A Long Way Home Read online

  ‘I have a few theories on how we can rectify the mistakes,’ I said as they gathered around the table and sat down. It took us the entire afternoon to come up with a plan of action, sort through the mess and end the discussion. After work delegation, I signed off by letting them know they could disturb me whenever they were stuck, even if I wasn’t in the office.

  Siddharth, the youngest programmer in my team and the brightest one I’d mentored, spoke up tentatively. ‘Was Sherman too angry?’

  I capped the pen and pushed the file in his direction. ‘Don’t concern yourself with that,’ I told him. ‘On to the work, now?’

  They dispersed off, muttering and readying for the tasks. When I was alone, I leaned back in the chair and closed my eyes, soaking in the silence of the room and the brief solitude. I wouldn’t term this as the toughest week of my career, but it was challenging in ways that made me question my purpose in life. Vartika was partly to blame for that.

  My phone had buzzed in my pocket some time during the meeting. I reached for it, unlocked it. Mom’s message, asking me when I was coming home.

  I’ll be late, I texted her. She came online and promptly began typing, but I exited the chat before she could send a reply. I decided to check it later and gave myself a moment’s time to unwind.

  As I stepped out of the room, I saw Joycelin exiting the HR cabin, a few envelopes in her hand. Seeing me, she halted, a surprised smile curving her lips. ‘Ishaan,’ she said, then glanced behind me. ‘You were alone in there?’

  Always sombrely dressed, Joycelin was one of those girls who never forgot your birthday, the one you could comfortably rely on. Not too chatty, but enough when she was in a good mood and always willing to listen to your stories. With a pleasant angular face, perky nose, soft lips and eyes that warmed each time they settled on mine, she had grown to become my comfort zone.

  ‘I just needed some time off,’ I told her.

  Her expression twisted with understanding. ‘Meeting with Gill?’ she asked and I shrugged. She pursed her lips, then her eyes trailed to my arm and she motioned forward to grab it. Her hand was warm and somewhat clammy.

  ‘What happened to your arm?’ she asked, turning my wrist over and seeing bruises on them.

  ‘Nothing serious.’

  She watched me carefully, searching my face. ‘I’ve been meaning to ask you this. I don’t mean to encroach, but are you in an abusive relationship?’

  ‘Pardon me?’ I was taken aback by that conclusion.

  She gave me a sympathetic look. ‘Are you? Is someone hurting you?’

  ‘No,’ I said, abruptly first, then coughed a laugh. ‘God, no. Where does your mind cook up such theories, Joy?’

  She pursed her lips, clearly not convinced. ‘Sorry. It’s just … this is not the first time I’m seeing them,’ she said lightly.

  I dropped my shoulders as if in relief, put a hand over her head and gave it a friendly shake. ‘Battle scars,’ I said that seriously, leaning closer so no one could hear us. ‘They are battle scars. Every meeting with Gill is a battle. You know that.’

  She smiled tightly, but still looking worried. I didn’t have much time to put her mind at ease. So I excused myself and went to my desk, leaving her to her theories.

  CHAPTER 2

  A

  s soon as I entered the kitchen at nine that night, a group of six people sang ‘Happy Birthday!’ in unison. Out of all the aromas of spices and burnt onion filling my senses, I singled out the smell of non-frosted vanilla and butter cake.

  Vartika Niladri, the owner of Copper Club, stepped forward. She was cloaked in a full-black attire, her deep red lipstick a splash of colour on a black canvas. She rarely wore colours and reminded me of all things dark and night-like. She handed me a briefcase-sized box, clumsily wrapped in a glossy paper.

  ‘This is from all of us,’ she said, and I looked behind her at the smiling faces of two servers, one bartender and two cooks, all people I’d befriended in the past two and a half years.

  I could faintly hear the music blasting upstairs. Only the kitchen area was bright with light and hot as a frying pan. Otherwise, the tavern outside and the dance floor above were forever drowned in semi-darkness, a mix of yellow, white and red lights that blinded me if I stood there for too long.

  ‘Open it,’ she urged. I put aside the apron I had picked up from the rack and unwrapped the present. It was a set of new chef knives, from a cleaver to a fillet knife.

  ‘You didn’t have to get me anything,’ I told them and she waved her hand dismissively.

  ‘You work hard enough to deserve this,’ she said. Vartika usually celebrated employee birthdays at the closing of the day. So it was a big deal she was letting everyone abandon their customers and congregate in this way, if only for five minutes. One by one, the rest of the staff wished me. I sliced the cake, moist and well-baked, with the new long bread knife from the set.

  ‘Okay, enough celebration. Off to work, now!’ Vartika barked. Everyone dispersed, but she stayed back, asking me to join her in the cabin, which was nothing but a small room behind the kitchen with three cheap plastic chairs, an old teakwood table that had lost its polish and too many receipts, files, papers and a laptop on it. From a drawer, she produced a bundle of papers and held it out to me.

  ‘What’s this?’ Eyes narrowed, I flipped through them. Sale deed, property papers. At the end of this lane, a new commercial building had been under construction for two years and was finally complete. They had leasable shop units at the bottom. A lot of people were on the waiting list to get a scoop of the building, for it was discounted and cheap as compared to the rest of the lane, and much quieter. Vartika had been planning to invest in one of those shops to expand her business.

  I glanced up at her with a smile. This was the only good news of the day.

  ‘You got it,’ I said, motioning forward to give her a hug. She smelled of lemongrass. ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘Thank you. To you too.’

  I pulled away. ‘To me?’

  Grinning, she perched on the table and it wobbled slightly under her weight. ‘This now belongs to you.’

  I stared at her in confusion. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me.’

  I hesitated. ‘And … why this spurt of generosity?’

  She rolled her eyes. ‘So you can start planning your restaurant, you dimwit.’

  It took me a moment to understand what she was implying, despite saying it outright. We hadn’t talked about this in months. I hadn’t allowed myself to think about it in months. When the realisation dawned, my heart squeezed tight knowing it couldn’t go there and return not being disappointed. I folded the bundle in half and began to hand it back to her, the energy in the room shifting. ‘I can’t take this.’

  ‘Oh, come on, this is not charity. You’re going to pay rent for the damn thing.’

  I stared at her and despite trying hard, my heart swelled with longing. I had been wanting this for so long that at some point, I had accepted it was only a wishful dream I’d take to the grave. As if reading my mind, she added, ‘I figured if you saw something tangible, then you would at least start planning. Because whether you like it or not, by this year end, I’m kicking your ass out of my bar.’

  ‘You’re going to fire me?’

  ‘If I have to,’ she said, crossing her arms. ‘If that means you’ll move your tushy and begin to live your dream, rather than just thinking, hoping, wishing for it. You know you can only do something about your dreams if you first wake up, right? And now, it’s high time you do. Consider this a kick in your behind.’

  I held on to the papers, then fighting my own heart, placed them on the table beside her. ‘I appreciate it, Vani. But right now, I need to get to work.’

  ‘I’m not letting this go!’ she called after me.

  Once the tavern closed down and our dinner wrapped up, I took a can of beer and sat on the steps outside the kitchen, a rustic iron staircase with a flat landing in the
middle. It led to the dance floor and exclusive bar upstairs. The empty street stretched ahead of me, the air cool and moist.

  The moment I sat still, my mind burst with thoughts, coiled into one another and mounted over. The first one was of my father. He didn’t use his phone all that much, but he had sent me a message I couldn’t stop thinking about. It read:

  Tried calling but you were busy. I don’t want to disturb you so I’m sending a message. I don’t say it often, but I’m really proud of you, Ishaan. I’ve only known hard work my entire life and that’s what I try to teach you kids. I admit you’ve never got anything easy, but that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve everything.

  You’ve always been my strength. I know your mother wants you to come home early, but I will not tell you to abandon your work just to spend some time with us. It’s a tough job, but it was the reason I did not feel helpless after my accident. You began working immediately after you graduated and took care of so many responsibilities that I forgot you were my son too, among other things. I didn’t realize when we became partners in running this house. Know that, if something ever happens to me, I won’t be worried because I know my family would have you.

  Happy birthday, Ishaan. May God bring you happiness and prosperity.

  Like a liability, that message sat in my inbox. It felt good to know he relied on me; I’d wanted him to. But with a knot in my stomach that wrenched my gut if I lingered on it for too long, I thought of my work, my job. The thing that made my dad most proud of me was the very thing tightening the noose around my neck, killing me breath by breath.

  I smelled the familiar acrid smoke in the air. ‘What’s going on?’ Vartika asked, the burning stick held loosely between her fingers.

  ‘Just sitting,’ I said and took a mouthful of beer to clear my mind. This narrow alley between the restaurant and a brick building, where I liked to sit, went unnoticed from the main road. You had to be really looking for it to find it. A graffiti of a tree bark graced the old brick wall; its leaves were the uneven spread of moss growing on it. It was a smart painting, I admit, beauty born from cracks and dark, unwanted spaces. I liked it for that very reason.

  ‘I mean in here.’ She tapped her finger lightly on my temple and sat down next to me. ‘What are you thinking about?’

  There was rarely anything I could keep from her. ‘Some work pressures. Nothing I can’t handle.’

  ‘Of course,’ she said, her voice hoarse. Exhaling a cloud, she added, ‘The question is if you want to.’

  I glanced at her. ‘Meaning?’

  She blew out another stream of smoke that twisted and disseminated upwards, then faced me. ‘When are you going to quit your job?’

  ‘Not that again.’ I plucked the cigarette from her fingers and took a long drag.

  ‘What? That’s a simple question.’

  ‘But the answer isn’t.’

  ‘Bullshit. Who are you fooling, Ishaan?’ she demanded. ‘Do you really see yourself doing this job for the rest of your life?’

  I was silent. We’d had this conversation before. Seven months ago, to be precise. I’d told her I was not ready to open my own restaurant and she’d explained to me I’d never be ready until I take a step. We’d had our first argument then, which wasn’t related to food.

  ‘I’ll take that as a no,’ she concluded.

  ‘My answer doesn’t mean anything,’ I said. ‘When you get two difficult choices in life, you choose the safer and profitable one.’ I gave her a sidelong look. ‘It’s as simple as that.’

  She let the silence hang in the air between us. Just when I thought she’d let the topic go, she said, ‘Do you remember the day you came here asking me for a job?’ That was an embarrassing day, but one that I do not regret living. ‘A VJTI graduate working as a programmer for Velcom Communications,’ she said that with a deep voice, trying apparently to give it more weightage than it warranted. ‘A man wearing a suit, a tie under his shirt collar. You screamed everything that my bar doesn’t stand for.’

  ‘What’s your point?’ I asked without much enthusiasm.

  ‘You didn’t need my job, buddy. That’s my point. And despite knowing it, I hired you. Know why?’ She didn’t wait for me to answer. ‘Because you told me about your dream and I saw your hunger to achieve it. And now you act like whatever you said in the interview was a big, fat lie.’

  ‘You said you hired me because I was an engineer,’ I countered. Her exact words were: ‘You’re an engineer. You’re used to too much work, not enough sleep and getting insulted by bosses. You’ll learn the rest.’ The rest, as in cooking.

  She took her cigarette back and smirked. ‘That too,’ she added. ‘But mostly because of your passion.’

  ‘Have you considered that maybe I was lying?’ I asked and leaned back on my arms. ‘People lie all the time to get through interviews. Shouldn’t you know that?’

  ‘I would believe you if I didn’t see the real Ishaan, the one who is still alive inside.’ She tapped on my heart and my chest tightened.

  If only she knew.

  The week before I’d applied for a job in the Copper Club’s kitchen, I’d been working in the office four days in a row, sleeping only for a couple of hours every night. With my old company being taken over by Velcom Communications, we needed to prove to them that we weren’t a worthless bunch of engineers and that we deserved to stay in the company. Loyalties kept changing in the corporate world, like seasons, and I was fed up of everything. The only thing I knew would keep me sane was cooking.

  When I hadn’t received a message or a call from Vartika, I’d landed up at the Copper Club’s property unannounced. Vartika was kind enough to take my interview the same day. When she asked about my life, I gave her an account of what I’d studied and where I worked. ‘Where does cooking fit into the picture?’ she’d asked me then.

  And that was the first time I’d spoken of it to anyone. Feeling the nervous anticipation in me, I told her about this obsession of mine. As a kid, I’d sit by my mother’s side and watch her cook. She worked with such ease. When I cook, I usually have everything ready beforehand, all that I’d need in small containers on the counter. But she’d simply open one cupboard after another and toss ingredients into a pot like a magician. I couldn’t tell at what point I found out I loved cooking, but as long as I could remember, I had been finding ways to learn the craft.

  ‘But isn’t working for me futile?’ she’d asked me. ‘I’d pay you peanuts and you’d be exhausted by the time you got here after your office. How will you find the strength to sustain yourself for another four or five hours in this kitchen, constantly on your feet?’

  And I’d told her then, ‘I’m prepared for it. I’m not here for the money, I’m here because if I have to live another day for my job alone, I’ll most definitely go insane.’

  She’d studied me with an odd expression and I was sure I came across as a desperate job-seeking person to her. ‘What are you planning to do with the knowledge you gain here?’

  She was a stranger and I was convinced she wouldn’t hire me, not with all my constraints—time along with lack of experience. So there was no harm in baring my mind. ‘Open my own restaurant.’

  For some absurd reason, she decided to give me a chance.

  Now, sitting alongside her after all those months, I emptied my beer can, then tossed it into the dustbin a couple of feet away. ‘I’d have burst into flames had I not come here then,’ I mused aloud. ‘I guess it was simply the pressure of losing my job that had paralysed me, the job I didn’t even like. I desperately needed some sort of outlet and coming here was my moment of weakness.’

  ‘Or strength,’ she countered, holding my gaze. ‘Depends on how you look at it.’

  I stayed quiet, wondering if it really was strength. It sure didn’t feel like it. Then again, I didn’t have much experience with handling emotions to tell apart one from the other, for each one was bottled up and buried behind a thick impenetrable wall. The wall succeede
d in creating a mirage of me, making people believe I had some sort of immense self-restraint and inner strength because I was mostly calm and composed in office, in situations.

  In reality, a mirage was all it was.

  ‘Anyway.’ She let out a sigh. ‘Your Friday is still free, right?’

  ‘Of course,’ I said to her. Vartika had been trying to branch out lately, expand her business. With her skill-set and connections, a lot of doors were open for her, but she hadn’t found anything that excited her. Until recently, that is. A couple she’d known since school approached her, asking if she’d be willing to cook for their wedding.

  A catering contract was just the sort of adrenalin she needed to ‘re-fall in love with cooking’, she’d said. It also had quick bulky money and short-term commitment, two things she absolutely loved. With their diverse menu requirement and a challenging time limit, this was her experiment. If it worked, she might think of taking up more assignments. All of us were required to be present at the venue at six in the morning.

  Now that she mentioned it, my mind grappled with the thought of my office. If we didn’t retain the contract, I’d kiss goodbye to Friday. It all came down to this presentation now.

  Binod, the server, bounced down the steps. Vartika and I leaned away from each other to make room for him to pass. ‘Not leaving?’ he asked me.

  ‘In some time,’ I replied and he looked at us. Then, without saying anything, he left.

  ‘I should probably get going,’ I told Vartika. I got up from the stairs as the lights of the bar went out, leaving us in semi-darkness. Vartika’s ear piercing glinted in the street light reflecting on it, her face looking more beautiful when cloaked in shadows, one that I was beginning to see in a different light.

  ‘You are a pansy, you know that?’ Vartika added, scattering my thoughts with a smile. ‘Worse than a scared cat. Hell, even she turns aggressive when her existence is threatened.’

  I returned her smile. ‘Then pansy I am.’

  Yusef, the bartender, walked out last and closed the door behind him. ‘Ishaan,’ he called out. ‘You’ll take a right from the circle, right?’ I nodded. ‘Great! Drop me till Meera Bazaar, please.’