Now, look, I’ve been at this for more than forty-five years — long before Satish was even an itch in his father’s pants. I started with nothing, squatting on roadsides, selling roasted chana and peanuts off a gunny sack. They called me “Joker” because of how my wide smile always stayed on, even when dust, thick as chickpea flour, covered my face and hair.
These days, I have a four-by-two fixed food stall, with two-three tables in front, all in a prime, expensive location at Parla Station, West. All paid for with blood, sweat and don’t-ask-what-else. I don’t sell fifty-five varieties of the same thing. But, my food is good, my masalas and chutneys fresh, and I keep things clean. English-speaking college kids, car-driving corporates, and even a couple of local politicians drool over my special dosas. They send servants from their Juhu penthouse flats to pack up my sambhaar in their own dabbas for their big parties where it is drunk like beer. Where imported whisky is poured over dancing girls, but that’s a different story. Yes, it is all Allah’s good graces that, even though there are American pizza and burger restaurants everywhere now, and so many of my colleagues have moved on, I’m still standing here.
No, yesterday’s snot-nosed kid is not going to steal from me and get away with it. After I gave him a job, when none of the others wanted him, with his bloodshot eyes and dirty clothes. “Satish”, I said, “Here are some decent clothes for when you’re serving my customers and washing their plates.” I also give him two meals and a hundred rupees daily for doing just that. Who would be so generous to a Chamar boy with leathery skin, like he was born in one of the hell-like tanneries where his ancestors worked?
Now, Arif, another Old Malakpet lad like me, my neighbor’s sister’s son, who helps with the cooking, tells me that he saw Satish stealing my money. Ya Allah, the audacity. Like a wild pup, he bites the hand that feeds him. So, today, I will lay a trap for the crook. If he tries again, I will catch him red-handed. Then see what I do to him.
Here he comes. Late again. How he looks shiftily at everyone as if he has rare treasures hidden on his person. No, he has never shown up drunk like a couple of boys I had before. But, he acts like, even if you handed him the world on a gold platter, it would not be good enough. As if showing a friendly smile or some respect toward his elders is a heavier tax than he is willing to pay. I told him to get a mobile, so he can call me if he’s going to be late. But, will he listen? Says he has no need to waste his money on unnecessary toys. So, what’s he saving it all for then? To buy the Taj Mahal?
“Hey, Satish,” I yell, “Hurry it up. The lunch crowd is going to start. Wipe down the tables and the counter. Put out the spoon holders. Don’t break any of the spoons again. I’ll take it out of your pay.”
He looks slant, through hooded eyes, at me and says, “The plastic keeps getting thinner on those spoons of yours. Your supplier is cheating you. If they break, it’s not my fault.” Then, he doesn’t even wait for me to reply but disappears behind the stall to get the mop and bucket. You see what I’m dealing with here?
You’re thinking, why does Nawaz Bhai need to stoop to setting traps like he’s hunting animals? Why can’t I just get rid of Satish — his lateness, fights with Arif, his sharp tongue with me, and, sometimes, our customers, these are all justification enough for God to forgive me. But, I want to confront him about the stealing. I want to shove the evidence under his nose and show him that Nawaz Bhai is nobody’s fool. That I cannot be cheated by any yesterday’s kid so easily. I pride myself on knowing people, especially the ones I hire. All these years of working on Mumbai streets and no one has, thank Allah, stolen from me. But, this good-for-nothing. Not just here, but back in Malakpet, people will be talking about how a kid steals from Nawaz Bhai in broad daylight. Because, sure as anything, Arif has told his family, and they have told my family. And they will all say, “That Nawaz Bhai thinks he’s such a big shot. A kid takes money from him and he’s clueless.” So, when I catch Satish taking my money, I will kick his ass so hard that he will find himself lying on the tracks of Platform Six.
When I was his age, I had just come to Bombay (as it was then) to work for my Uncle, Allah rest his soul. He was without a son of his own too, like me. I had so much ambition and energy that I could go two days and two nights without food and sleep. I wanted to learn everything I could from my elders. I wanted to hold my head up high among my peers so that they would say, “That Nawaz Bhai has no fear of anyone or anything. He is a true Mussulman.” That’s why I am here today.
Kids like Satish don’t seem to want to get somewhere in life; to be something. They’re the kind that, eventually, get picked up by gangs and paid to do, Allah knows, what-all evil things.
I had a boy like that just before the ’93 blasts. Bihari thief, he was. One day, he doesn’t have a clean shirt to wear, or three full meals a day and, the next day, he’s wearing shiny new clothes and throwing money around in big restaurants. I see Satish going that way too. If he doesn’t get killed by some gang member first for looking at him the wrong way or something. No, this is not the kind of person who will admit to me that he is stealing. I have to set the trap and catch him.
“Arif,” I say, “How long does it take to chop onions? Allah Mian has given you two strong hands, no? At this rate, you will not be done with all the vegetables even after people are home in their beds. Hurry it up, my boy.”
He’s still learning, but he’s a good kid. He listens to filmi music all day on his mobile, dyes his hair red with henna, and wears attar on his colorful shirts that you can smell from five feet away. Nonetheless, he’s a God-fearing Muslim. We’re not Namaazis, either of us. But, we understand respect, loyalty and looking out for each other, especially working in an area where we’re the only two Mussulmani left.
Earlier, when Satish had not shown up yet, I told Arif to do the breakfast plates. That put him in a sour mood —having to squat in the back and wash tubs filled with dirty plates. I told him, “It’s not like I’m asking you to clean toilets. It’s just food.” He has three sisters at home, so he never had to do any housework. Yet, here he is, doing honest work with his hands so that he can help his father marry them off well. I tell him that, if he learns everything like I did at his age, someday, he, too, can have his own business and walk down any street with his head held high. He doesn’t reply back, which is as it should be.
By one p.m., the lunch crowd is at its thickest. Arif and I are busy laying dosa or uttapam batter on hot griddles. Plumes of pungent-smelling smoke rise in our faces as sweat pours down them. Loud sizzles of oil almost drown out orders being shouted at us from all directions. The rhythmic, clacking noise of metal on metal, as we flip and toss with our paltas makes the orchestra complete. Quickly, we load up plates with chutneys and sambhaar, and place the dosas, uttapams, or idlis on them.
On the other side of the counter, Satish grabs them next and calls out the orders so that customers can claim their meals. He also clears off the used plates from the counter and tables.
At one point, I see Satish elbow a large man in the belly as he tries to get past. Before I can say anything, the man has shoved Satish roughly to the side, both of them swearing as if we’re at the Mahim fish-market.
Arif looks at me with wide eyes, then turns back to his hot stove. The afternoon swelter, along with the heat from the three stoves has us constantly mopping our faces with rags. Satish doesn’t sweat as much as an honest man should.
I keep an eye on my customers and both the boys. I always know how many dosa and idli plates because I keep count and, at the end of each mealtime, I get Satish to count the dirty ones in the tubs.
As customers pay, the boys hand the money over to me and I stuff it into the cloth bag around my waist. Two-three times a day, when the bag gets full, I empty it in a box that I keep behind the largest stove. The box is locked and only I have the key. Arif has told me is that he’s seen Satish open the box during my breaks and take money out. So, one of Satish’s hidden talents must be picking locks too. We will find out today. When I next lock the box, I am going to leave my new mobile next to it with the video camera switched on. Ganpat Bhai, who sells me all my plastics, told me how he caught one of his boys stealing from him with this trick.
Within an hour, the big rush is over. In between the few remaining orders, we start to clear up before we have our own meals. A trio of college girls shows up, all giggles and struts. With fluttering fingers, one of them asks about the special. What makes it special, she wants to know, as the other two shake their heads at her. Arif moves forward to explain and I know they’re just teasing him but let him go on. He, of course, loves the attention and takes his time to give them a highly-exaggerated description with gesturing hands — a thinly-veiled imitation of theirs. The tallest one, with the mocking face, says, “Achha. OK. We’ll have three.”
They move to sit at one of the tables, chattering away in English. Arif and I get to work. We hear the tall one then calling out, “Hey. Clean this table.” I look at Satish, who has been standing a few feet away all this while, watching. He picks up his mop-cloth from the bucket near his feet and walks over to the table, dripping water as he goes. Slapping it onto the table, he swipes it back and forth a few times, letting the waste fall to the ground. When he walks off, there are streaks of water on the surface and one of the girls wrinkles her nose at the wet smell.
Queen-girl speaks again, “Arrey! What is this? Bring a dry cloth and do it properly.” I look over at Satish again, the anger starting to rise in me. Again, he moves over slowly and wipes the table with a drier rag this time. Through the corner of my eye, I notice that Arif has stopped and I give him a sharp look so that he gets back to his stove.
Picking at their food, the girls talk and titter, crossing and uncrossing their bare legs. Tauba, tauba. One of them asks for a glass of water and Satish takes three over.
Arif, the chuckling comedian, says, “Saala, he doesn’t even smile. Such pretty girls.” Satish hears him and gives him a glare. But, Arif doesn’t know to stop. He nudges me and sings, again loud enough for Satish, “Maybe it’s his bholapan, or maybe it’s his kaminapan.” I smile, despite myself and say,“He’s not so innocent. So it must be his wickedness that gives him such a sour face.”
Suddenly, I hear the girls laugh out even louder. They’ve heard our little joke. I look to Satish. He’s holding a tub of dirty plates, frozen and staring at the girls. When they see his stricken demeanor, they exchange glances with each other and continue chirping away in English.
His face like thunder, Satish walks heavily to the back. I hear him clanging plates chaotically. Arif too has turned back to his work. So that, when the girls get up and leave shortly, the only sounds are of us men at work.
I turn on the phone camera and place it close to the moneybox. “I’m off to see Jairam. Make sure that everything is spotless by the time I get back.” They know that it will take about half an hour for me to grab a cup of tea, a smoke, a paan, and the latest street gossip. It’s my usual post-lunch routine. And, it is the only time that I am away from the stall long enough for any mischief to happen.
When I walk back from Jairam’s, still chewing my Hyderabadi paan, there is an odd feeling in my stomach. If the camera shows what I expect, what will I say to the bastard? I don’t have time to think too long on this question as loud shouts interrupt. I see that Arif and Satish are punching each other and trying to rip each other’s hair and shirts off. I run to them and pull them apart. A small crowd of men has already started to gather and watch. One of them says to me, “I told them to stop, Nawaz Bhai. That you were on your way.”
Arif has a swollen eye and Satish has a cut lip. They are breathing heavily and looking away from each other. “What happened?” I demand, still holding myself between them with a hand on each chest.
“That fucker is stealing from you, Nawaz Bhai. Your own relative,” Satish spits blood onto the street.
“He’s a liar. And a thief.” Arif shouts back.
I look at each one. Then, I turn to Satish. “If you think he’s stealing, you should tell me. Why start a fight?” He does not reply, but his eyes blaze into mine. Pushing them further away, I wave my hands rapidly at the other men around us to leave us alone.
After the men are gone, I walk over to get my phone. It isn’t there. I swivel around to the boys. “Who’s got my phone?” Arif pulls it out of his pocket. “I was cleaning around the stoves, Nawaz Bhai. I didn’t want it to damage it.” He comes nearer and hands it to me. The camera is still on. I turn it off and put the phone away. I will play back the recording later.
Satish comes over to me. “You won’t find what you’re looking for on the phone,” He says, soft enough that no one else can hear. “But, good to know that you have so much trust. Find yourself another bhangi to do the dirty work.”
And, just like that, his pride leading the way, he walks off. I watch the set of his receding shoulders. Arif, too, is watching.
“You’re doing the cleaning as well from now on,” I tell him without moving, “I can’t afford two boys.”
“Nawaz Bhai, let’s get de-posable plates like the sandwich wallah,” Arif urges me.
“Maybe,” I mutter back.
Hours later, when Arif and I are home and he’s snoring on his mattress, I go out into the night to play the recording. For much of the time, all I see is shadows crossing back and forth. Finally, there it is. A pair of hands opening the moneybox. Wrinkles crease my forehead painfully as I see the stubby half-pinky on one of the hands picking the lock, taking money out and closing the box. Then, the hand moves hesitantly towards the phone. And everything goes black.
My insides get so heavy that I have to sit down on the cool, hard pavement. Staring up at the violet, starry sky, I know that I must confront Arif. Teach him a lesson. Send him back to Malakpet because trust, as my Abba, God rest his soul, used to say, is like a mirror and, once the mirror is cracked, it can never be repaired.
Remorse is an emotion I have no time for. So, no, there is none over losing Satish. He may not have stolen from me today, but it is only a matter of time and opportunity for boys like him, I tell myself, and go back inside.
In the morning, Arif is up before me and talking to a couple of his friends. After he hands me a cup of tea, he puts a hand on my shoulder and says, a syrupy gloat in his voice, “My friends took care of Satish last night. I knew they wouldn’t let me down.”
I put my cup down carefully, feeling a thousand pinpricks all over. “What are you talking about, Arif, my boy?” I ask, my tongue moving as slowly as a dying fish.
Arif combs his hair slick and straightens his shirt collar, smiling at his reflection in the mirror. “Our Muslim brothers did not let us down, Uncle. They taught that Chamar a lesson. He steals, insults, and fights with us. He won’t do that with anyone again as long as he lives.” He looks over to me, laughs with his crinkly-eyed charm, and gives me an airy salaam, “See you at the stall, Uncle.”
For the second time in a few hours, I drop to the floor. I know now that I must continue rearing a snake in my own house. Trying to get rid of it will only bring a nest of vipers to fall on me. Satish will, likely, bounce back. Me? I’m an old man with little time left. Think on that before you judge me.
