On a cool November evening in Bombay, a middle-aged man trudged heavily up the stairs of an old block of flats on Malabar Hill. This was Marina Residency, one of the most striking buildings in an area well known for striking buildings. Most residents had lived here for years, including a few who had spent over four decades in the building. Neighbourliness and human connection, to a degree unusual for Bombay, were one of many things that the inhabitants of Marina were proud of.
On the fourth-floor landing, a man struggling with a door lock, looked up and smiled at the man on the stairs. “Hello Chaturvedy! Trying to lose weight? Or did the lift stop working again?”
Sanjay Chaturvedy was grateful for the excuse to stop and catch his breath. “Yes, colonel. The former. All those Diwali sweets somehow went and tightened the seams on my pants. It is very unfair if you ask me. The sweets weren’t even that good.”
The other man laughed appreciatively. Colonel Varinder Chadha was a pleasant man, and tended to laugh uproariously at most things. A typical retired army bloke, as he called himself, he was seventy years old, but looked younger. He had lived in the building for nearly twenty years. A bag of golf clubs stood next to him.
“How’s everything else? Your boy’s gone back to college?”
“Yes, colonel. He left the day after Diwali. He’s a very sincere boy, wanted to go and spend some time in the University library before starting his fieldwork in Mexico”. Sanjay tried, and failed, to not sound proud. “Can I help you with that door?”
The older man had continued to struggle with the door as they spoke. He gave the key to Sanjay and stepped away from the door. “Yes, please, I was about to call that chap Ramkumar again. This happens every year to my door”.
“Ours too,” murmured Sanjay as he worked with the key for a few moments, until the door opened with a satisfying click. “There! But you’re right, you will need to call Ramkumar. It’s properly rusted. It’s the price we pay for living close to the ocean. We got our lock replaced last month.”
“Yes, I will call the bugger right away. Thanks, old man, much appreciated. Come in for some tea? Or whiskey?”
“No, colonel, I’ll continue my trek upstairs. Neelam will be waiting.”
“Right-o then. I will see you at clubhouse,” boomed the colonel, glancing at his wristwatch, “in about an hour’s time?”
“Yes, definitely!” Sanjay panted from the next floor. A few minutes later, he opened the door to his own flat, and mopped his face. How nice would it be if the stairwell was air conditioned, he thought. Maybe he could propose that at the residents’ meeting.
He saw the flask on the dining table and felt a twinge of disappointment. It meant Neelam was not at home, and he had been looking forward to telling her about the office drama. He checked his phone. There it was, a text from her twenty minutes ago. “Going down to the clubhouse. Mrs Gandhi said she wants to talk about something “terribly important”. See you there? There’s tea in the flask, and some pakodas next to the oven. Don’t eat too many! And come soon.”
Sanjay sighed. A few years ago, she would have signed off that message with a “love you”. When had they stopped saying I love you to each other? They had definitely said it when Aarav was a teenager because he used to roll his eyes at their “constant yucky PDA”. When had they stopped?
He poured out a cup and inhaled deeply. The fragrance of mixed spices calmed him. The tea was delicious, as always. He cherished their evening tea ritual where they shared masala tea, made the way he liked it, with plenty of cardamom. Every evening, they sat together on the window seat that looked out at the Arabian sea, sipping tea and talking about their day. It was the best part of Sanjay’s day. Sometimes they sat for nearly an hour, until Neelam would exclaim, “look at the time! I completely forgot about dinner!”
Sanjay smiled as he thought of her voice. He suddenly found himself missing her as though she was a lot farther than just a few floors away in the same building. How do you tell your wife of twenty years that she is the most important person in the world for you? Maybe a surprise trip to America? Years ago, she used to say she wanted to see Disneyland. He would ask Aarav if they the three of them could travel together over the Christmas break.
As if on cue, his phone rang. Sanjay’s face lit up when he saw it was Aarav.
“Hey, Kittu!” Sanjay exclaimed, calling his son by the nickname his grandmother had given him, “you’re up early! Can you believe it, I was just thinking about you!”
“Hi Papa. Why were you thinking of me? And where’s Mummy?”
“She’s gone to the clubhouse. It’s the first Thursday of the month, na. We have that monthly residents meeting. Listen beta, I was thinking your mummy and I could plan a trip to America around your Christmas break and we could all go to Disney together. What do you say? When do you get back from Mexico?”
“I like that, Papa. I’ll check and tell you what dates work. I’ll tell you tomorrow, okay?”
Sanjay wondered if there was something different about his son voice. Did he seem upset? Neelam would have known at Aarav’s first hi. And she would have known how to ask.
“When will Mummy come back? Can I call you guys again in an hour?” Aarav asked, and Sanjay was reminded of a time when the boy was ten and back from a rough day at school.
“Make it two hours, these meetings do go on a bit. What is it beta, do you want to tell me? Sanjay asked gently, and at the worry in his father’s voice, Aarav seemed to collect himself. He stretched his lips in what he probably thought was a reassuring smile. It heightened Sanjay’s memory of the ten year trying hard not to cry.
“Yeah, papa, don’t worry. It’s all good. I only wanted to ask Mummy how to get turmeric stains off wooden spoons. I made a bit of a mess in the kitchen and the roommates are a little upset.”
Sanjay whistled dramatically. “Based on what I know, Kittu, that’s a tough one. I’ve seen a lot of frustration in this house around wooden spoons. Your mom keeps buying them and then throwing them away because they either get masala stains, or get mould or something. There was this one Sunday when she must have tried some ten different cleaning materials on some wooden kadchi. At the end of two hours, the kadchi looked old and sad, but the yellow stains hadn’t budged. Our haldi is like Modiji. It stays.”
Aarav smiled politely. “Oh well, I guess I’ll go buy new spoons then.”
“Yeah, that might be best. And get those silicone ladles if you want to keep cooking Indian things. What have you been making?”
Aarav was quiet for a moment, lost in thought. Sanjay wished fervently that Neelam had stayed home. Should he text her and ask her to come back?
“Kittu?”
Aarav, startled, shook himself and smiled again. “What? Oh, sorry papa. What did you say? What did I cook? I made jeera-aaloo and dal. I was really craving some basic khana. But it was so bad. The aaloos were under-cooked, the dal had too much salt. I had to throw it all away. And I ruined the wooden ladles which weren’t even mine. I had no idea turmeric can do that much damage.”
“Oh no. Were they William’s? Did he say something?” Sanjay knew that William was the most difficult of Aarav’s three flatmates.
“O my god, that would have been so much worse. They were Maria’s. They were a gift from her mother. Some very expensive brand.”
The wooden ladles had led to something big, Sanjay was sure of it. He felt more confident. He was going to help his son all by himself. He would show Neelam.
“Tch. She must have been very upset? Did she say something unpleasant to you?”
He was satisfied and horrified that his question had been the right one. Aarav’s eyes welled up. Embarrassed, he brushed them away with the back of his hand, but he was willing to talk. The stained wooden ladles had become a battlefield. It had been an unequal battle, with three against one. They wanted him to stop using the kitchen to make Indian food. They didn’t like the smell of the spices, there were funny stains on the countertop. Aarav had never really connected with William who was in the same Ethnography course, but he had always though Maria and Roderick liked him and the food that he made. Turned out both were only being polite, and now they wanted to stop being hypocrites. The food discussion had led to other things. Roderick also wanted Aarav to stop inviting his cousins over the weekend. They were too noisy and he found them exhausting.
“The worst part was that they continued to talk about me when I had gone into my room.” Aarav hadn’t opened up with his father like this before — Mummy was the expert on all emotional crises — but now that he had started, it was easy to continue. Sanjay was torn between sadness for Aarav’s pain, and gratitude for this new chapter in their father-son relationship.
“All of these Brooklyn flats have funny acoustics. Maria and Roddy don’t know this, but if I open my bathroom window, I can hear the conversation in the living room. Maria accepted my apology but she still looked pretty upset so I wanted to know if she would say something after I left.”
“And? What were they saying?” Sanjay probed gently. He had met his son’s flatmates and liked them all, even William. He could see Maria, tall and graceful, curled up on the window seat that looked at the Brooklyn bridge. Roderick would be sitting on the large couch which gave the best view of the screen. The 70-inch screen which was a gift from Aarav’s parents.
“Maria said, — ‘Thank goodness it’s only two more weeks before he leaves for his fieldwork. I don’t think I’ll ever choose an Indian roommate again.’ And then she sounded all guilty and apologetic. She said — ‘I mean, I don’t dislike Indians, I have so many Indian friends, you know that, Roddy, right? But sharing living space with someone who is so different is so hard. Indian food smells funny. And the smell just lingers in everything. I feel like I can smell ginger and garlic every minute of every day, ughh!’ Papa, she just seemed to go on and on. I had no idea that was how she felt”
“And what was Roddy saying?”
“He was making sounds of agreement mostly. I heard him say “disgusting smell”. And then I closed the window and stopped listening.”
“When did all this happen?”
“Yesterday.” Aarav sighed. “I’m okay Papa. Last night I thought I’ll move out. I even looked at alternative housing options. But I’m feeling calmer now. I’ll be out of here very soon and I’ll find a new place when I come back from Mexico. Don’t worry. I’m feeling better. I’ll call again tomorrow, give mom a kiss from me.”
Sanjay sat staring out of the window. He was sad but not surprised. He had been expecting something like this for three years, and had felt grateful that his son hadn’t experienced any kind of discrimination in the US. Why were people so unkind? He was startled to hear the key in the door. Neelam walked in.
“What happened, Sanju? Why didn’t you come? Everyone was asking about you. Especially Colonel Chadha.”
“I got a call from Aarav.”
“Oh! Is he okay? He doesn’t usually call at this time. It must be really early morning for him, no? 6 AM? No, 7 AM.”
“Yeah, he’s okay. He was irritated with the flatmates and he wanted to vent a bit.”
“I’m sure it’s that girl, what’s her name, Maria. I know you think she’s lovely, but I always felt she’s not very nice. Chalo, it’s only 13 more days before he goes off to Mexico.”
“You always know his plans to the exact day.” Sanjay said admiringly and Neelam smiled. “So how was the residents meeting”?
“Arey, it was such a drama, Sanju. You should have been there, you might have helped people calm down a bit. It became really heated towards the end.”
“Really?” Sanjay was surprised. Usually these meetings were dull occasions, two plumbing related complaints followed by gossip and samosas. “Shall I make you some fresh tea as you tell me about it?”
She threw her dupatta on the couch and settled on the window seat. “I don’t want tea! I need a drink. It was so stressful to sit there and listen as people shouted at each other. Are you sure Aarav is okay?”
He stood up and kissed her cheek. “Yes, I’m sure Aarav is okay. I’ll make you a gin and tonic, and you start telling me what happened. Who was shouting? Just my luck to miss the one meeting when things get interesting.”
“It was horrible. You know Mr Shukla on the 8th floor? The one whose daughter was in Aarav’s class? Can you put some more ice in my glass? Thank you!”
“Yeah, yeah, I remember the Shuklas.” Sanjay put the glass in Neelam’s outstretched hand, placed a coaster next to her arm and walked back to the bar to make his own drink. “I thought they moved to Germany.”
“Yes, the whole family is in Berlin. Only Mr Shukla came back to India this month. To look at all the properties they have. Two here in Malabar, two in Bandra, two in Thane. He’s going all over the city renewing leases, finding new tenants and all that nonsense.”
“Six houses! He always did have good business sense. I wish I had invested more in property like he did.” Sanjay sighed and sat down next to her.
“Don’t be silly,” Neelam said. “You invested in all the right things. We have everything we need. Do you want to hear what happened or do you wallow in irrelevant self-pity some more?”
“Sorry sorry, haan tell me. Why was Mr Shukla shouting?”
“Mr Shukla wasn’t shouting. He was being shouted at. By the ground-floor Mr Mishra to begin with. It seems like the Shuklas’ current tenant doesn’t want to renew the lease — they’re moving to Delhi or something — so Mr Shukla has been looking for new tenants. It faces the bay like ours, but it has even better views. Plus, it has access to the terrace. Mrs Gandhi told me he was getting 1.5 lakh rent for it, imagine! Who knows, he might be asking more this year, and that’s why he’s not getting too many offers. That’s what he kept saying — that the broker has managed to find only one potential tenant so far, so he doesn’t have a choice. The association’s response was that that’s not our problem. Keep looking.”
“And what’s the problem with his one potential tenant? Why is the association getting involved?”
“They’re a Muslim family.”
“Oh. Ouch.”
“Haan. Mr Shukla was really pushing hard. He said the husband and wife both work with Tata Motors, the two kids go to Valley High. They’re very posh family, all that. Mr Vohra reminded Mr Shukla that no Muslims have ever been allowed to stay in the building. And then Mr Shukla said show me where it is written in the association rules, and of course it’s not written anywhere. Mr Shukla tried to start a discussion around how we should be open-minded and then Mr Mishra reminded him how five years ago, Mrs Shukla had campaigned to get all the Muslim maids removed from all the houses in the building.”
“Oh yeah, I had forgotten all that drama. Aarav used to do such a great mimicry of the fights that year.”
“I remember that,” Neelam smiled fondly. “And then Mr Shukla said that that’s all very different because this family is very upmarket so all those hygiene arguments don’t hold here. Then Mrs Naik remembered how much their previous building — in Bandra I think she said — used to smell of meat all the time because half the residents were Muslim. Then Mr Shukla said it’s not like everyone here is vegetarian, and we’re being hypocritical and intolerant. Colonel Chadha got very upset at that. Said he has a lot of Muslim friends. It was basically one Mr Shukla on one side and the entire building on the other.”
“How did it end?”
“He walked out in a huff,” she shrugged. “I think he got the message and he’ll just have to keep looking for other tenants. Maybe if he reduced the rent he’ll get a lot more options. That’s what Col. Chadha said.”
“Yeah, you can’t continue to charge 1.5 -2 lakhs this year. Look at the economy. Still, I feel bad for Mr Shukla.”
“You always feel bad for the people who don’t deserve your sympathy. Do you want to get Muslim neighbours, seriously?”
“No, no. Not at all. I have nothing against the community, you know that. But can you imagine the smell?” They shuddered together.
