The Parcel

The black cab glided to a halt outside Wentworth Close. There were four of us huddled in the cab, arms tucked into our jacket lapels. We reluctantly stepped out, bracing ourselves for the chill air whipping down the street. This was supposed to be autumn. I wondered how we would survive the winter.

Ten hours back, I was at Bombay airport saying my byes to my parents. Mom was disconsolate – She could no longer make me eat slimy Okra or beans with coconut gratings. Man, was I glad? I could step out after dinner for my cigarette without having to worry about mouth-fresheners or Pineapple-flavoured Paan. I remembered all those times when I did not return home before 12 when the last of the interminable serials on Sun TV wound down and they would retire for the day. Otherwise, I would have to dodge past my Mom’s pointed sniffs and my father’s disapproving glances into my room. My sister had married and left Bombay more than four years back. Since then, my parents had funneled, concentrated and blasted their affections on me. I love them – don’t get me wrong. But there is only so much of TLC a man can take before he needs the privacy of the front-room to spray his youth while watching Sun Music, especially when Udaya TV is playing black-and-white classics.

The old man was peaceful. He never spoke much. Maybe a lifetime of silence – at work and at home – had made him naturally laconic. It would serve him well. I was the only one who would listen to him. Only on the one subject where I knew he was among the best in the world- Shankar-Jaikishen. Now all he could do was listen to Rukh-Jaa – TrummTrummTrumm – while Mom shouted at him to turn down the volume because she could not hear what Simhapaandi was telling Mythili. Simhapaandi had said the same thing whole of last year. Mostly even in the same words. My old lady wanted to be sure she did not miss anything – just in case Simhapaandi said it in verse this time.

I had managed to put five and half hours between us. They were not the ones to email me. All I had to do was call every Saturday. Jeez, most of my friends had left home long back. I was reduced to smoking beedis with my building security guard till the visa stamping came through. Kashinath – thanks for all the freebies – I will get you a carton of Camels when I return.

The four of us stepped out. The fare was 50 Pounds. My mind went into mathematical overdrive. It was the equivalent of 29 trips from Bandra to Nariman Point, and money to spare for a Misal Paav. Gosh, we would have to stretch our 600 Pound settlement money very carefully. Our company gave us this money to settle down, make a B&B our base and then go house hunting. Savitha was the one girl in our group. No one knew whom she would share her rooms with. We three, Murali, Adrian and myself were going to share an apartment. But till we found our own place, we were going to stay here in Wentworth Close. There were three of them here. We would pay for our stay – all we asked for was the couch to stretch out and use of the bathrooms. My only worry was that these were all Murali’s friends. Adrian, Savitha or I did not know these people at all. One of them, Anand was from Bombay. His Mom had come home and given me a packet to hand over to Anand.

We stepped out of the darkness into the pathway that lead from the street. A cheery hall with lots of wood furniture greeted us. In Bombay, we would put a partition here and make this a three bedroom apartment. I could even visualize a study in the corner where a brass pot sat in sullen extravagance.

We settled quickly enough. It was dinner time and the question hung embarassingly in the air like a festering sore – ‘Would we get dinner here or were we supposed to step out’?

Sai was the first one to speak. “Hey guys, thanks for getting us all the stuff. Can I get the the boxes my father sent me? I have really been waiting for them.”

Murali opened up his bag. We had all done some sorting at the airport, rearranging things to avoid the excess baggage. I knew that he had tucked away the box right at the top of his American Tourister. Sure enough, he fished it out and handed over.

It was an awful lot of fuss over some fiery Podis. These were the mix of roasted lentil seeds, coriander, chilli and salt, with some other spices to have with rice or mixed with oil to make a paste to have with dosas. The amazing part was that each of the mothers packed something like two bottles for her child and one bottle for each of the roommates. So all of them got a variety of stuff from different kitchens with subtle and delicious variations. If you cared for this kind of thing, that is.

I didn’t. My lady had given some bottles too. Rasam Powder and stuff like that. I would most likely trade it for some Maggi Atta Noodles at the right time. Meanwhile, if we did not hurry, it looked like Sai, Anand and Palani would just rip the packs out of our bags. We needed their goodwill for the next four days. Even though we were paying them 15 Pounds a day for the favour.

I pulled the parcel buried deep in my handbag and handed it over to Anand. I remembered putting it in the handbag at the airport to reduce the cargo weight. Anand eagerly opened his bag while I still wondered about dinner.

“R___, there were supposed to be four bottles here. There is only three. Do you know where the other one is?”, asked Anand.

I had no idea. His mom gave me a heavy bag that had caused me untold trouble unpacking and packing at the head of the line. I had to fend off countless glares of anger from the passengers behind me in the line. Now if one bottle was missing, well, maybe the decrepit lady just forgot. Maybe she was bad at maths. What do I know? I got a bag in Bombay and I handed it over here in London. That is all. I mean, it is actually illegal to carry stuff that you don’t know about. I was breaking the law for him. What more did he expect?

But I needed the couch.

“Anand, this is the bag your mother gave me to give you. I just handed it over to you”, I said.

“No. I spoke to her only this morning. She said she was sending a bottle of tomato pickle. She would not forget something like that.”

Shit. Tomato Pickle. Now where would I find a bottle of tomato pickle?

“Wait, let me see”, I said, trying to bluff my way out.

“Yeah, see here, this is Paruppu Podi and this is Sambhar Podi”, I said reading out the labels pasted onto the Horlicks bottles.

“I know, R__. I can see the labels. There should also one more bottle here.” His voice shook and faltered.

“That is my favourite pickle. I would rather you forgot all the other bottles and just got me the tomato pickle. In fact, I was going to eat pickle and rice tonight", said Anand, nearly on the verge of tears.

In a way I could empathize with him, his strange predilection for the tomato pickle. The powders, while tasty and coveted, were churned out without too much effort. The lentils or coriander leaves were shallow-fried with spices and just run through the grinders. There was not so much of his Mom in them. The pickle was different.

His mom would have selected the best tomatoes from the market, red and juicy, felt each one of them for ripeness and firmness. It takes, what, maybe 20 tomatoes to make one medium size jar of pickle. I could see her sniff her way through roughly the same number of onions and dozens of garlic cloves. She would have fried them in a large frying pan. Since the tomato puree tends to jump off the pan and stick to the shelves and the ceiling, she probably made it in the balcony. There she would, with her arthritic bones and tired muscles, and in addition to all her other household chores, bend over the kerosene stove and pump the small piston until the pressure and flame was to her liking. Then, for not less than 3 hours, she would stir it with a newfound vigour, adding spices, salt, herbs and seasoning agents. She would take an occasional taste even as she shooed away any other would-be tasters, making sure the jar was first full for Anand before anyone else, even her husband could taste a morsel.

She would have imagined him picking one large spoonful of it and placing the dollop over the freshly steamed rice in his plate. He would pour a spoonful of melted butter over it and mix them up with his bare hands, the white of the rice and the fiery red of pickle intermingling into a pinkish hue.

If she was like my Mom, she probably worried whether her Anand thought of her at all. This was her insurance, her way of making sure that atleast as long as the pickle lasted, Anand would think of her. Now the pickle was missing, no one knew where. Tears welled up in Anand’s eyes.

Savita opened her bag to hand-out her parcels to the other boys. The celebrations were muted in the light of Anand’s tragedy. I stayed mostly in the background, guilty, thought not sure of what. Each received his parcels solemnly with murmured thanks. The electric cooker beeped in the distance, the rice ready but its partner in the ritual so cruelly forsaken. Eventually, the hand-outs complete, everybody just settled in silence. Sai opened his bag to take stock of all the items his father had sent - shaving razors, books, medicines, so easily available over the counter in India but only by prescription here or sometimes outright banned.

Sai came close to Anand, “Machan, my father has sent you something da. The old man actually cooked something for you.”

Anand smiled weakly, "Thanks, Is it for me? That is very nice of your Dad".

And then the shriek rang out through the silent room. He recognised the jar first, and then his mom’s writing on the label. He hugged it tight to his heart, his body racked by shuddering sobs.

I was missing Mom and Dad already.