Doodles and Digestion
The grandfather clock hung there, unnoticed and irrelevant to the conversations that surrounded it; in this age of wristwatches and mobiles it had no significance. Radhika knew, here its significance to usage didn’t define its relevance. Maybe that’s the reason she ran here, whenever her fast-paced life and fast-paced city — Mumbai, gave her a few moments of solitude.
The rustic blue chipping walls, the large dusty photos that don them, that unappetizing black cock that yells out “Britannia and Co” or the welcoming smile of the restaurant’s 99 year old owner, nothing much has changed in all these years. Radhika sits on her favourite seat, under the uptight photograph of Queen Elizabeth, squiggling and sketching the larger humans around her into tiny cartoons on her tissue paper and gulping down Palonji’s Strawberry soda. Just like she did 6 years ago, when she came here for the first time.
June 2014 (6 years ago)
Divided from the larger group and lost, four hungry souls including Radhika had entered this place in the hope of food and a chair to perch their tired legs on. She still remembers how she yelled out in glee as her boyfriend, Zeeshan announced, “No point in looking now, lets eat lunch and then find the others”.
After finding a seat, having never had Parsi food the four of them looked at each other, clueless and confused. Boman Kohinoor, the then 93 year old man started decoding the menu for them with anecdotes and the history of the restaurant. The hunger suddenly disappeared in thin air and all that was left was curiosity to hear what he had to say. Boman, whose voice yearns to be heard by his customers, brought out his old albums, dusted them out and gloated with pride as he showed off his pictures with Queen Elizabeth, Hilary Clinton and all the other big names. Looking at our clueless faces, he offered to order and we obliged.
“There is an intricate relationship between food and conversations. We consume both and one often affects the pleasure of the other. Some conversations and flavours replenish our memories with joy, others leave us in distress that they can’t be recreated” — Boman said and bought before us the restaurant’s signature dish — Berry Berry Pulao. His wife had created this dish just like many others on the menu. As we took large chunks of the curried rice garnished with crunchy cashews, sweet onions and fried cranberries that filled our mouths, we were left with a punch of flavours. We had never had something like that ever before.
Almost validating the responses that were imprinted on our faces he said “You all like it, don’t you”. “Then again she was a magical woman, a successful legal advisor, a beautiful wife, a great cook and my inspiration to work hard. They don’t make anyone like her anymore”. The sheer joy in his voice, the reverence in his tone, the love in his smile and the sparkle in his eyes as he spoke about her was beautiful and had made Radhika lean a little closer to Zeeshan and give a little squeeze to his hands. Running around for work and nourishing dreams of building something new, they had forgotten to take out time for themselves. Boman, the pulao, this magical place and of course the caramel custard that followed reminded them of the little joys they were missing out on.
She quickly grabbed a tissue paper not to dab her tears, she wasn’t that girl but to make a tiny doodle of the place and mark the date for eternity. “Until Next time” she wrote as she handed over that paper to him, there was an unsaid promise of being back here time and again.
She heaves a sigh as she remembers the past and where the present has lead them to. As she gets started on her third doodle, Boman in his witty demeanor says “Hello bacha, alone again? Zeeshan baba nahi aaye?” “ Anyways achi baat hai, you won’t need to share the pulao then” as he leaves her giggling at herself. She looks up at the grandfather clock for the time and her phone for a message that says “Can’t be there, too busy”.
She has one last bite of the pulao, closes her eyes- almost picturing the memories it holds for her and makes her final doodle for the day. Not on the tissue paper but on a divorce letter.
- Anaapoorni P. C.
