“Thank you for taking me out.”
“I am not taking you out.” He set his hand on her headrest, turned over his arm and reversed the car from the lot. Amaal held her head as straight as she could, feeling the heat of his face so close, even in the general heat of his car. The car was reversed, and he straightened, allowing her to breathe.
“What is this then?” She asked, turning in her seat to fold one leg under her other.Aah, what a position!She did not even need the hot water bag. Amaal relaxed just as he turned the AC knob.
“I am to look out for you. Seatbelt.”
She pulled the seatbelt and clicked, not taking her eyes off him. He did not care. She knew he knew, but nothing moved him, not even a PMSing woman staring at the side of his face in his small car. As usual, he was driving without a seatbelt, like most North Indian drivers did. And as usual, she asked — “Your seatbelt?”
And as usual, he did not answer. He had selective answer syndrome. Very conveniently ignoring what he did not want to touch, and being unapologetic about it. She would have to learn that trick.
“Where are we going?” She sighed, finally looking at the scenery through the windshield. The sun was softening now, spreading golden rays through the canopied lanes of outer Jammu as they sped into the city.
“Do you want to eat pizza?”
“I don’t think they’ll make good pizza here…”
“Naan pizza.”
“Anything but aloo-puri.”
He drove down the wide highway and turned into the tight lanes of the actual old Jammu. The bustle here was real. Amaal had visited the area just last week for their house-to-house campaign, but she hadn’t been able to see the place, what with being at the centre of a crowd of KDP volunteers, leaders and locals surrounding them. KDP blue flags were still fluttering on electricity poles and outside houses, the antelope staring back at her. Nobody vandalised KDP symbols here, nobody spray-painted ‘Don’t support India’ here. A strange mix of pride and hope unfurled in her chest. That she could be a part of this achievement, at this age, with so little experience… It was a heady feeling, a little arrogance too. The good kind. What did they call it… hubris?
The car weaved through a tight lane, and he parked outside a small shop at the turning of a crossroads. The architecture here was old and so precious. Amaal observed the brick buildings with British influence, the Victorian arches over windows and doors. Electricity wires tangled and criss-crossed across the sky, birds hopping and taking off as the evening progressed towards dusk.
“Are you getting out?”
She glanced at Samar, half out of the car, arm on the steering wheel.
“Do I have a choice?” She huffed half-heartedly, opening her door and stepping out. She left her hot water bag behind, feeling soo much better at the smells of tandoor and coal and yummy baking greet her. Her stomach growled, taking over the cramps.
“Do pizza naan, kaladi wali,” he ordered at the live tandoor set up in front of the place, the owner rolling out doughs of stuffed naan and patting them inside the barrel of tandoor. She glanced up at the menu board written in English and Hindi. Paneer naan, chur-chur naan, aloo naan…
“What if I don’t want pizza naan?” She voiced out loud.
“Then order whatever you want.” Samar stepped back from the tandoor and walked to one of the high tables with steel tops. It was still dirty, but a young man promptly came and wiped it down. Samar set his forearms on the tabletop, eyeing the street and the crossroad. She sighed, walking down to him and aping him on the opposite side of the table, in his line of sight. His eyes still did not settle on her.
“Is pizza naan your favourite here?”
“It’s a speciality.”
“What’s your favourite?”
“They don’t make it here.”
“What?”
“Rajma chawal.”
Amaal smiled — “You are a proper Jammu man.”
Dark eyes finally came to her face, and stayed.
“It’s the most cliché thing in the Jammu handbook since I came here. A Jammu person cannot live without their rajma-chawal and daily temple visits.”
He took his eyes back to the crossroads, silent as always.
Two steel plates of steaming pizzas were placed in front of them. The waft of butter was heavenly, and when Amaal observed closely, she realised it was pizza made over a naan, served with a gravy of chane, onions and green chutney. Her mouth watered. She couldn’t wait to let it cool down. The naan was cut into four pieces, so she attacked one triangle like a hungry lion. It pulled off with strings of cheese and kept going.
