“Oooh….” she broke it with a bite in between and threw her mouth open — “Fuck fuc… fuuuu!” She fanned her mouth. “Ooooo… haw… haw…”
He passed her a tissue, and she immediately spat the morsel out in it like a caveman, airing her mouth. She looked at Samar — “Sorry, this was so hot but it’s so good… what is this cheese? Bhaiya, andar mozzarella cheese dala kya?[40]” She hollered to the cook.
“Kaladi hai, Madam. Jammu ka local mozzarella![41]” He laughed. She split the naan open, and the kaladi inside burst out like mozzarella, but smelling even better. Real milky, with sour savoury hints. She blew this time, hard and slow, and carefully took a bite.Heaven.
“Wow!” She threw her head back.Naan, kaladi, onions, capsicum, pizza sauce… she spooned some chane, blew on them and stuffed them into her mouth. “Wow!” She dipped her spoon in the liquid green chutney and added to the party inside her mouth and closed her lips to keep it all in. She didn’t have words to describe the feeling. When she looked up from her food, Samar was quietly eating, eyes out on the street.
But even his bland company could not lessen this experience.
“Kya banaya hai, Bhaiya!” She waved at him. “Je baat![42]”
The cook was grinning. At least somebody was as happy as her.
————————————————————
Next, Samar drove across town to Dogra Chowk, as if the second course of their meal was pending. The sun had set by the time they parked, and the place, another small shop, was brimming with customers.
“Sharmaji ke Rajma Chawal,” she read the board. “I don’t know if I can eat anything more.”
“Hmm.” He cut the engine and double parked right outside the chaos, people getting their steel plates piled high with rice and covered with red, angry rajma. As he got out to still get himself a plate, Amaal quickly added — “Maybe a little. Not the full plate.”
He nodded, not even turning properly. She exited the car and rounded to the hood, leaning her bum on it. The footpath gave her a good anchor, and she stepped up, balancing herself nicely, absorbing the summer evening of Jammu with traffic noises, rajma scents and people chirping like the happiest hyenas. But then, food made everybody happy. Amaal realised then that her cramps had settled. Was it because of the carbs, a general happy mood, or just being out, she couldn’t pinpoint. But she made a mental note to start moving around when these excruciating cramps struck her again, as they inevitably would in a couple of months.
A plate came under her chin. She grasped it with both hands before it wobbled. It was heavy, the angry-looking rajma steaming up. She glanced up, and he was standing in front of her, mixing the rice in his plate and spooning up morsels. If this was his favourite food, it didn’t show on his face as he ate, looking at the road. Amaal found herself hooked.
A man, straightforward, people-watching and eating on a busy road. It felt too intimate to see him eat. And yet… she could notnotsee it. She could not even unsee it now. The visual would always live inside her. He set his spoon down and picked up a slice of onion, popping it into his mouth, chewing. A breath went in long and apparent. And his eyes moving around the place, came to her. Amaal startled. He eyed her plate, still untouched. She picked up her spoon and began mixing — “It’s really hot.”
“Hmm.”
“Can I transfer half of this to you?” She held her plate up. “I cannot eat everything.”
Without a word, he lowered his plate, and she pushed most of her rice and rajma on his quickly emptying plate. She also pushed the onions and pickle, leaving only a single slice for herself. He went back to eating. And she took a bite.
The rajma was smooth and thick and really creamy, the rice a steaming, rich Basmati. She registered it, but even with her eyes on her food, she only saw Samar, eyeing the world around him, eating quietly.
————————————————————
The night was falling fast, and the city was coming alive with eateries and recreational traffic. The air had cooled. And just when she thought this was it, that they were going back to the headquarters, Samar surprised her again.
He parked the car on a sidewalk in the middle of the main road.
“Do you want ice cream?”
“Where?” She began to check the line of shops glowing across the road.
“There.” He pointed to the small man sitting with a red box under a tree, just outside her window.
“Kulfi?”
“It’s not kulfi. He makes it with desi khoya and sugar.”
Amaal did not want the night to end. And who said no to ice cream when they were on their period?
“Yes.”
They got off again, this time walking together to the ice cream seller instead of just him going in and ordering.
“Kaunse flavours hai, Bhaiya?[43]” She asked, checking around him. All he had was one big pot covered in newspapers, set on a red box. It read ‘Malai barf’ in Hindi. He was old, and his hands shuddered as he set them on the pot and pushed to his feet. He looked at her through his half-hooded, wrinkled eyes — “Ek hi flavour milta hai yaha pe.[44]” He grinned a toothless grin.
