Still Bawa After All These Years

Shirin savors the stillness of the moment amidst the hustle and bustle of her Irani restaurant as her eyes meet those of the man she fell in love with more than fifty years ago.

“I am going to the bank,” Shirin announced as she came up to the counter, “we need to deposit money to pay electric and water bills, and we need money for the staff salaries due next week.”

“You see that couple sitting there?” Darius said to her, “that is Jamshed Bharucha and his wife Persis. Just yesterday, they bought the sari shop next door. They now own half the building. They come here for lunch every day. I think they want to buy our restaurant also. He has come up to talk to me two or three times already, but I got busy with customers before he could say anything.”

“Maybe they really like our food.” Rusi suggested gently wiping his hands on a soggy napkin draped on his arm.

Shirin took a deep breath and closed her eyes to blot out the soggy napkin. Her husband, Rusi, drove her mad using the same napkin to wipe dry beer bottles and freshly washed glasses, and to clean anything that fell on his spotless tables and chairs.

“I am only saying that we should think about selling,” Darius continued, “what else to do if children are not interested in the business.”

“You should have married Nargis Billimoria when you had a chance, Darius,” Rusi said mischievously, his eyes sparkling as he spoke. “Then we would not be in this position.”

“No, thank you,” Darius retorted, “I have seen you two enjoy the joys of changing your children’s nappies, taking them to school, teaching them to walk, scolding them to study, sending them to college, and waiting for them to come home. You are welcome to the bliss of marriage, Bawa, I am a very happy bachelor.”

“The mutton is almost ready,” Shirin said, “it is on the stove. I will turn off the stove and then go. Pesi will take care of orders while I am gone. I have told him everything.” She did not like this conversation. She missed her son, Dara. Always in a hurry to do something different, to grow up, to become a doctor, to see the next patient. He must have come home from the hospital by now. Ireland was so far away. Claire was a very nice girl but she was Irish, not Parsi, and her skin burned so easily in the Mumbai sun. Last time they came, even Dara fell sick when they went out to eat at Marine Lines.

“Have you made enough?” Darius asked. “I just got a phone order for ten plates of mutton.”

“Yes, there will be enough,” Shirin said absently as she stole a glance at the couple. They were young. Homi at the bakery said that they had a big house in London but wanted to spend more time in Mumbai. She was eating slowly, scooping up the sali gosht delicately with her fork, cutting the pieces with her knife. He had the air of a man in a hurry, even as he drank his chai.

“Aren’t you going to eat something else?” Persis asked, “this food is so good, so authentic.”

“No dear, said Jamshed, “I finished all my biryani. If you get caramel custard, I will share a few bites.”

“OK, darling,” Persis said, “when are you going to talk to these people?”

“I am waiting for a chance,” Jamshed said, looking at the three standing by the counter, “they are always so busy. I need them to be free to discuss our catering contract.”

“Our anniversary is next month,” Persis reminded him, “you should talk to them soon. I really did not like the food at the Batliwala’s party last night. This sali gosht is really intense, really authentic. Can I have another beer?”

“One more beer, please!” Jamshed Bharucha’s voice boomed imperiously, “and one caramel custard.”

A cold bottle appeared in Rusi’s hand, the bottle opener poised, ready to pop open the top. Shirin started to turn toward the kitchen for the caramel custard and to turn off the stove if the mutton was cooked.

Their eyes met.

Rusi saw Shirin framed by the light streaming in from the doorway, purse in hand, just like the first time she had walked into the restaurant. Even the flower print on her sari was the same as the one on the frock she wore that day. The most beautiful sixteen year-old with the big, melting eyes and shy smile. That was the first time their hands had touched by accident as he put down the lemon soda bottle at her table. Until then, he was just working. From that moment he knew what he was working for.

Shirin saw Rusi smile the smile she knew so well. It was just the same as it had been fifty years ago when she walked in this restaurant, her first time in any restaurant. He had turned red when she had reached for the lemon soda and their hands touched. She felt her hand tingle. Where did the years go? They got married, she learned to cook, Rusi bought the restaurant from Farhad Irani, Rusi’s brother, Darius, started taking care of the business, Dara was born, they took care of Rusi’s parents first, and then her parents. All through, his smile remained just the same. He was happy as the waiter in his own restaurant. She was happy just to see him happy.

“Customer is waiting,” Darius whispered, “one beer and one caramel custard.”

“The mutton is on the stove,” said a voice inside Shirin’s head, “the bank will close in one hour,” it went on. Rusi’s smile still lit up his face, the bottle opener still poised over the bottle top. Their eyes still smiling at each other. “It’s OK,” Shirin told herself, “Dorabjee will open the bank counter for me and the mutton will taste better if it cooks a little more.”

“I am going,” Shirin heard herself say.

She did not move. Rusi’s smile held her as it had done all these years.