Short Story A US

“Curries”

The quiet man with the stooped shoulders comes into the restaurant at 7 p.m., as he does every Friday. He asks Seema for his regular table for two, the one in the corner, with the red candle and the slender vase.

“Sorry, sir, that table’s occupied,” she says. His shoulders droop. “I’ll see what I can do,” she says.

Fifteen minutes later, she seats him at the table with the red candle and the slender vase. The man removes his wide-brimmed hat, puts the hat and his bag under his chair. Without scanning the items on the menu, he asks for two glasses of mango lassi and an appetizer of pakoras – the same as every Friday.

The man is lean, has salt-and-pepper hair, and wears glasses without frames. While waiting for his order, he takes a travel “Scrabble” board from his bag and sets it up on the table – for two players.

Bent over the board, he arranges the letters to make a word, FRIEND, rises, then changes seats to play for his invisible friend, creating the word WINTER.

When Seema places two glasses of lassi and the platter of pakoras on the table, he divides the appetizer into two portions and positions the second plate across the table. She extends a hand as if to touch his shoulder, draws back.

She clears the appetizer plates and takes the untouched portion from the man’s table into the tiny office in the back.

Her son, the restaurant owner, moves his bushy eyebrows together.

“Accha khana hai, why waste?” she asks. “There’s a lot of waste in this food business.”

Fourteen days after her husband’s cremation in India, while she was still reeling from her loss, her son had told her he’d decided to take her with him to America.

“Accha change hoga for you,” he said. “You can help me manage “Curries”, na?”

Before she could collect her fractured emotions, he’d bought a ticket, packed her things, locked up the house, and taken her to Phoenix. At the time, she’d believed they needed each other: he was recovering from a divorce; she from the death of a spouse.

It had taken her six months to realize he meant to make the move permanent.

For dinner, the man requests his usual: two naans, paneer butter masala, and biryani. He arranges some rice, one naan, and three spoonfuls of the paneer dish on a plate and slides it to the other side of the table before serving himself.

“Is there anything else I can get you, sir?” “No, thank you.” He doesn’t look up.

She waits for five breaths, pulls the empty chair back a few inches, notices her son’s

narrowed gaze. She retreats to the office, turns on her computer. Her friend Usha, who lives two doors down from their home in Bangalore, has sent her an e-mail with a video attachment. Seema’s heart squeezes as she watches her friend’s house come down: the roof breaks, the balconies topple, then everything crumbles. Fingers shaking, she hits replay again, then again.

Usha writes that she’s excited about moving into the modern multistoried complex that will be constructed on the land where her house stands, complete with swimming pools and fitness rooms.

“Kuch old-timers resist, but money talks. Finally, we will accept the builder’s offer,” her message says.

“What about memories?” Seema types. Their histories will be buried under the cellars of these smart new apartments. Her husband had brought Seema into their home as a bride in 1979; it had stood on a street with flaming “gulmohar” trees and a corner auto-rickshaw stand.

“Ma, help karo.” Her son’s tone is as sharp as a hot chili pepper.

Seema turns off the laptop, exhales. Adjusting the dopatta over her kameez, she picks up a jug of chai before walking through the dining area.

As she passes by the quiet man’s table, a word calls out to her from the invisible friend’s “Scrabble” tiles. She picks out the tiles, forming a seven-letter word on the board: WEDDING.

Behind the glasses, his eyes go wide. Seema bites into her lower lip, wraps cold hands around the warm jug. She imagines her son shouting: “Ma, customers ko khane do!”

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have…,” she says.

The man mixes the tiles on the board. “It’s our 35th anniversary next week.”

She shifts her weight from foot to foot, hugs the chai closer.

“I promised her we’d escape the icy winters in Michigan, that we’d retire in Arizona and enjoy permanent sunshine.” He picks up his hat, runs his fingers around the brim. “She died the winter we moved. Now she’s gone and I don’t know what I’m doing here.”

His flood of words washes over Seema as he packs up the game board.

Every Friday, when he’s finished, she asks if he’d like a bag for the leftover food. Every Friday, he shakes his head, declines. Today, she places her hand on his. His fingers feel cold.

He puts on his hat before he pays the bill, adds a large tip. Seema steals a glance at the name on the credit card: Bill Walker.

She picks up the untouched plate, saves it for her dinner.

At home, her son shows her the construction company’s offer and urges her to sign the agreement. “The proposal’s generous,” he says.

She doesn’t ask why the builder sent him the contract, not her.

“Beta, decision easy nahin,” she says.

She picks up the papers, shoves them into a drawer in her bedroom.

In the morning, as she’s drinking her strong coffee, her son presses, “Why to think itna?”

The following Friday, Seema waits from 6:45 p.m. on for Bill Walker to enter the restaurant. The clock moves past 7 p.m., past 7:30 p.m. The quiet man with the stooped shoulders doesn’t show up. At 8 p.m., Seema knows what she must tell her son.