What if she has a boyfriend? What was I hoping for anyway?
Nothing, a happy voice rang inside me. I like
the Frankie, I like the Frankie Girl; so what’s stopping me from having both of
them just now?
Nothing, came the reply again, even happier.
I retraced my footsteps. There was no audible
heartbeat this time, only pangs of joy, of inexplicable ecstasy. I went to the
counter and smiled.
“Hello,” I said.
“Hi, sir,” she replied, for once, more
surprised than rehearsed happiness.
“Name’s Arora. Nikhil Arora.” I am the king of
clichés, I smiled wider.
She followed suit. “Right, Nikhil,” she said.
“And you will have one schezwan...”
“...paneer Frankie,” I shared the moment with
her. “That’s right.”
“Right away, Nikhil,” she said. “Please have a
seat.”
“Sure,” I said and waited till she called me.
“Nikhil, your Frankie’s ready,” she called out.
“Oh yes, thank you,” I took the roll from her.
“By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you.”
“Yes?” She looked into my eyes
inquisitively.
I took in a deep breath. Yes, I can. “I love your smile,” I said.
“Thank you, sir,” she beamed, gracefully bowing
her head a little. “Oh and there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell you
too.”
I stared at her. This was unexpected. “Yes?”
“My name’s Roshni,” she grinned, extending her
hand forward.
I shook it. This time there was no long lasting
tingling sensation, no desperate urge to smell the palm for a residual
fragrance. It was just a warm handshake, the way it is meant to be.
I went back to my building. All the football
players had evaporated but for one guy. Fatso was shooting against the wall and
chasing the ball as it bounced back. I felt inclined to talk to him but zeroed
on procrastinating it – I had socialized too much for a day already. As I
walked towards the lobby, I heard a “Dude!”
I turned around to see the fatso calling me.
“That,” he said, pointing at the Frankie in my
hand. “That has paneer in it?”
“Yes…” I said, slowly, wondering what the guy
was up to.
“Then share it no, don’t be so selfish,” he said and grabbed at it. I didn’t mind
it. Nothing about his tone was forceful. On the contrary, it was friendly.
“By the way,” he said; his mouth full, “I am
Aditya. And you?”
“Nikhil,” I said and extended a hand forward.
“Good, man” Aditya said, almost moaning at the
taste. “This shit’s good.”
I was amused. The guy was ravenously friendly.
Somewhere, not far off, I saw a figure running towards us. That thing was skipping,
almost bounding toward us in excitement. Aditya recognized the figure and his
eyes lit up as the figure too gave a squeal of joy.
“Dude!”
he said and dropping the Frankie, hugged her. The girl was about my age, a few
inches shorter than me but extremely attractive. She hugged him back. “Oh my
God, where were you since so many days?”
Awkwardness started flooding inside me again.
Aditya noted my presence and quickly released her. “Dude,” he said. “This is my
cousin.” Then he noticed the mess he created by dropping the Frankie. “Oh shit,
I dropped it, did I? Wait, I am going to run and get one for each of you. Hang
in there. Won’t be long…”
“Well,” the girl turned from a scampering
Aditya to look at me. “What’s your name, did you say?”
“I didn’t,” I said almost reflexively. “Did I?”
“Let’s try again,” she chuckled. “What’s your
name?”
“Nikhil,” I said.
“I am Roshni,” she said, extending her hand.
My face brightened. “Roshni, did you say?”
“Yeah, why?”
“Pleased
to meet you,” I beamed and offered my hand. She shook it.
Was it a tingling sensation I felt?
