Home Away from Home
George, Samovar head waiter at the Jehangir Art Gallery, and his wife, Irene, are at a loss to find their house guest, Mary, a job and a place of her own to get back some privacy in their tiny, cramped Chembur suburb flat. Sometimes a chance encounter with a casual diner helps.
“Hurry up! You will miss your bus.” Irene said as she nudged George aside to adjust her hair in the mirror and put on her lipstick.
A startled George nearly cut himself with the razor. “I am hurrying,” he said to his wife as he looked back at the clock. Ten minutes to Shanti Nagar bus stand. One hour to Fountain. Ten minutes to Jehangir art gallery. Five minutes to change into Samovar restaurant uniform.
“Did you ask Mary when she will move to her own place?” Irene asked, taking one last quick look in the mirror before moving aside to let him finish shaving.
“She needs to get a job first. She is from my village. I can’t ask her to leave.” George replied, washing off the last of the shaving cream.
“She has been living with us for six months. This is Mumbai. You have to take what you can get.” Irene shot back, adjusting her starched sari.
“Don’t worry, I will ask when she comes home tonight.” George said as he turned around, “she is looking for a full-time home care job so that she can have her own room.”
“You’re spoiling my sari!” Irene protested as he reached behind her for the towel on the hook.
He missed the 45 and had to run to catch the 6 limited. It was full. He had to stand all the way to Fountain. The kitchen was already bustling when he arrived. The vegetables had been chopped and cleaned, the meats marinated and pressure cooked. The smell of chai, prawn curry, and mutton cutlets mingled in the air. Clean knives, spoons, forks, straws, plates, and cups stood ready for the day as George changed into his uniform.
Fans hummed at full speed struggling to keep the air moving as the line of waiting lunch customers kept growing longer outside. George’s glance swept across the packed tables as he made his way with plates poised in both hands.
Persis Patell and Uma Nair had come in early.
“George,” Miss Patel asked, “did Saroj, Pal, Sai, or Dhotre come here last week?”
“No, madam,” George smiled.
“What about Mondal, Raza, or Khatri?” Miss Nair asked with her mischievous smile.
“Madam, you are the only two famous artists here,” George replied, leaving them in splits. He liked them both. They were nice, always laughing and joking. They had come for lunch two days this week talking non-stop about the paintings exhibition in the main gallery and the photos exhibition in the terrace gallery. He could hear them giggling and planning their next article about people who had come to see the exhibitions or to be seen.
Mr. Sundar Puri in his checked suit was barely paying attention to what Mrs. Mukherjee had to say about invigorating new spaces for digital art photography. He came for lunch every week with someone who was thrilled to be seen in the company of the great photographer and happy to pay the bill.
Mrs. Chellaramani’s lit cigarette nestled in the ashtray as she held up her coffee, entranced by a discussion on the existential dilemma confronting the visual art industry. George did not even bother to wonder what that meant. He listened but did not pay attention to such conversations.
The Gomes couple were still deciding what to order. She wanted the Russian salad while he wanted the Hyderabadi kheema with the lacha parathas. Every week they tried to remember what they had liked the last time, but always ended up ordering something different. George had stopped trying to suggest dishes a long time ago. He just let them take their time.
The Jhabwallas in their usual businesslike manner, had already started on their apple pie with no ice-cream. They came for lunch once every month and stayed for exactly one hour, looking for talented new artists they could promote. Their table would be empty soon. The Patils, who were waiting first in line, would be very happy to get their favorite table.
“Sweet corn chicken soup, sir,” George announced.
“Ah, yes,” said the new customer as he gathered up the papers on the table to make place for the food. “Thank you.”
“You want something else, sir?” George asked tentatively, “paratha, roti rolls, cutlets…”
“Can you get egg roti rolls quickly?” the customer asked, “I have to get back to work.”
“Yes sir,” George replied as he left. “One egg roti roll, table seven,” he told Madam at the cash counter. “Customer is in a hurry.”
“Egg roti roll,” George said as he put down a plate, “please be careful, sir, it is very hot.”
George then turned his attention to the Patils waiting patiently in line.
“Hello, madam. Hello, sir. Welcome to Samovar. Your favorite table will be ready in only two minutes,” he reassured them before sweeping off to take the Jodiawalla’s bill and money to the cash register.
“Pick up plates from table ten,” he told the new waiter, “and clean up quickly.”
Chicken vindaloo rolls, chhole, palak paneer, aloo paratha, chocolate brownie with ice-cream, chai… laughter, gossip, impassioned debates, and food swirled around in an endless stream.
George noticed the egg roti roll and sweet corn chicken soup had gone cold on table seven. The new customer was sitting and staring at the papers on the table.
“Is everything OK, sir?” George asked, “you have not taken your food.”
“Oh, yes! I should hurry.” The customer said, “you need the table for other guests.”
“It is OK, sir,” George replied, “please take your time. I will warm up your food so it is hot and fresh. It will take five minutes only. You finish reading your work papers.”
A frown creased his brow as the customer gathered up the papers. “These papers are from home care agencies. I am looking for full-time, live-in care for my mother in Chembur.” His tired eyes smiled hopefully as he looked up at George, “do you know someone reliable?”