Part 2
Khushi saw
him sway and fall first for she was facing Akash and Arnav was standing behind
Akash.
“Hey Devi
Maiyya!” she exclaimed even as she leaped on the glass cabinet, threw her legs
over the other side and rushed to the fallen man.
Khushi
reached Arnav and was followed a second later by Akash.
“Bhai,”
Akash gasped.
Khushi knelt
by the fallen stranger and lifted his head and placed it on her lap. Her fingers caressed his
scalp through the thick, short hair.
The
customers gathered around in shock.
“Pour water
over him,” an elderly man suggested.
“No, his
coat will be damaged. Fan him,” another shouted.
“Is he
breathing?” another asked.
“Bhai,”
Akash pleaded. “Bhai, get up. Please.”
Bhai was
deaf to his pleas.
“Should we
ring for the ambulance?” another asked, pulling his phone out.
“Is it a
matter for the police?” another asked.
“He was
standing silently here, looking at the sweets. Did not speak even a word. Bewda
he kaa?” an elderly lady asked.
“Let’s take
him inside,” Khushi muttered to Akash.
Akash
nodded, frantic with worry.
“Munna, Krishna,”
Khushi bellowed.
The boys came running and helped Akash carry an unconscious
Arnav through the shop’s exit and into Khushi’s house, Gomti Sadan.
“Buaji,
Amma, Jiji...” Khushi screamed.
The ladies
came running to see Khushi leading a procession into the house. Behind her was
a man being carried by Munna, Krishna and a stranger.
“Khussi,
kaa hua?” Amma asked, her hand on her heart.
“Place him
on this bed, Nandkisore,” Buaji showed them the piece of antique furniture.
Payal ran
to get water.
“Shukriya,”
gasped Akash before reaching for his phone to call his family into the house.
“What
happened to that bitwaa, Nandkisore?” Buaji asked in an aside. “Khussi, you did
not hit him, did you?”
Khushi
huffed, placing her hands firmly on her hips. “No, I didn’t. I didn’t get the
time,” she replied crossly. “You can tease me later. First look at this poor
man. Buaji, he has shakkar ki bimari.”
“Hai Re
Nandkisore!” Buaji exclaimed.
The panels
of the door were pushed open by the anxious hordes from Delhi.
“Hamre
Arnav bitwaa!” Mami wailed.
“Bitwaa,”
Mamaji gasped.
“Chotey!”
Anjali and Nani called in one voice.
Payal
returned with the water and sprinkled it on Arnav’s face. There was a slight
flicker of his eyelids.
“His sugar
levels must have gone low,” Anjali gasped.
“We need
something sweet,” Akash looked at Khushi, desperate.
“Isme
problem kya he, Bhaiyya. The shop is full of sweets. I will get something,”
Khushi spoke as she ran to the shop.
“He was
alright till a few moments back,” Anjali explained to the Guptas. “He went
after Akash to buy sweets and then..”
“Tum chinta
mat karo, bitiyya,” Bujai consoled her. “Nandkisore sab theek kar dega.”
Khushi
returned in seconds with a box full of jalebi.
Akash
called, “Bhai, bhai, please wake up.”
His Bhai
was not in the mood to obey him. He remained comatose. Akash shook Arnav and
Mama removed his shoes and rubbed his feet. Nani rubbed his hands. Mami placed
her hand on his head and wept all over him.
“Bhai,”
Akash called.
“Chotey,”
Di cried.
Arnav moved
slightly.
“Prop him
up and force his mouth open,” Khushi said urgently.
Akash and
Mama lifted Arnav to sit. Amma and Buaji
pushed pillows behind him. Akash applied pressure around Arnav’s lips to get
him to open his mouth. As soon as Arnav’s mouth opened, Khushi pushed a jalebi
into it.
Arnav
turned his head restlessly, trying to push the sweet out of his mouth.
“Eat it,”
Khushi ordered. “Don’t show your nakhre when you are sick.”
He stilled.
“Open your
mouth,” Khushi scolded him.
Arnav
parted his lips. Khushi made him eat three jalebi and Payal forced water down
his throat.
A few
moments later, Arnav opened his eyes to see Khushi looking at him with a
worried expression on her beautiful face.
He blinked.
The goddess was by him, looking at him, anxious about his well-being?
“Chotey,
how are you?” Anjali wept over him.
“Tum theek ho,
bitwaa?” Amma asked.
Arnav
looked at the Guptas and his surroundings, disoriented.
“Chotey,
you have to go for a full check-up once we get to Delhi,” Nani insisted.
Mami
nodded. “Hamre Arnav bitwaa! Phell like a katte patang! Hello Hi Bye Bye!” She
dried her eyes but could do nothing about the streaks of make-up on her face.
“Bhai, if
you are better, we can leave now. I will drive to Delhi,” Akash offered. “You
rest.”
Arnav shook
his head to clear it.
Khushi drew
in a deep breath. “How can you make him travel? He is sick! Please let him rest
here a while.”
“Yes, yes,”
Amma and Buaji added.
The
Raizadas looked at the Guptas with gratitude and embarrassment on their faces.
“Maaf
keejiye,” Nani began. “We barged into your house.”
“Thank you
for looking after Chotey,” Anjali said with tear-filled eyes.
Buaji waved
away their thanks and their sorries.
“This can
happen to anyone. Please don’t apologise, Nandkisore. Please stay here till
babua is able to travel. What is the hurry?” she asked.
The
Raizadas looked among themselves and then at Arnav. He looked at khushi’s worried face and nodded quietly.
“I am
Madhumati Gupta. This is my sister-in-law, Garima. These are my nieces,
Payaliyya and Khussi. My brother, Sasi will be home soon. We run Satwik Mishtan
Bhandaar,” Buaji explained.
“I am
Devyani Raizada, Madhumatiji. This is my son, Manohar, his wife, Manorama,
their son, Akash. Anjali and Arnav are my grandchildren. My daughter and her
husband are no more,” Nani explained.
“Raijjada..the
name sounds familiar,” Buaji said thoughtfully.
“Haan, Jiji,”
Amma agreed. Then she asked Nani, “Do you have relations in Lucknow?”
“Do we hab
relations in Lucknow? We hab only relations in Lucknow, Hello Hi Bye Bye!” Mami
said, wiping her tears.
Nani
sighed. “We belong to Lucknow. Thakur Rudra Pratap Singh was my husband.”
Buaji and
Amma gasped. “Thakur Rudra Pratap Singh?”
Khushi and Payal looked at their Amma
and Buaji with curious eyes.
“Who
doesn’t know Thakurji?” Buaji exclaimed. “Such a decent gentleman with a kind
heart. He never turned away anyone who approached him for help. Was Ratnaji
this babua’s mother?”
“Yes,” Nani
sighed for she knew that the tragedies at Sheesh Mahal had made headlines.
“Chotey bought back Sheesh Mahal. We came to finalise the deal. We live in
Delhi now.”
Buaji said,
“Only Nandkisore knows why such terrible things happen to people. Who are we to
question him?”
Amma
nodded. “You must stay with us for a couple of days at least. Apna hi ghar
samajhiye.”
“Yes, yes,”
Buaji added.
Khushi and
Payal smiled their approval.
Nani and
the others tried to refuse but the Guptas were joined by Sasi Gupta, who after
listening to Buaji and seeing Arnav, refused to hear of their leaving.
Nani,
Anjali and Mami looked at Arnav.
He quickly leaned back against the pillows and
shut his eyes to get them to agree to stay.
“Hamre
Arnav bitwaa ijj weak,” Mami exclaimed. “Saasumma, let us stay for two dajjs.”
The
decision was made. The Raizadas stayed back, grateful that they did not have to
travel to Delhi when Arnav was so ill and that they had found such a warm and loving family to live with.
Khushi led
Akash and Arnav to their room, chattering nineteen to a dozen.
“You rest
well, Arnavji. I will make whatever you want to eat and send it with your
brother,” she smiled.
“Thank you,”
Arnav said.
“Why are
you thanking me now? Thank me after you taste my cooking. What would you like
to have for lunch?” she asked.
“You can
cook?” Arnav asked to tease her.
Her eyes
flew open in outrage. “Can I cook? He is asking if I can cook,” Khushi informed
Akash who looked as uncomfortable as anyone could be. “I have been cooking
since I was twelve,” she claimed, lifting her nose in the air.
“Really?”
Arnav infused doubt into his voice.
Akash stared at him. What was wrong with
Bhai? Why was he challenging this lioness of a girl? And what did it matter to
Bhai if she could cook or not? It was not as if he was going to employ her as
his cook!
“Really,”
Khushi answered him. “Tell me what you want for lunch. I will make it,” she
declared.
“You will?”
Arnav asked softly.
“Of course I
will,” she proclaimed.
“Pizza,”
Arnav demanded.
Akash
gasped. Bhai never ate pizza. What was wrong with him?
“Pijja?”
Khushi whispered, a frown creasing her forehead. What was that?
“Veg pizza,”
Arnav tried to hide his smile at Khushi’s confusion.
“Woh..woh..jo
kuch bhi he..woh veg hi hoga. We are pure shakahari log. We don’t take non-veg,”
Khushi claimed.
“Fine,” Arnav
smirked. “So can I expect a veg pizza for lunch?”
Khushi
looked at the open challenge on his face. It was better when he was unconscious!
She nodded
and left the room, temper propelling her.
“Bhai, what
are you doing?” Poor Akash asked.
Arnav burst
out laughing. “Eating pizza for lunch. Veg pizza because we are all shakahari,”
he chortled.
Khushi
walked into the shop, a big worried frown on her face.
“Kya hua,
Didi? Is he still ill?” Munna asked.
“No, he is
awake now,” Khushi muttered.
“Waise, why
did he faint?” Krishna asked her in her ear.
“Knocked him out cold with your chatter, didn’t you?”
Khushi
pouted.
“Behosh kar
diya bechare ko with her ada and nakhre,” Munna teased.
“I will
deal with you two later,” Khushi muttered. “First I have to find out how to make
veg pijja.”
“Veg pijja?
What is that?” Munna asked.
“Who knows?”
Khushi asked. “Why can’t he eat bhature or phulka or parathe? Pijjawala kahin
ka,” she muttered. “It is all the fault of Delhi.” She booted up the computer
in the small office attached to the shop.
She typed
Veg Pijja and got a series of leads to Pizza Online, Pizza movie, and Veg Pizza
recipe on a blog.
“It is
pizza, not pijja? Let me get my hands on this recipe. Then I will show you, you
Arnav Singh Raizada!” she exclaimed as she set out to write down the recipe.
“Sugar,
warm water, yeast...sab he..no problem....” she studied the ingredients. “Maida,
salt, olive oil...yeh olive oil kaa he?” Khushi wondered. “From where do I get
this oil?” she fretted. Then she told herself, “Khushi, it is just an oil...a yellow-green
oil. The bottle looks green. Take sarson ka tel instead. It is an edible oil
after all.”
Then she
studied the recipe.
“Tomato pijja
sauce,” she read. “Tomatoes, garlic..yes, I have garlic...phir se olive oil?
Hey Devi Maiyya, this olive oil will follow me to the shamshan. Onion,
capsicum..oh...Shimla mirch, olives? Yeh kya he? Is it ber? Basil? Yeh kya he?”
She quickly
googled it. “Tulsi? I have it in my pot. Woh to theek he. But what is this?
Oregano? Isn’t oregano something you do in craft class at school? No, Khushi.
That is origami.” She checked out oregano. “Hey Devi Maiyya, from where will I
get this?”
She looked
at the recipe. “Oven? But I don’t have an oven. Raju Chacha’s Nani’s neighbour
has one, but I think it is old. Does it work now?” she wondered. “First heat the oven. Make a roti of the pijja
dough, put sarson ka tel on it, put sauce on it, put vegetables on it,
then...mozarella cheej? Yeh kya he? Amul cheej suna he, paneer suna he, yeh kya
he?”
“Didi, aren’t you coming to the cash counter?” Krishna asked.
“This Arnav
Singh Raizada and his veg pijja will drive me crazy, Krishna. Suno, is Raju
Chacha’s Nani still alive?” Khushi asked.
Krishna
frowned. “Why? Is she going to make veg pijja for you?”
“No, I need
her help to borrow her neighbour’s oven,” Khushi told him.
Krishna hit
his head. “That oven? It must be lying in some pile of junk by now.”
“Shubh
shubh bolo,” Khushi admonished him and set out to locate her oven.
Khushi looked
at the dilapidated oven and then at Munna and Krishna. Both boys looked
heavenwards, absolving themselves of all responsibility.
“Will this
work?” Khushi wondered aloud. The oven was older than her and its photo deserved
to be hung on the wall with a floral garland around it!
Munna
swallowed his laughter and said, “You will never know if you don’t try.”
“Haan,
Didi, the oven can’t speak,” Krishna looked at Munna, his eyes dancing with
laughter.
Khushi
swallowed hard and then gingerly plugged it in and switched it on.
The house was plunged into darkness.
“Hai Re
Nandkisore! The current has decided to abandon us today!” Buaji was heard to
exclaim loudly from the hall.
“Payaliyya,
take these to Devyaniji’s room and fan her,” Amma handed over two hand-made
cloth fans to Payal.
“Munna,
Krishna,” Khushi whispered in panic. “Buaji will come here now to find out why the
current has gone!”
“I will
repair it, Didi,” Munna chuckled as he walked away.
“Your oven
is very potent, Didi. Current hi udda diya!” Krishna teased as he set out to
dismantle the culprit and repair it.
Khushi
stood looking at the oven, her eyes rolling, her hands on her hips.
“It is all
his fault, that shakkarwala lying in the guest room, smirking at me,
challenging me!” She looked around. The house looked dark even at noon. She
looked at the clock and panicked. She didn’t have much time to produce the
pijja. “You are not innocent, Khushi Kumari Gupta! Part of the blame lies with
you too. If he was stupid enough to challenge you, why were you stupid enough
to accept it? Mari jaa rahi thi to take up the challenge! Ab bhugto!”
Krishna
laughed silently, listening to her chide herself.
“Don’t
laugh,” Khushi rebuked him. “Who knows what else will get damaged in this house
by the time he decides to leave for Delhi!”
“As long as
your heart is safe, you don’t have to worry, Didi,” Krishna said softly, his sharp
eyes on her perplexed face.
“Heart?
What has my dil got to do with veg pijja?” Khushi asked.
“What if
you come to like him a lot? So much that you feel sad when he decides to return
to Delhi?” Krishna asked lightly although the look in his eyes was serious.
“Like him?
Like that..that man? Lose my dil to a mere man? Never! My heart belongs to Satwik
Mishtaan Bhandaar and its jalebi, balushahi, rajbhog, rabdi, sandesh, Mathura
peda, dry petha....” Khushi claimed, smiling at thought of her gorgeous shop
and its delicacies.
Krishna
looked down at the oven, a small smile on his lips. “Dekhte hein,” he said
mildly.
“Dekhte
hein,” Khushi retorted.
The lights
came on.
Khushi clutched her heart in relief. Munna returned to help Krishna.
Soon they set the oven to rights.
Khushi
looked at the final product with doubt in her eyes. The veg pijja looked alright,
just as it looked in the photo in the recipe. But the taste?
Khushi
broke off a piece and put it into her mouth.
Krishna and Munna burst into
laughter seeing the grimace on her face.
“The dough is
raw in places...the smell and taste of sarson ka tel...uuuggghhhh...it is
bland, pheeka...” Khushi washed down the piece with a huge glass of water.
Munna hid
his head in his hands and laughed. Krishna was last seen rolling on the floor
laughing.
“How will
he eat this for lunch?” Khushi worried. “He will have indigestion along with
low shakkar, Hey Devi Maiyya.”
Munna
gasped between laughter, “You should have tried the tandoor at our catering section instead of this old oven.”
Khushi’s
face lit up. “Tumhare muh mein ghee shakkar, Munna!”
She quickly rolled out a
fat roti and ran to the big shed behind Gomti Sadan from where the catering
section of Satwik Mishtaan Bhandaar worked.
“Babuji,
where is Harpalji?” Khushi asked, panting.
“Near the
tandoor,” Sasi Gupta said, not taking his eyes from the cartons of food being
loaded on a mini truck.
Khushi held
the roti aloft as she ran, making her way through the crowd of workers to the
tandoor.
“Harpalji,”
she called.
“Kya he,
beta?” Harpalji asked, placing rotis on the inner surface of the hot clay oven
with dexterity.
“Will you
fry this roti for me in the tandoor?” Khushi asked.
Harpalji
looked at the over-sized, floppy roti in her hand, his bushy eyebrows rising in
shock.
“What is
this?” he asked gruffly.
“Pijja-roti,”
Khushi answered.
Harpalji
frowned. “What is that?”
“Poochiye
mat!” Khushi sighed, sitting down by him.
She watched him position her roti on
a cloth cushion and place it in the tandoor. “It is all because of him.”
“Him? Kaun
him?” Harpalji asked.
“A man!”
Khushi sighed. “I met him only today morning, but it seems like I have been
carrying him for years.”
“In your
dil?” Harpalji’s eyes widened.
“In my dil?
Never! On my shoulders like the burden on a dhobi’s donkey,” Khushi clarified.
“So you are
a donkey?” Harpalji asked, fishing out her pijja-roti with two metal sticks and placing it on a plate.
Khushi
pouted. “Harpalji!” she protested.
“I thought
you were speaking of your husband,” he teased.
Khushi
fired up. “Khushi Kumari Gupta has only one husband. Satwik...”
“Mishtaan
Bhandaar,” Harpalji completed, having heard this innumerable times. “Lo, take
your pijja-roti and run. I have work to do.”
“Shukriya,”
Khushi called. “I will send your pakore here with Munna,” she promised him a
treat.
“And
rasmalai,” Harpalji bargained, his eyes twinkling.
“And
rasmalai,” Khushi laughed as she ran away, the plate with her pijja-roti held
aloft.
Khushi
looked at the pijja-roti. It was nicely done. Now all she had to do was splash some
oil and the tomato sauce on it, arrange vegetables on it and cover it with
cheese.
She opened
the bottle of sarson ka tel. The smell of mustard was strong. She grimaced and
corked it. Maybe she could use sunflower oil that didn’t smell quite so much.
Or why not ghee?
‘Why should
I use sunflower oil when I have desi ghee?’ Khushi asked herself. She quickly
pulled the big bin of fragrant ghee close to her, prised open the lid and
dipped a big spoon in it.
She coated
the tandoor pijja-roti with a lavish helping of ghee. Then Khushi covered the oily
surface of the roti with the tomato sauce she had made. She dipped a finger in
it and tasted it.
Her lips turned down.
How could
that man eat this? It was practically tasteless!
She quickly
got out her spice box.
A little
red chilly powder...
Some garam
masala powder....
A sprinkle
of chaat masala...
Some kasuri
methi...
She
arranged blanched capsicum rings and onions on the spiced-up sauce.
Khushi frowned.
Why only capsicum and onions on a veg pijja? She quickly boiled mattar, carrots,
beans, cabbage and just about every vegetable she could find and decorated her
pijja. Khushi added small cubes of paneer to the mix.
She sprinkled a generous
dose of chaat masala on them.
Then she
opened a packet of Amul cheese.
Khushi used
a sharp knife on the slices and cut them into small bits. She showered them on her
veg pijja and added finely-diced coriander and mint leaves to give it a classy
look.
Khushi
stood back to look at her piece of work. It looked beautiful, all red and green
and white and orange. “Your pijja is more colourful than a sari, Khushi Kumari
Gupta!” she patted herself on her back. “You Arnav Singh Raizada, look at my
veg pijja and melt in jealousy. Can you make a pijja like this? No, you can’t.
Only Khushi can.”
Then she
placed the masterpiece in the antique oven and watched it anxiously through the
glass like a mother gaping at her child attending Kindergarten on its first day.
Darlings, Rash & I need a short break. Will be back in a couple of weeks if not sooner!
