Dastak

Soft Ali Akbar Khan lent the cheap Indo-Pak restaurant an assumed sense of fake elegance. Tabrez Alam, a man in his mid twenties, wormed his way through the maze of chipped, black wooden chairs and the cream cloth covered tables that reminded him of the cheap Irani Café that he lived above in Nursery in Karachi. He thinks it was called Café Jamshed, but he could be wrong. As he reached for the aged notepad in his front shirt pocket, he realized the tear in the pocket flap. Tabrez had been trying to remind himself of doing the pocket right for about ten days now. But why should he care, he thought to himself; Salim Pasha, the owner of this mediocre eatery in College town, didn’t seem to care.

Tabrez couldn’t see her face. She was looking out toward College Avenue through the large glass window. As he approached her, he saw the back of her head covered with motionless brownish black hair. It fell below her shoulders in a wavy mess; the kind that results from a hasty comb after a hurried shampoo.

“Are you ready to place your order?” asked Tabrez in his poorly accented English.

“Main apnee friend ka intezaar kar raheen hoon (I am waiting for my friend to arrive),” said the woman. The faint whiff of fresh shampoo hit Tabrez as she turned to look at him. The woman with the still brownish black hair revealed her face, cast in the shadow of the ugly sun that hit the back of her head. The dry response came in Urdu, from the non-smiling patron.

“I’ll check with you soon, maim,” replied Tabrez nervously. Ma’am you idiot, MA’AM, not maim, he thought to himself. She is not a maim saab. What a FOB. He half smiled in courtesy, and the woman turned away.

Tabrez slithered across the congested spaces between the chairs and tables. He wondered why on earth would Pasha the owner want to add two more tables to this small space. He also wondered if ma’am’s friend was male. Must be desi, he thought to himself… and a doctor too. Tabrez turned his back against this lady known only as Nighat Aapa, avoiding her and the ghee paratha order that he would have to take if he did not.

He breezed through the double doors, entering the kitchen. It was noisy,
hot, and sweaty, and the Nepali waitress had not bothered to “hello” him thus far. Pasha the owner, was dipping his pinky in besan. Tabrez watched him.

“Quality check,” laughed Pasha, as he stuck the finger with the yellow paste in his mouth. He was wearing his usual starched, beige shalwar kameez with a black waist coast, complete with pot-belly. He looked more like a corrupt MNA than the owner of a substandard, hot, smelly, ethnic restaurant in the middle of college town. His forehead was covered with beads of sweat.

“Did table 4 order yet?” commanded Pasha in his deep baritone, as he grabbed the rolling pin and started flattening a ball of dough. Tabrez took a thick, brown, plastic glass from the tray of the Nepali waiter, and reached for the carton of mango nectar.

“She’s waiting for a friend,” replied Tabrez, squeezing and shaking the cardboard box of its contents. Nepali mumbles something inaudible and grabbed a fresh glass. “She’s having a mango lassi for now.”

“Mango lassi!” said Pasha. “She occupy seat for over 45 minutes, and all she want is mango lassi! She orders full meal, or she leaf NOW. I got customers waiting yaar!” Pasha frowned at the flattened dough as he worked it.

“This dough stinks,” mumbled Pasha. So do you, thought Tabrez. He poured the milk in the glass, and saw a drop of Pasha’s sweat fall into the dough as he exited the kitchen.

Tabrez placed the glass with the saucer in front of ma’am. She was still looking out into the distance, waiting for John Wayne to ride into the horizon. She looked up at Tabrez, puzzled.

“Main nay tho kuch order naheen kiya ( I never ordered anything),” she says.

“It’s complimentary,” lied Tabrez.

“Oh,” is all she said, staring at the contents in the glass. She sipped it, and looked away again. The smile on Tabrez’s face vanished.

“Excuse me,” came the shrill voice of Nighat Aapa from behind. Tabrez turned around, forcing the requisite smile on his face. “Two more plate of Bihari Kabab, one plate of ghee parathas, please” said Nighat. Why does she put on so much make up?

“Yes,” replied Tabrez.

“And two diet coke,” she added. How ironic. Right before entering the kitchen, Tabrez turned around. Ma’am was still sipping away non-chalantly, as she looked out the window.

Pasha was standing in front of the sink, wetting the small black comb and combing his hair. The balls of dough lay next to the frying pan, ready to be turned into parathas. He parted his black, thinning, oily wet hair meticulously in a straight line on the side. He was yelling at one of the cooks.

“Hows the tikka order for table 6?” asked Pasha, “On the double everyone, on the double.” Commander Pasha clapped his hands as he commanded. “We got customer.”

Tabrez repressed his anger at Pasha, when he watched the cook quietly baste the chicken leg quarters with a marinade. He reached for the diet coke fountain, and gave the cook the note with the Bihari Kabab and ghee paratha from Nighat Aapa.

“She still there?” paused Pasha when he saw Tabrez’s reflection in the mirror. Tabrez nodded, trying to look like he really was busy, hoping that Pasha would leave him alone. “Hay! You tell her to leaf now, haan,” yelped Pasha, “Enough is enough!” Tabrez stopped the soda machine, and fired back.

“What do you mean enough is enough,” asked Tabrez. Everyone stopped. Silence. A look of bewilderment covered Pasha’s face. He stared back at Tabrez in the mirror. Is this a revolution?

Tabrez realized his tone could get him fired. He tried to make up for it.

“Bad customer service, Salim Saab,” explained Tabrez, his tone softer this time. “If I tell her to leave.” Pasha is ready to spew his anger all over Tabrez. Silence. Lets hear it Salim. Pasha turns the faucet off, and starts giving his hair the final touches, looking only at his reflection.

“I am going to have a bad word of mouth by those waiting in line,” re- affirmed Pasha, in a composed tone. “She got to go.”

“She is a seated customer, Salim Saab. Do you really want me to kick her out?”

Pasha turned around, comb in hand. The comb looked like a cheap weapon.

“Enough! She places an order or she leaves now!” roared Pasha. “What part of that you not understand!” Pasha showed Tabrez the door.

*****

“Madam,” said Tabrez. She looked up. He feared she might notice his ripped pocket.

“How long are your friends going to be?”

“I don’t know,” came the reply. “They were supposed to be here about 20 minutes ago.” Her english had a touch of Punjabi.

Tabrez paused, searching for the right words, not knowing what to say next.

“Is… there a problem?” she asked him with the concern of a mother in her voice.

“Yes,” Tabrez began to explain, “there is a problem.” The words got stuck in his throat, the invisible steel band around his chest tightening by the moment, refusing to budge, not allowing him to utter.

“I’ve worked in a diner before,” she said. “I know how it gets.”

Tabrez looked at her. Trying to listen to her, and not trying to think what he should say next.

“I’m probably taking spots away from your other customers, so I should really leave.” She took a hold of the small black bag that lay seated on the table. He was still silent. Say something, idiot. But the invisible metal band is still snug around his rib cage, and he couldn’t speak. He managed to mumble a yes.

She took her bag, and walked out, respectfully. Tabrez saw the half empty glass of mango lassi lying on the table, as she exited. He clenched his teeth as he saw her walk out and away into the sun, in the same direction that she was looking toward when she was seated inside. A group of four ABCD college frat boys, complete with piercings, sweats, baseball caps, and deep voices from just waking up after a night of heavy after-party partying at their house, most of them hung over, plopped themselves around ma’am’s former table.

“Its about time,” said one.

“You guys want to start off with some beer,” said another, while the remainder three goons laughed. “Four Taj Mahals right here,” said the arrogant one.

“Yes sir,” said Tabrez.

Tabrez entered the kitchen with the glass in hand. Pasha was thumbing through a stack of bills from his cash register. Tabrez stood in front of him, staring at him. Pasha’s fingers stopped, and he looked up at Tabrez, a scowl on his face.

“Can I help you?” inquired Pasha. Tabrez stood silent and motionless, the lassi glass in his hand. He wanted to see the thick yellow fluid in the glass all over Pasha’s face, his starched shalwar kameez, and meticulously parted oily hair. He wanted to see it drip off the flab of Pasha’s cheeks, he wanted Pasha to curse him as he struggled to get the lassi out of his oily, dirty hair.

“Can I help you?” Pasha raised his voice.

“No,” said Tabrez. “No, you can’t,” said Tabrez as he turned away. He approached the sink behind him and poured the contents of the thick yellow fluid down the drain.