Some Things Never Change

I don't really like childhood reunions. You are in for a few jolts - the world changes substantially in twenty years . It is not the same class anymore, none of the bonhomie pervades, none of that alluring mystery remains. Just a few years ago, I had been to a big college reunion where I was eagerly looking out for the the girl who had been the most beautiful- and unattainable - in our entire college, only to realize with a rude shock that the garrulous woman sitting next to me (wearing an enormous seaweed of a sari) is her current self. This was not a party of energetic young men and women with wings on their shoulders, dreams in their eyes, and funky music in their minds. This was a gathering of potbellied sofa spuds, men in various stages of baldness and women draped in curtains whose only conversation topic is how to convert the 401(k) plan into an IRA.

Since then, I have passed on many reunions. Until old homey LJ bugged me with his "one-for-the-ages" dish (he is tenacious as a leech.) He actually lives in Bangalore, but his trip to visit his in-laws overlapped with mine. It was just going to be me and him.

C'mon, you owe this one, he tweeted, for all that crazy stuff we did together. Ok, yes - once upon a time, we were thick as thieves. We learnt how to pick 3-lever locks to break into abandoned houses. We launched a home-made rocket (with a louse we named Nit Armstrong) for outer space, but a technical flaw sent it into the neighbor's bathroom instead. LJ charmed the young ladies off their feet (while I kicked around on the sidelines), melting them with his unblinking gaze. His ogling was brash and shameless, with such intensity that opened his own tear ducts, and yet, girls thought he was nothing but a puppy dog.

That was once upon a time, twenty years ago: a bygone era. Now, with kids and a shopping to-do list stuffed into my right pocket (darn it, I find a new list in my pocket every time I step out these days), no time for nostalgic reminiscences, especially when they are not particularly sweet from my point-of-view. Yet, I agreed, just because of LJ's personality. He was an interesting, unpredictable guy. It was going to be fun, for sure.

Here I wait for LJ, dodging the flies swarming from the streetlights. A Ford pulls up at the curb, the passenger door opened, and I see the stupid grin.

Immaculate dress - check. Saucer-like eyes - check. Bachchan swagger - check.

"Baddie!" he exclaims, pumping my arm. "All those years in America haven't changed you a bit."

Drops voice. "You still look like a hobo, bro."

Bullying humor - check.

We pulled up seats at The Jolly Den - redone with bright colors, now it looks like some children's nursery, where over a plate of samosas and tea, LJ chuckled  (like he just pulled a fast one on the rest of the world).

"We were rotten," he said, "the entire gang."

"Speak for yourself!"

"Now, don't be moralistic. Remember the paan shop owned by that one-eyed jack? You pinched some pricy Diwali stock from the side he couldn't see. That was cruel, bro. Worth over fifty rupees back then. Big money for him. "

Damn it, true. But I also remembered that LJ was the one who instigated it. I did the actual crime, but he lit up all the stolen firecrackers later while I sat in my room suffering the pangs of remorse.

"Yeah, we were rotten." I agreed, but LJ had stopped listening suddenly. He was looking past me. Tears formed in his eyes. I carefully followed his gaze behind me - a couple of chirpy young ladies had just sat down at a table - and I heard LJ draw in a big slurp.

"LJ, WTF! You still ogling at young ladies?"

He snapped back to reality. "Sorry, of course, I don't do that any more. I got kids now. Maybe it is this get together, you know - a momentary relapse. "

"You're incorrigible! Remember, you ogled the Punjabi girl whats-her-name who lived behind your house?"

LJ's eyes lit up. "Varsha. Oh yeah, that pretty girl! It was a two-way street. She was ogling me too."

"No, she didn't. You stared at her till you psyched her out. Then her burly dad came into the balcony and stared at us till he psyched us out."

"Damn it, Varsha and I had something there but we were living too close ... I didn't want scandals, never took the next logical step. Speaking of the neighborhood, do you want to come with me to check out my house? I have the keys. Let us have a nice old nostalgic walk."

The check arrived. I exaggeratedly began to pat my pockets looking for my wallet (try this - it sometimes produces desirable rewards).

LJ chuckled. "No sweat, man. You get it next time." He threw a thousand rupees on the table and got up to leave.

"Aren't you going to wait for the change?"

LJ smiled. "You Americans are all cheap bastards! C'mon, let us walk. I will tell the driver to wait at the stand."

***

From the main street, we took the byway that led into the little community of our yesteryears. Barely recognizable, the road was riddled with potholes and blotches of mud, and luminescent tall weeds lined up either side like green curtains. The only habitable light from the few occupied houses suddenly went out. The rolling power outage hit up just as we strode up to the gate, darn the timing. LJ wished he had brought along the driver's flashlight along. Even in the darkness, however, I could still clearly make out the outline of the old mulberry tree in his side yard. It was the only scenery that hadn't changed after all these years.

He opened the broken gate complaining about the caretaker slacking off. He took out the key, but found the door was already open. He swiveled around looking worried. 

"Hey, this door is supposed to be locked!" 

"Maybe the caretaker forgot."

"I'm not sure. Listen, can you come inside with me? Two is better than one if someone is lurking inside."

I suddenly felt a chill. Followed by a deep sense of regret. What the hell am I doing here? I'm living happily in US and now I get into this f-ed up nostalgic trip. What if we open the door and I get killed? This is plain insanity!

"Listen, LJ, all this nostalgia is sweet, but I need to get going. Why don't you just lock it up and let's scram."

"C'mon, don't be chicken. I need your help."

LJ grabbed my shoulder and pushed me inside. I could barely see anything. He flung open the windows. There was just a chair and a mattress inside. The floor was dusty and the wall was kind of sticky.

"Shh..." he whispered. 

I heard it too. A scratching sound from the back. 

"C'mon, let us try the corridor."

The "corridor" is a narrow closed porch at the back of the house with a wooden lattice grill. We used to hang out there sometimes after school on the pretext of doing joint homework, but really eyeballing girls. LJ peered through the grill while I shut my eyes and rapidly prayed to multiple gods in alphabetical order.

"It is just a cat," he said, and shooed it away. He stared at the house abutting his backyard. 

"Hey, that is Varsha's house," he whistled. 

It was barely visible. I recollected her father staring down at us from the balcony. Suddenly, a light flashed upon us waving from face to face.

"Who's there?" a woman's voice yelled from the other side.

LJ blinked. "V... Varsha, is it you?"

The light stopped moving, and settled squarely on LJ's face. There was a long pause.

"My God! LJ, what are you doing here?"

The hair on my neck stood up.

"No shit, it is Varsha!" LJ whispered, and shouted: "I came to check out my house."

She shouted back: "Come on over to my place, through the backyard." 

LJ flung open the backdoor and flew through the backyard like a gazelle. I followed him hesitantly. We rustled through the bushes separating the yards, and emerged on the other side guided by her flashlight. 

The dark shape behind the flashlight said: "Come inside, I have a couple of lights."

We followed her inside the house, tumbling into illumination. She turned around, and in the straw light from the battery-powered lamps, I finally glimpsed the person behind the voice. She was not the lithe girl any more, only carrying a passing resemblance that I could barely discern. 

But, the woman exuded a magnetic presence. Perhaps a little overweight, but jauntily agile. She was tall, dusky, with beautiful skin. The most striking feature were those narrow eyes, they had that intrinsic smartness of a person usually associated with a healthy sense of humor and an intrepid sense of risk. 

I have seen many pretty faces whose eyes, unfortunately, are continuously telegraphing their mental incapacity. Hers was not one of them.

It was the first time I had ever been in this place. I was a bit apprehensive that her burly father would show up to kick our butts. But when I saw a picture of him on the wall, I breathed a sigh of relief. The picture was garlanded.

Just then her maid walked in. An old woman who regarded us instantly with burning hostility.

"M'am, is someone bothering you?" 

"No, not at all. They are neighbors and old friends. Care for some tea, you two?" she asked us.

I was about to refuse, but LJ quickly said yes. He winked at me.

"Rani, can you make some tea for our guests?" Rani went out and almost immediately emerged with our teas. The beverage was as cold as her attitude. 

"I have to take off, m'am," she said, "If you are going to stay here tonight, shall I send someone for company?" 

"No, thanks, Rani. You can go. I will be fine." The maid left. It was just Varsha and us.

Varsha was in town to sell off the house. Her husband was a businessman working in Dubai, and she had a six-year-old son. Halfway through our conversation, I began to realize she had no idea who I was - and it didn't seem to matter to either of them. I was a bit annoyed. It was getting late in any case, and I stood up to leave. LJ leaned over and whispered something inaudible in her ear. She laughed heartily. I waved goodbye, and we returned through the same route via the thorny bushes.

"That was fun," I said, "now, can you drop me on your way back home?"

LJ paused and scratched his head. "Listen, why don't you take the car? The driver will drop you off. I'm going to stay here tonight."

The full import of his statement hit me like a cold jet stream.

"LJ, you are going to spend the night in this godforsaken place, while your family lives just a few miles from here?"

LJ fidgeted. "Listen,  I have to take this thing between Varsha and me to its logical conclusion. I'm getting a chance again. After all these years! Who'd have imagined that? It is god-sent! I don't know what's going to happen or not happen tonight, I don't even want to speculate. But - she is there, and I'm here and there is only empty air between us. That's just awesome!"

He gave the stupid shit-eating grin. "Now, if you will excuse me, I have to call my in-laws and tell them I ain't coming tonight. The driver will take you home. If you have to shop for groceries, he will be happy to take you there too. See you, buddy!"

I walked off alone down the byway. At the end of the road, I turned around and watched the houses. The faint light from Varsha's house went out just as the Ford pulled up next to me.


***

I slipped into the passenger's seat. "Driver, please make a left on the main road." 

He turned at the intersection, and got into a traffic jam behind open trucks. The shop was just on the other side of the road, a flickering light showed that it was still open. I told the driver I was getting out to cross the road on foot. I jumped over the median and noticed, even in the dim light, little had changed over the years. 

"What do you want?" the man behind the counter asked me in a slightly tremulous voice. 

"How much for a betel nut packet?" I asked.

"Two rupees," he said, tearing out one sachet from a long column hanging off a hook. I took out a thousand rupee note from my purse. I passed it into his hand.

"Keep the change," I said. 

He grabbed my hand. "Sir! What is this?" he said. His face was a bit gaunt with white hair now, but the glass eye was still in the right socket, and, like the old mulberry tree, he seemed like another thing that never changes with time.

He peered into my face. "I know you! You are the Professor's son!" 

"I have to go," I gently disengaged my hand. The Ford had already made a U-turn and was waiting for me, I got into the passenger's seat. The one-eyed jack was clutching the note, his face was incomprehensible.

"What happened, sir?" asked the driver.

I exhaled. "Just repaying an old debt. Now, take me to any place where I can taste and feel America. To a McDonald's or a Pizza hut. To a place that has electricity and WiFi."

"Yes, sir." 

The driver sped me past the darkness shrouding this side of the city. He zipped across the beach road towards Novotel, a five-star hotel looming over the water where I heard foreigners lounge in their swim wear, discuss career trajectories, and the stock market slides.

Sometimes it strikes me that we'd all prefer first world problems to third world pleasures. 

Just for an Ipad

Which Shakespearean tragedy is set in Scotland?

My eyes lit up, synapses inside my brain set off like mini-firecrackers.  Finally, a question within my range.

‘I know. Hamlet!’

‘Wrong again. It is Macbeth. You are hopeless!’

She chucked the trivia book in my direction, and collapsed on the chair with a sigh.

‘I cannot depend on you, I have to do this all by myself,’ she proclaimed.

‘Well, let us see you try, genius,’ I opened the book to a random page. ‘Who invented the flush toilet?’

She hesitated, before dropping into a French accent: ‘Toilet? Jean-luc Toilet?’

‘No, but impressed by the way you delivered a totally random guess. The answer: a 16^th century guy called John Harrington.’

She threw up her hands in the air. ‘What are we going to do? We have zero chance of winning the contest.’

‘Why are you so obsessed about this quiz?’

‘It is humiliating. Five holiday quizzes and not a single win! We got to end the drought! We must win the grand prize tomorrow. Do you know it is an iPad?’

‘Something we don’t need.  You already have the touchscreen tablet I got for your birthday.’

She held up the Maylong from the table. ‘This? You mean this $79 cutting board? This is not a touchscreen, it is a stabscreen! I need a pedicure everytime I try to use this.’

‘It is a resistive touch screen, that is the future of technology.’

‘Resistive? Yes, it is resistive! And you bought this thing at Walgreens? What kind of a dork buys a computer at a pharmacy?’

Before I could retort, the doorbell rang.

‘If I had bought you an IPad, I wouldn’t have taken you to the Opera. It is either-or.’

‘All we need to do is find out a way to win the grand prize tomorrow.’

‘Keep dreaming. We need an act of God to win this quiz.’ I said, as I opened the front door.

Brandon, my neighbor across the street and the autocratic community President, rocked on the balls of his feet with thumbs hooked in the pockets. I knew he was going to hit me with a charge.

‘Hey, what’s up?’ I quivered.

‘Your trash cans. Still outside in the street at noon. I pulled them into your side gate,’ he drawled. Ok, so I left my trash outside for collection last night.

‘Thanks. I was going to get to them today.’

‘Trash is picked up at dawn. You have to abide by the 3-hour rule - get your ugly bins off the street by morning eight,’ he said. He flipped out his dreaded notebook and scribbled:  

‘I’m noting this down as an advisory, all right. Don’t let this escalate. We don’t want a special board exigency session to address this. ’

‘Ok, officer, is that it?’

‘No, actually not. May I come in? I have a favor to ask.’

He stepped in and my wife greeted him.

‘I changed the locks to my house yesterday,’ he announced.

‘Did you get locked out?’ I asked.

‘No, I just change it every year,  you can never be too sure. Now, I want to leave this spare key with you folks.You can easily tell it is my key because my name is engraved in the keychain, you see that?’

‘You certainly think of everything,’ I said looking at the monstrous keychain with his name engraved in pink lettering. He handed the key to my wife.

 ‘So are you and Elaine going to be here for the holiday party?’ she asked.

‘Of course. After all, I’m the President. And, without me, who’s going to run the quiz?’

‘Are you running the quiz?’

‘You bet. In fact, I just finished making it. You better prepare well, because you know my breadth – I’m going to ask all over the place. American Civil war, Hollywood, Geography, Science … you name it!’

I waved goodbye, shut the door, and turned around to find the spouse in a hypnotic trance.

‘Hey, what’s the matter?’

She smiled beatifically. ‘Who mentioned that we need an act of God to win this quiz?’

‘Eh?’

‘God is kind. Brandon is the quizmaster.’

‘So?’

‘And the key to his house is in our hands. Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’

‘No, but I’m thinking jail.’

She leaped on the sofa chair, and peered through the blinds. ‘We don’t have a moment to lose. Brandon just opened his garage. He is going out somewhere. I know Elaine is not back until tomorrow. This is our chance.’

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Not me. You are going there. Someone reliable has to watch out for his return. You are going to slip into his house, and find the quiz.’

‘Are you crazy? That is a criminal offence called breaking in.’

‘It is not breaking in. You are using his key.’

‘He didn’t give us the key to barge into his house. He gave it to us for safekeeping.’

She suddenly yelled. ‘Brandon is leaving. Go right now. Go! Go! Go!’

I was being propelled into this. No choice.

‘Cell phone –charged and ringer off,’ she threw it across.

‘Cap.’  Installed it on my head.

‘Ok, here is the plan … he is backing out his SUV right now. It will take him twenty minutes even for even the shortest trip to the nearest store. When I signal, you put on your cap, cross the street …’

I strode across with my cap low down on my head.

Pick up the newspaper on the porch, stuff it in your coat pocket.  

With one stoop, I lifted it and crammed it in the pocket.

Unlock, step in, and close the door. 

Whew! The tensest part.

Now, you have exactly four minutes inside the house. 

I triggered the stopwatch on my chronograph.

Head upstairs to his study. Search the desk. You are looking for a file with two or three stapled copies lying neatly away from the rest of the mess.

The study was strewn with papers all over the place. Just as she guessed, there was one blue file on a shelf above the printer. I opened it and found two copies of the quiz. I quickly took pictures of all the pages, and slipped my phone into my pant pocket.

Head back out through the front door …

Wait! I noticed a neat set of yellow files organized by names. The thickest file carried my name. I pulled it out and glanced through it. It is an FBI-style almanac of transgressions:

Feb 17^th:  Noisy Music.
April 3^rd: Suffocating cooking odors.
July 9^th:  Clothes (including underwear) hung out on the fence to dry.
Dec 24th: Trash cans left on the curbside.

,.,

So the bugger records all his notes into this file! 

Suddenly, I heard a whirring sound. The garage door! He is BACK. Only two minutes on the stopwatch. Oh my God!

I headed towards the stairs, but the kitchen door squeaked. Darn it! I darted into a bedroom looking for a place to hide. I heard his step on the stair. I crammed into a sliding door closet. Just then, my phone vibrated. I pulled it out of my pocket.

Text: He’s back. Where r u?

I froze. Brandon entered the room. He was breathing heavily and I heard the rustle of clothing. Suddenly, the closet door slid from the other side, and he tossed some clothes into a hamper. It closed again, and he seemed to have gone out to the bathroom because I heard running water.

I called her while trying to squat down, and whispered: ‘Why is he back so soon? You said I had 20 minutes.’

‘Well, he took the car to check his mailbox which is only 100 yards away. Never would have guessed that. Where are you?’

‘I’m in his goddamn closet. Ouch!’

‘What happened?’

‘I just knocked my head on some woman’s shoes.’

‘I always wondered where Elaine gets her shoes. Can you read the labels please?’

‘WHAT! Do you realize that I’m inside his closet? Get me out of here!’

‘All right, calm down! You will be safe. Where is Brandon in relation to your position?’

Just then I heard a humming sound. I peaked out of the closet into the bathroom.  Brandon had one leg up on the counter.

‘Oh no,’ I groaned. ‘Listen, Brandon is right now in my line of sight wearing nothing but a sarong and hairdrying his butt. I can’t take this any more. Extricate me!’

‘Ok, I’m coming.  When you hear met at the door, wait a bit and then get out.’

A few moments later, the doorbell chimed. I heard Brandon dress up quickly and take the stairs.

I sneaked down the stairs. I could see Brandon from the front window, he was outside on my porch helping with the holiday lights. Good, he cannot see me geting out. I opened the door quietly, stepped out and closed the door. She caught my eye and jerked her head in the direction of the road.

‘Oh crap!’ I just remembered something. To her horror, I unlocked the door again and got back in. Taking the stairs two at a time, I found the yellow FBI file still on the desk. What a dead giveaway! I quickly stuffed it back in its place, but not before yanking a good number of pages out.

When I came out again, Brandon was up on the ladder installing a snowflake.

Head straight to the playground, and read the newspaper.

I was still reading it when she finally came around in the car to pick me up.

*  *  *  * 

Name the great mathematician who died in a duel at the age of twenty.

The defending champions were stumped, this was clearly beyond their prowess. Brandon looked to us.

No hesitation: ‘Evariste Galois.’ 

‘Right again. Now, this is the last question to you. Where were the first sho…’

I eagerly interrupted him: ‘The first shots of the Civil war were fired on April 12, 1861 at Fort Sumter!’

Brandon looked puzzled. ‘I haven’t even finished the question. But you are right. Ladies and Gentlemen, we have a new winner. Team Integrity!’

‘Did you really have to call ourselves Team Integrity?’ I whispered, but she was too busy accepting the IPad3.

Later on in the party, I observed Brandon looking forlorn.

‘What’s the matter?’ I asked him.

‘You know, Elaine said she was at her parents' in the East Bay last Friday.’

‘Right.’

‘But, look what I found in her closet on the floor.’

He showed me two Opera tickes: ‘What was she doing at the Opera in San Jose? Who was she with?’

Gulp.

Intense Love

Of all the remarkable stories that happened in my neighborhood, the case of my friend Sunil Sen’s passionate gift to his wife gets the ultimate honors. It is a tale of drudgery, odds, and intense love. It is also a lesson that taught me to think twice before jumping at a neighbor’s invitation even when he has the best whiskey collection this side of the country.

When Sunil called me with news that his wife zipped off to India for a short break, I should have politely refused. He cannot really be inviting me over for a drink, because I know this snob feels too intellectually superior to hang out with me whom he considers more or less as a blabbermouth. But since I only seem to think in hindsight, I was hammering the ring knocker on his door within five minutes.

He let me in looking slightly annoyed at the noise I was making. He led me straight into his game room, which is one fabulous man cave with a big screen TV and brain wasting games.

‘I need some help.’ he said, not without a little difficulty as the very idea of soliciting help from underlings flies against his natural instinct.

‘Where is the Blue Label?’ I rummaged through the shelves.

‘Please pay attention. Next Monday is my 20^th anniversary.’ he said.

‘20th?’ I whistled. ‘You know there are counseling services for child marriage victims.’

‘It is not our wedding anniversary, smarty. It is the anniversary of our first meeting. Twenty years ago, we met on a badminton court. I was 16 and she was just 15.’

‘Very romantic. Now, do you keep the good stuff up here or downstairs?’

He ignored my question: ‘I lost the game, but I went on to win her heart.’

I opened a cabinet with rows of idiosyncratic bottles. ‘What are these?’

‘Please,’ he said, annoyed. ‘That is not your type of Johnnie Walker drink. It is my Franconia wine collection. Trust me, you will not appreciate this. Now, what was I saying? Yes, I need your help on a project.’

‘Can we first have a drink before we get into the details?’

‘No, no alcohol, no games today. I need your full attention here. I’m constructing a gift for my lovely wife.’

I thought he was kidding. We are not drinking, we are not playing games? He was just blowing away a perfect, sunny day.

‘No alcohol? No games?’

‘No. Listen. My wife has just been admitted to Pandit Maharaj’s Kathak school in Berkeley. She got it only because of sheer talent and perseverance. She is in India now to meet the Pandit himself. Now, listen to my idea. I have the perfect gift for this occasion.’

‘What is that?’

‘A dance floor!’

‘A dance floor?’

‘Right here, where I’m standing at this moment! In this game room! See … ’

In the next instant, he suddenly jumped up in the air, frightening me out of my wits. He twirled and skipped like a monkey, I should say, very unbecoming to his gait. It struck me that he was trying to imitate a Kathak dancer in a clumsy effort to drive home a point.

He said: ‘See, see? She can dance right here, rehearse for her stage shows … ’

‘Ah!’ I began to see it: ‘While you sit here, where I’m standing now, and watch with your drink in hand?’ I asked.

‘Yes, that would be where I sit, of course, if I were inclined to watch.’

I was beginning to appreciate the plan.

‘Now, this floor is all carpeted,’ he said. ‘What she needs is a proper dance floor with wood paneling and a wall-sized mirror.’

With some diwans and hookahs for the audience, I thought. Like a scene from the Hindi classic Umrao Jaan.

‘Ok, so just get the dance floor installed. What do you need me for?’ I asked.

‘Installing the floor.’

‘Are you kidding? I cannot even install a door stopper, forget a dance floor. Get some guy from Home Depot.’

‘No, I have to build this with my own hands. I only need your help for manual unskilled labor. ‘

‘But I’m sorry … I don’t really have the time.’

‘Remember, I helped you out in the winter. You owe me this.’

‘C’mon, man! That was just a loose towel bar. You cannot equate that with installing a floor!’

Just at that time, my rummaging hand discovered a locked cabinet. ‘What is inside this?’

‘Whatever is in there,’ he said with an ingratiating smile, ‘you will find very appealing to your taste in liquor.’

I rattled the locked door. Ok, darn it! What do I have to do?

*

We had only two days to complete the work before his wife returned from India. On the first day, we removed the carpet, scraped the floor clean, and installed the giant wall mirror and lights. Manual unskilled labor was 99% of the job description. I really don’t understand the do-it-yourselfers, how they actually relish this work getting down on all fours, pulling and tugging stuff. If that was not enough suffering for a day, I had to put up with all the details of his love story. Where they first had ice cream, when they first exchanged Valentines, and how much they missed each other when he came to US while she was still working in India.

On the second day, we leveled the floor and Sunil got down to snapping in the interlocking panels. He said it was a task that demanded advanced visual skills and an artistic bent of mind.

‘Perfect alignment is the key here. Not for everyone,’ he declared, as he snapped the first one in place.

Five hours later, when the floor was almost done, I heard him suddenly grunting and swearing with the one last piece in his hands. He was trying to insert it, but it kept popping out.

‘It is supposed to snap,’ he said with a frown. ‘It is supposed to lock in.’ He tried again.

I heard a loud snap this time.

‘There you go, you got it! Yes, we are done!’ I said.

‘That snap,’ he grunted, ‘wasn’t the panel.’ He lay there motionless on all fours.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid I injured my back.’

He scrambled on his feet but couldn't straighten his back, looking like the number seven.

We rushed him to urgent care where he was seen by the doctor on duty, an easily-amused garrulous man with an eyebrow that seemed permanently up. The doctor gave him a Cortisone shot and laughed heartily.

‘You heard the old joke about how to spot a do-it-yourselfer? The walls in his house are painted in different shades, and he walks around with a limp. Ha ha ha!’

Sunil did not seem particularly amused.

‘You guys should be renamed to mess-it-yourselfers . Well, my dear boy, no more physical activity to strain your back unless you want to walk like an Orangutan.’

‘For how long?’ Sunil asked.

‘For the rest of your life.’

‘WHAT!’

‘Listen, your back will be straight again in a few days and then, maybe, you can play bocce ball. But that is it. Don’t worry, get your physical exercise by a stroll in the park. It is not like your living depends on your athleticism, does it? I hope it is not. You are one of those Indian software engineers, aren’t you? Ha ha ha!’

We drove back in silence. Sunil asked me for one last favor as he stooped into the game room and collapsed in his chair.

‘Can you put the last panel in place?’

I got down and snapped it in. The floor was finished. Sunil switched on the lights with the remote control.

‘Ah, it is beautiful,’ he said, teary-eyed. Then his expression turned into a sickening contortion. He was trying to thank me. Not something that comes naturally to him.

‘I don’t know how to thank you. But I need one more favor … can you pick up Chitra at the airport tomorrow? I can’t really drive in this state. Don’t tell her about my accident, I don’t want to ruin the surprise. Just lead her to the game room.’

When I hesitated, he pointed at the desk.

‘I’m going to leave my key in the cabinet door tomorrow. Drop her off here, and you can pick up all the good stuff.’

*

I stopped the car in front of the airport where she was waiting. She seemed surprised why her husband couldn’t receive her, but I glibly steered the conversation to her India trip.

‘Too many mosquitoes,’ was the only opinion she had about India. This couple was made for each other.

When we reached her house, she opened the door and heard Sunil’s voice:

‘Hi sweety, come on upstairs, I’m in the game room.’

I followed her into the game room with the luggage. It was pitch-dark until Sunil turned on the lights with his remote control. The dance floor sparkled and the wall mirror reflected the perfect O-shaped astonishment on her face.

‘Happy Anniversary, Darling,’ said Sunil sitting in the corner.

‘Oh Sunil, you remembered our anniversary. What is all this?’

‘It is a dance floor, my dear. Just for you. Made with the finest floating wood and their patented spring enhancement technology. This is your stage in your own home.’

Chitra started crying. ‘Sunil, it is so beautiful. ‘

‘Don’t cry, I’m so happy you like it.’

‘Sunil, but …’

But?

‘… Oh Sunil! I didn't tell you about the incident in India. The Pandit asked me to twirl and twirl and twirl, and I got motion sickness. I threw up all over his face.’

‘Oh no!’ said Sunil.

‘It wasn't a pretty sight. But, it is all for the best. I don’t think dancing suits me. I spend too much time away from you. Honey, I don’t need a stage, I need a court.’

‘A court? Eh?’

‘I brought you an anniversary gift. You will love it!’

She grabbed the bag in my hands and pulled out a package wrapped in plastics. She handed it to Sunil.

‘What is it?’

'A badminton set, darling! So we can play again like the first time we met.’

The package slipped from his hands, and he buried his head in his hands. I heard a half-groan and some bestial sounds like a hyena screeching.

He gave up his back for her dance. She gave up her dance for a game with him. I heard a story like this before. Touching, but my eyes were glued to the key on the locked cabinet. I pondered for a moment if I should quietly open it and take what I had been promised.

On second thoughts, now is not the best time to take all the good stuff.

Penny Wise, Pound Foolish

ps: I'm glad to return to blogging here after a year-long hiatus.

I received a call out of the blue from an old buddy Atul, a wistful nostalgic, with the news he was shifting back to motherland by the year's end. Though I knew he was unhappy with his software job, I never imagined he would suddenly abandon a career here just to chase a whimsical dream of cultivating silkworms on mulberry leaves. It sounded like an absurd career change, but this man grew up in the Silk City, and evidently the roots are still tugging his heart. He didn’t give me all the details over the phone, saying it is a long story best explained over dinner. After a short silence, whilst each was trying to figure out who invited whom last, I ruefully realized it was my turn.

‘Oh, thanks, that’s great. BTW, my in-laws are in town. I’m sure you don’t mind if they tag along. I’ll email their dietary restrictions.’

At dinner the next day, Atul and his wife introduced us to his in-laws. Wrapped in Atul’s winter jackets, his mother-in-law said a polite hello, while the pater started at my forehead as if he were trying to read my financial affairs from the shapes of the eyebrows.

‘Who made the food?’ he demanded. My wife said she received their diet restrictions and prepared the dinner with minimal salt and spices.

His expression softened: ‘Thank you, we really have to watch what we eat at this age. Eat right and eat on time, that’s my mantra.’

Without further ado, they dived into the food. I noticed Atul looked severely depressed. I took him aside:

‘What’s the matter? I thought you’d be ecstatic about your move back to India.’

‘Yes, but this is our last six months in US, and we have to deal with them,’ poking his chin at his in-laws.

‘But, your in-laws seem very nice.’

‘Nice? Those old fogies are insufferable!’ He started pacing the floor. ‘They are chewing my ear about my silkworms. The greybeard says it is a demeaning job, that he is too ashamed to disclose this to his circle of friends in Bangalore. Well, I really don’t care what his coterie thinks! For me, it will be a dream come true – in a rustic village with nary a care, just raising silkworms on mulberry leaves. I can spend all day examining the tenderness of the soft larvae in my hands. Tell me,’ he stopped: ‘have you ever stroked an organic worm in its pupal state? Have you ever unrolled a cocoon’s sticky fibers and licked the wispy threads off your fingertips?’

I threw up my hands. ‘Listen, you should consider their position. Engineers don’t suddenly resign their jobs just to breed insects. Give them some time, they will get over this.’

‘Ok, so I understand it is a bit of shock for them. Well, they can stay home in Bangalore and absorb this. They come here, lecture me, use all my stuff - my backpacks, my TV remote, my favorite chair. Look, they are even wearing my best winter jackets.’ Just then his mother-in-law vigorously wiped her flaring nose on his jacket collar. He winced: ‘And I have no privacy, and freedom.’

I was astonished. ‘Privacy? Buddy, you should get used to this. When you are in India, they are going to visit you every day.’

Atul’s face lit up, ‘Not at all. You think I’m an idiot? I’m moving to this godforsaken place called Magarhai in UP. It is so remote that it takes twice the time to go from Bangalore to Magarhai than from Bangalore to any place in the US. Stop for a minute and think about it.’

‘What if your in-laws permanently move in with you? Your F-I-L works in the civil services, after all.’

‘Civil services jobs in Magarhai?' he laughed. 'Until the forest officer dies, my F-I-L can’t get a position. Last I checked, the forest officer is as healthy as he is corrupt. He’s not going anywhere.’

‘Ok, then what is the problem? Cheer up, six months is not so long.’

‘Six months! Six long months! It has only been a week since they landed here! I will grow mental.’

Just then, I noticed his F-I-L take a small pouch out of his pocket and dump its contents on his dinner plate. Suddenly, a raw odor rushed across the room straight up my head like someone had taken two fire-roasted chilli garlic cloves and jammed them up my nostrils.

‘What the hell is that?’ I stammered. I saw my wife collapsing straight down on the sofa.

‘I should have warned you. That is his native chilli pickle. It is a sort of WMD.’

‘But what about all those diet restrictions in your email? No salt, no masala.’ I asked, reeling.

‘Beats me! Penny wise and pound foolish, if you ask me.’

‘My eyes! My god, this is like a tear gas attack. Do they always carry it with them wherever they go?’

‘They cannot eat a meal without that pickle. They bring a year’s supply from Kerala every summer, carrying it on person like a driving license. They brought a full jar to the US in cabin baggage.’

Suddenly, even in the midst of the strong odor, I felt my scalp trying to separate from my forehead: a moment of epiphany. I just had a diabolical idea!

‘Atul, I just figured out the answer to your prayers. I know how to send your in-laws packing off to India in a day.’

‘What? How?’

‘Cut off their oxygen supply.’

He went ‘Eh?’

I had to lay it out to him. ‘The pickle, Atul! That is their oxygen supply. Destroy it!’

It slowly dawned on him. ‘Whoa! Brilliant! Destroy the pickle!The lovebirds can’t last a day without it. What a terrific idea!’

I bowed.

Atul started pacing again. ‘Hmmm, the aged civil servant keeps it in his room … got it! My wife takes them out for a walk every day in the morning. It will just take me two minutes to find it and destroy it. The only question is with what?’

‘Try yeast. Scary white color, sour taste, and harmless.’

‘Perfect.’ Atul stopped pacing: ‘I owe you a big one, buddy. You are a genius, you know that? It is just a weird kind of genius, but it is still genius.’

From the distance, we watched his father-in-law at the dining table licking the picked rice off his fingers. Atul’s eyes narrowed as he whispered softly: ‘Enjoy this meal, you hungry old man … you won’t be having one like this in America again.’

*

My phone was ringing off the hook. I picked it up and heard Atul shriek in a panic-stricken whisper: ‘It is not working!’

‘Calm down, what is the problem? Have you found the pickle?’

‘It is in the suitcase. But I can’t open it. The mistrustful geezer keeps it locked.’

‘Oh boy! Have you searched for the key, maybe it is there somewhere.’

‘No, it is a 3-digit combination lock.’

‘3 digits? That is not so bad … 5 seconds a try, just a couple of hours before you crack it.’

Atul whispered back: ‘You’re right. But, I don’t have a couple of hours. I only get 10 minutes when they go for the walk. But … wait … I got an idea!’

I sensed this idea is not going to be good.

Atul went on: ‘Listen, I’m taking the whole family to Costco tomorrow. The house will be empty. Can you come in and do the job for me?’

I didn’t like this one bit, but then he made an offer I couldn’t refuse: his indoor wet grinder and flour mill. The secret to his sensational dosas. It was probably worth the risk. Still, I felt like the inventor who got smacked around by his own invention.

*

Just as he said it, I found the key in the flower pot. Beside it, a packet of yeast that I slipped into my pocket. I unlocked the garage side door and entered through the kitchen. Atul’s words: Follow the smell, it will lead you to his suitcase.

The odor led me up the stairs into a bedroom where I found the case lying on the floor. I methodically began to try out all the combinations. But, after only five minutes, the phone rang. It was Atul.

‘Are you done yet?’

‘No, I just started.’

‘Oh no. We have to abandon this, we are heading back early. My in-laws wandered into the beef section and they are all queasy now. You have only 5 minutes to clear the place.’

‘Wait, give me some clues. What are his favorite numbers? Anything … his birthday, anniversary number … ‘

Atul made a sound like he was scratching his head. ‘How do I know? I can't ask them now. Well, I know his IAS rank. It is 119, I think. He talks about it all the time.’ (Atul was referring to the highly competitive civil services entrance test.)

I tried it: 1-1-9. Click!

‘It worked!’

Atul was ecstatic. ‘Great! We are leaving any minute. Finish it off quickly!’

I found the pickle in a big silver tin box wrapped in his white undershirts. With a towel protecting my nose, I opened the top and quickly dumped the yeast. Mission accomplished, I barely managed to sneak out and run across to the other street when their car turned around the corner.

*

Atul called me the next day.

‘Yippe! It worked like a charm! My father-in-law was livid when he discovered the damaged pickle. But, don’t worry, they don’t suspect foul play, they think it is fungus. Very good job, bro.’

‘So, what’s the deal? Are they leaving?’

‘Yes, my wife just took them to the travel agency. He wants to take the first available flight back to India. Why don’t you swing by and I will show you what you earned today?’

I drove over to his place. Atul made some coffee and pulled out the wet grinder mill. As I was admiring the flawless design, his in-laws returned.

Inexplicably, they seemed to be in an awfully good mood.

I said: ‘Hello, I just heard the news that you are leaving early. I’m really sorry you can’t stay.’

‘No worries, young man. सर्ववस्तूनि कारणोद्भवानि!’

‘Eh?’

‘Everything happens for a reason. Atul, my dear son-in-law, you will be so happy when you hear this. At this travel agency, Sai Travels, I ran into an elderly gentleman like myself in the waiting room who told me that the Magarhai forest officer has been arrested on corruption charges. The position has opened up, so I immediately called the head office in Delhi. I need to show up and apply in person at Magarhai before Friday. We are leaving tonight straight for Magarhai and I’m very confident about getting this position. If the pickle weren't spoilt, I’d have never known about this case. Atul, my boy, I know you must be unhappy we are leaving early without staying the full six months. But, don't you worry, we will spend the rest of our lives together.’

Atul gaped open-mouthed as comprehension still eluded him.

I excused myself from their family matters. Now is not the time to claim the wet grinder.

The Girl from Mumbai

Even a good month after the wedding, Vivek still wakes up momentarily stupefied at the woman lying next to him. Six years of seeking a bride in the singles market with nary a response has rattled his mojo. Six long years, not because of lacking in appearance (he looks great in the photoshopped mug), but because of lacking in ‘husband material.’ I can’t tell you what this ‘husband material’ is - only women know - but men need it aplenty to get their attention. Finally, Vivek panics and throws in a big carrot, green card sponsorship for the future in-laws. Of course, that kind of brave sacrifice is bound to get him a pretty girl and he marries in style (and her parents happily retire.)

Given the history here, I am reluctant to separate him from his wife even for a few hours for the guys get-together tonight. But for Parag, the bull-nosed de facto president for these events, tonight is too special (read too costly) to leave out anyone. Vivek is the last to arrive wearing a stiff-collar white shirt, new black-rim spectacles, and the prominent belly bulging from scheduled feedings.

‘Hi guys! How are things going?’ Vivek greets.

‘Your glasses are cool.’

‘Aren’t they? It is a gift from my wi … er … wife.’ Vivek stammers on the last word.

‘Still having trouble with the marriage concept?’

‘Sometimes, I just can’t believe we celebrated our first month anniversary. Time just flies!’

Before I can congratulate him, Parag cuts straight to the point.

‘Vivek, listen, buddy. Tonight’s party is a bit different. We are having a guest, a woman. A dancer from a famous ladies bar in Bombay.’

‘What is a ladies bar?’

‘Bar with dancing ladies.‘

‘Oh, it is like a gentleman’s club?’

‘Yes, but it is called ladies bar over there. Don’t ever go asking for a gentleman’s club in Bombay, unless you prefer to watch dancing men.’

Her name, Parag says, is Laila. A lithesome beauty with long legs and sapphire eyes, she is more popular than Aishwarya Rai in Bombay after nine. So stirring is her dance that once a businessman gets up rapturous in joy and dumps the rupee equivalent of ten thousand dollars over her head. A generous gift, but with the high conversion rate, the heavy load of bundled notes give her a neck sprain. She is in the Bay Area now convalescing in her cousin’s house.

‘Here is the best part,’ Parag says. ‘I know her cousin. Got me in touch with her. She is ready to do a private dance just for us.’

‘Well, you should have sent an email. I thought we are going to Toy Story 3D.’ Vivek says.

‘If you don’t share your email with your wife, you would get the real memo. Can’t send mails about dancing girls to dabbu_luvs_pinky@gmail.’

‘All right. You go ahead. I’ll watch a movie all by myself.’

‘Are you chickening out?’ Parag accuses.

‘No, I’m not really interested in a dance.’

‘C’mon! You’re scared of your wife. And all just for a dance.’

‘Preposterous! All right, I will stick around . Let me just call my wi … wi … ‘

‘Wife?’ I gently suggest.

‘Whew, what a word! Let me just tell her about the dance.’

‘Hold it, right there!’ Parag gets up. ‘Do you know where your wife is?’

‘She is out shopping with the other girls.’

‘Ha! That’s what you think! Maybe she is in a club watching men dance.’

‘That’s gross!’

‘You never know! That is the whole concept of trust. It is a don’t ask, don’t tell policy.’

Vivek reluctantly consents and sits down sulking in the corner. Parag stands up waving his hands to make an announcement.

‘Men, one last thing before she comes here. Laila has some moral issues about dancing for married guys not accompanied by their wives. To make matters simple, I told her we are all bachelors.’

‘That is such a lie! Everyone in this room is married.’ speaks the man in the corner.

‘Vivek, please shut up. It is a mere formality. Now, everyone, please take off your wedding rings, I will collect them in this box.’

Parag drops off his ring with a clang into a tin box and passes it around. After I’m done, I pass it on to Vivek in the corner. I hear a sigh and a grunt.

‘What’s the matter?’ I ask.

‘Ha! It is kind of tight.’ Vivek laughs, grappling with the ring.

‘You are prosperous,’ Parag says. ‘Pinky is feeding you well.’

Another grunt. ‘Parag, it is not coming out.’

‘It better come out if you want to watch her dance.’

Another heave and desperate grunt but the ring doesn’t budge. Vivek cries in a panic-stricken voice: ‘I’m stuck! I’m STUCK!’

‘You are not stuck. The ring is stuck. Here, let me help.’ I pitch in and others join. But we can’t separate the ring from his flesh though we separate a big chunk of skin.

‘Ok, that is enough,’ Parag says, ‘sorry, Vivek. You gotta leave. Laila will be here any minute.’

‘No!’ Vivek lunges on his finger.

‘Hey, you will break it. Take it easy,’ I say.

‘Yeah, move out, go watch Toy Story 3D,’ says Parag, ushering him out.

Vivek leaves looking crushed, but not a moment too soon because Laila dances into the hall just a few minutes later like a gust of wind sweeping through rickety leaves.

I will not try to put into words the experience of watching a performer who knows her craft too well. I can only say the hours pass by like seconds and when I finally answer my phone that is ringing of the hook, she is long gone and we are just breaking out from the trance she put us under.

It is Vivek. ‘About time! I have been trying to reach you all night. Is she still there?’

‘Laila? No, she is gone.’

‘Oh no!’ pause, I can detect the disappointment.

‘Why are you asking?’

‘I got the ring out.’

‘Cool! How did you do it?’

I hear a grunt. ‘Please, I don't want to get into those details. It doesn’t matter anyway, she is gone.’

‘Hey, wait, all is not lost. Parag has some great news.’ I hand the phone over to Parag who is passing around the wedding rings from the box. He grabs the phone.

‘Vivek, buddy, I hear the ring is out. Don’t put it back on because Laila ... oh ... she is spectacular ... is back again tomorrow for an encore. Find an excuse to get out of the house, buddy, see you tomorrow same time.’

22 hours later …

As soon as she enters, Laila glides down the dance floor like a dream to where Vivek sits trembling in excitement.

'You were missing all the fun last night.’

‘I … I ... I ... I was otherwise busy.’

‘I hope you are enjoying tonight.’

‘Yes, hundred per cent. No, two hundred per cent.’

She reaches over and slowly withdraws his Marc Jacobs. Vivek blinks and grins.

‘I like your spectacles. Where did you get them?’

‘Oh, aren’t they cool? Those are my anniversary gift.’

She immediately stops dancing. Suffice to say, Vivek never got to see the performance. But, with the extra time on our hands, we finally watch Toy Story 3D. It is a great movie if you are in the right frame of mind. If you are not, it is agony.

What is in a coffee name?

The petite cashier in Starbucks gulped when she saw me approaching - probably yet to recover from the unpronouncable multisyllabic name casually dropped on her head this morning by another Indian. I ordered a tall cappuccino, at which point she had to ask me for my name which was not without trepidation.

'Luke,' I said. Her face went blank for a second and then she exhaled in relief. Luke, that is easy! Of all the coffee names I make up, Luke is my favorite. It is short but also distinct, and, most importantly, easy to yell. Try yelling a Brad or a Chris, and your inflamed larynx begs for a menthol lozenge. Luke is elastic and smooth like a soft whistle.

'Luke – cappuccino,' the barista hollered.

My order was ready in seconds. Fabulous! I collared my cup and headed for the sugar bin when a shrill voice shouted: 'Hey! That is mine.'

A large flat-nosed white guy poked his chin at my coffee looking very pissed.

'Sorry, I'm sure this is mine. You see the name "Luke" written on this cup? That's my name.'

'Luke is my name - my real name. You don't look like a Luke to me.'

Well, excuse me! The insinuation is chilling. This guy has crossed a line – there is got to be some line on racial stereotyping. I don't look Luke just because I am brown? (On that matter, let me set a record straight here - I may look brown, but I was once really fair-complexioned. Years of Indian summers have tanned me. I can even prove it - my inner thighs are still milky white.)

'What do you mean?' I barked.

'Are you kidding? Luke is the whitest name on earth. You will be more convincing calling yourself the Big Lebowski. '

Suddenly, a new indignant voice joined us. A suit-clad Vietnamese. 'The Indian has a point. Maybe that is his real name. Why cannot he be a Luke?"

Just then, the barista hollered again, 'Latte for Kenny Rogers.'

The Vietnamese guy said: 'Excuse me, that's my coffee.'

Luke rolled his eyes. 'You are defending this phoney when you call yourself Kenny Rogers? C'mon, give me a break. You are either a Ngoc or a Nguyen. What are you? Show me your card.'

'Even if I'm a Nguyen, so what? You are a bad man. You are a racial name profiler, Luke,' Rogers said.

'Racial name profiling? Is that a new offense … are you accusing me of a crime? So I'm guilty, sue me.'

Just then, Luke's quiet friend stepped into the fray. A lanky chap in t-shirt and slacks that seem to slowly drift down to the VCL¹. Tugging them up at the last instant, he spoke with a mild grin: 'Excuse my friend, he is not very PC.'

'You bet I'm not PC, Steve. You –' he said, addressing me. 'Just give me my coffee. When the cup says Luke, it is me.'

'This is my coffee. My name is written on it. And I'm bloody well having it.' I said, and sipped it watching Luke's dismayed reaction.

The barista hollered again - 'Cappuccino for the Asian Luke.'

Awkward silence followed as my expression turned sheepish and Luke's turned murderous. Ok, I messed up.

'All right, it is an honest mistake. Two guys, same name.'

'That ain't a mistake. You are trying to pass off as someone you are not.'

'There you go. RNP again,' said Kenny Rogers.

'RNP? Now it is an acronym? Here is some RNP for you. I walk into an ethnic place and try to pass off as a Nguyen or a Reddy, I will tear the place down with laughter.'

'You are wrong, Luke,' I said. 'They might be surprised, but they won't insult you.'

'Ha! That's what you think!' said Luke.

Steve said: 'Well, there is only one way to find out. I know the perfect Indian place. It is a chat cafe just a couple of blocks away.'

I was game. Luke pondered for a second and accepted the challenge. Rogers said he will tag along to watch Bollywood in the Indian café. He said he is a big fan of Shah Rukh Khan.

'What is taking my Latte so long?' Steve wondered, as his slacks again descended towards VCL.

'Forget it, theAsian Steve just whisked it,' said Luke, with a sardonic guffaw.

There are many chat cafés in the Bay Area, but this place is unique in two respects. First, the kitchen has an exhaust, though it seems to exit the odors into the dining area where they permeate into the customers' skins. Second, the cashier takes orders by names, which is why we came here to test our ethnic RNP theories.

First to order was Steve who chose a samosa chat and gave his name to the bushy-eyebrowed, open-mouthed cashier typing on his computer.

Steve recommended the same dish to Luke who was next up.

'Your name, sir?'

Without flinching, Luke said loudly to anyone who can hear: 'Reddy.'

One bushy eyebrow went up, but the cashier remained glued to the screen. No one laughed, no one seemed to care.

'Repeat: I am Reddy!' said Luke, a little louder. Still no reaction. I smiled pleasantly at Luke who just grunted.

Next up was Kenny Rogers who ordered a Bhel Puri.

'And your name, sir?'

'Shah Rukh Khan.' Both the bushy eyebrows went up, and bobbed once.

I leaned over and asked Kenny what the hell he was trying to do. He said that was the first Indian name that came into his head.

'But you don't need an Indian name here. Just be yourself.'

'Over here, I want to be someone else.' Kenny said. His top shirt buttons were already undone like Indian matinee idols. I peered hard into his face and saw a bit of insanity there. He had moved on from Kenny. He put on shades. A role player who lived in his roles.

When my turn arrived, I ordered a kulfi and gave my name.

'So is that your real name?' Luke asked after we found a table.

'Let us stick to the point. No one here gives two straws whether you are Luke or Reddy. Names don't mean anything here. You got to concede the argument.'

'We are not done,' Luke said, but unconvincingly.

The waiter brought Steve's order first who immediately started digging into it.

'Mmmm … ' said Steve, 'this tastes good.'

I got my Kulfi, Kenny his bhel puri, and then Luke's order arrived.

Luke took a big spoonful and immediately turned purple. His flat nose ballooned out, his eyes melted into waterfalls, his face turned ruddy and black.

'What the bloody f@!% is in this dish??'

'What is the matter?' I asked.

'One spoon and a nuclear reaction is going off in my head. I am dying here. Where is the waiter?'

The only waiter in that place came around shortly. 'Is there a problem, sir' he inquired.

Luke who was emptying sugar sachets into his mouth looked at him with burning eyes: 'There bloody well is. What did you put into my plate? TNT, RDX?'

'May I look at your orders, sir' said the waiter, checking our receipts.

'But I ordered the same dish and it is quite good,' Steve said.

The waiter suddenly exclaimed. 'Sir, Mr. Steve got the white-guy-spicy version, which is really mild. But since your name , is it really Mr. Reddy, sir?'

'Why not?' Steve asked.

'Sir, if you give your name as Reddy, the kitchen staff will think you are a real Reddy and automatically upgrade you to the Guntur-chili spice level , sir.'

Silence. Luke looked at me incredulous. 'Did you say no RNP in Indian places? Maybe, but here is a new acronym – RFP. Racial food profiling! Now, if you will excuse me, I need two gallons of beer.'

He stormed out. Steve excused himself to spring after Luke, the action taking his pants finally past VCL – a very unfortunate sight to add to my chagrin. But Shah Rukh Khan was happy digging with gusto into Luke's unfinished plate.

1. VCL – Visible Crack Line.

After reading Shefali Kulkarni's delightful piece on coffee names in the village voice blog.