Bathinda to Bangkok Read online

  As if she’d heard my thoughts, she suddenly yelled, ‘MAHIIIIII!’

  I got up and folded my yoga mat doing grumble-grumble. Not one second of peace in thee house. Now which mountain had fallen on Bhooto’s head?

  ‘MAHIIII! HELP! I’M DYING!’

  Hai! I just threw thee mat to one side and went flying to her room. Thought I’d find her on floor, holding chest, life button going off.

  No, ji, not.

  She was full of life, spinning full speed on Aerobike, Everests (not mountains, boobies) shaking. She was dressed in her exercise clothes. Cotton salwar-kameez and keds, with dupatta tied like Miss Universe ribbon, dividing her XL body 50-50.

  Uff! It was thee limit only.

  ‘Mummyji!’ I erupted like angry volcano. ‘You said you were dying!’

  ‘I am, puttar, I am…my throat – so, so dry.’ She sounded like steam engine. Huff puff. Huff puff. ‘Pass…pass…pass…’ She pointed to Coke bottle on thee side table.

  ‘Mummyji! Do you know how worried I was? I nearly got heart attack!’

  ‘Me too,’ she replied without stopping. ‘All this exercise-vexercise…gasp, gasp…not…for… me.’

  Whole world knew that. Thee last time fitness ghost had sat on her head, she’d bought very costly treadmill. Ya, she’d used it every day…to dry her bloody towel.

  ‘Then why are you doing it?’

  ‘My cholesterol level…it keeps going up and up –’

  Arre, it was cholesterol, not her weight.

  ‘Met Mrs Deol, she said better start HIWO,’ she went puff and pant.

  Hain?

  ‘Highly Intense Work Out,’ she explained.

  Oh!

  ‘When did you meet Mrs Deol?’

  ‘Morning, at Hyatt Hotel.

  ‘You went to Hyatt Hotel in thee morning?’

  ‘Ya, for my Breakfast Kitty.’

  My eyebrows flew to my forehead. ‘You joined Breakfast Kitty!’

  ‘Last month,’ she informed me, wiping sweat rivers from her face. ‘You’re so busy, I forgot to tell.’

  I was busy, so she forgot? Macho, Bhooto’s logic could confuse Einstein.

  I gave her my stern teacher look. ‘So this is your…?’

  She gave me blank look, winning Filmfare, Zee Cine, Sansui, TOIFA, IIFA – all Best-Actress Awards of thee year. ‘This is my…?’

  ‘Fifth? Sixth? Tenth kitty?’ I burst out like water pipe.

  ‘Touchwood!’ she cried out, leaning dangerously – like racer on motorbike – to touch thee side of wooden side table. ‘Mahi! I told you, roti or kitty – you should never count. Gets bad eye…’

  I gave her bad look from my eye.

  ‘Ah, aah, aaah,’ she groaned, pressing her back. ‘My slip disc…’

  ‘You don’t have slip disc.’

  ‘Remember at that Khanna farmhouse, I slipped so badly…’

  ‘You slipped and fell down, Mummyji, your disc was up only.’

  ‘Ah, aah, aaah, my knees,’ she groaned, pressing them, ‘they are killing me.’

  ‘Sure it’s not thee breakfast you ate?’ My voice was like Tabasco sauce.

  ‘Where I ate? Just tasted little-little like bird…’

  Little? Thee word itself was not there in PED – Pammi English Dictionary.

  ‘Only cornflakes with milk – in piddu bowl.’

  ‘So, you didn’t have idlis?’

  ‘Two idlis, bas.’

  ‘Without coconut chutney?’ I asked, fully knowing she ate chutneys like people eat daal. Bowl-bowl full.

  ‘You want idlis to get stuck or what?’ she replied, rubbing her neck.

  ‘No dosa?’

  ‘Four dosas –’

  ‘Four!’

  ‘They were mini dosas. This small.’ Bhooto made O with her thumb and first finger.

  ‘And your favourite – puri aloo?’ I asked in challenging tone.

  ‘Just two-and-half puris.’

  ‘Why? What happened?’

  ‘Wanted to keep place in my stomach for besan chillas,’ she explained.

  ‘So no place for pakoras?’

  ‘Pakoras are like King’s ride. Place is automatically made for them.’

  I knew thee answer would upset me, but I couldn’t stop. ‘How many varieties?’

  ‘Onion, paneer, cauliflower, chilli only.’

  ‘Only,’ I repeated, my voice like chilli.

  ‘And corn cutlets.’

  Uff! The whole menu was finished, but Bhooto was not.

  ‘Toh you didn’t have drinks?’

  ‘Had, na. Orange juice, little sweet lassi, apple milk shake, banana milk shake…’ She went on and on like she was Udipi hotel waiter. ‘Everything was served in ittu sa glasses.’ She made face as if the hotel had cheated her.

  She wanted them to be served in jugs or what?

  ‘If it’s buffet, paisa-vasool izze must,’ she announced her policy.

  Typical mentality. All thee ladies of thee kitty had it. Eat double of what you spend. If everyone did vasooli like Ludhiana Loveleez (name of their WhatsApp group), all thee hotels would go bankrupt.

  ‘But their sweet-dish counter was so-so,’ she continued.

  ‘So…?’

  ‘So, ras malai, gulab jamun, moong dal halwa…’

  Rabba! Her appetite was like Airtel’s 4G offer. Unlimited.

  ‘…and some Bengali sweet…that yellow one with malai on top…what’s thee name…Dum Dum?’

  ‘Cham Cham,’ I supplied right answer.

  ‘Ya.’

  ‘Only Indian sweets, no Western?’

  ‘Indo-Western,’ Bhooto did chuckle-chuckle. ‘Chocolate pastry was good, but strawberry mouse…’

  ‘Mousse, Mummyji, mousse.’

  ‘Ya, most ordinary it was…and those round rounds with jam inside – what do you call it…?’

  ‘Swiss-rolls?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘That’s it, that’s all you ate? Or that’s it, you were talking about Swiss-rolls?’

  ‘That’s it, I was talking about Swiss-rolls,’ she took Option 1.

  ‘You should have left something for the other guests also,’ I said jokily outside.

  Inside-inside, I needed Digene bottle, Pudin Hara tablets and Hajmola golis.

  ‘Hope Sukhna comes back from thee market soon….’

  Sukhna. Our cook-cum-cleaner-cum lifeline. Without her, Ahluwalia household would have collapsed long back like that flyover in Kolkata.

  ‘Have asked her to get chicken-rolls for lunch.’

  Entire population of one small country could not thooso as much as she had. But Madam Thoosam was already talking about lunch.

  ‘Chicken-rolls for lunch? Yummy,’ Niku said, coming into thee room same way he’d come into my life. Like breath of fresh air.

  My Daddyji (he became dear to God few years back) had married Bhooto when Niku and me were knee’s height. From then till now, he was my favourite person in thee whole world.

  ‘Niku!’ I said happily.

  ‘Mahi!’ He smiled, showing all thirty-two.

  Hai, it was so good to see his 1000 watt smile.

  Same time, last year, his smile bulb had fused. Oh, it’s very long story, Ashutosh Gowarikar film long. In short cut, ji – our family business was thappp. Niku needed money to start dream business but. Due to some legal problem, we couldn’t sell our house, so he took illegal short cut. Bas, that’s when thee tatti hit thee ceiling fan. And his smile went phusss.

  Thanks to god, he had happy ending – means, his story had happy ending. We sold our big old house. Moved to small new one. In less posh area. Ya ya, Bhooto lost many BBFs (Bank Balance Friends). But Niku could finally start his dream business. He could open his ASS – Ahluwalia Super Store. From then till now, he was making blood and sweat one to make his ASS hit.

  ‘Aah, my old bones cannot take it anymore,’ Bhooto complained, braking suddenly, breaking my thoughts.

  ‘But your cholesterol?’
I asked with fake concern.

  TING TONG!

  ‘That must be Sukhna.’ Forgetting about old bones, Bhooto jumped off thee aerobike with speed of young cheetah. ‘Come, come, let’s do stomach worship.’

  We followed her to thee dining room like good little childrens.

  Sukhna gave thee bill and Bhooto’s BP went as high as her cholesterol. ‘Six hundred rupees bill for chicken-rolls?’

  ‘Breakfast buffet was how much?’ I asked with sweet smile.

  ‘Sixteen hundred after tax.’

  Toh she could blow that much on herself, but not this much to feed her hungry naked childrens?

  She took out roll of notes from her mobile wallet – oho, her bra – and gave them to Sukhna. ‘God only knows where all my money is going…’

  Inside your stomach, I wanted to say.

  ‘Don’t worry, Mummyji, I’m sure you’re saving –’ Niku began.

  Saving? Thee word was Gujarati and Bengali to Bhooto.

  ‘Where I’m able to save…after household expense, electricity, newspaper, maintenance, food, staff salary, I don’t have one single pie left…oh, that reminds me, apple pie in thee buffet was not bad…’

  I banged my head on thee dining table.

  ‘Mahi!’ Niku gave me concerned look. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Fine, fine. I just forgot to tell you, I’m going to Bathinda tomorrow –’

  ‘Bathinda’s butter chicken, yumm,’ Bhooto licked her fingers, as if she could taste it long distance.

  ‘Bathinda? With Dingy? To meet Andeep? To set wedding date? You said wedding’s next year?’ Niku hit me with questions like he was Times Now news wallah.

  I sighed and told him everything A to Z. ‘Want to join?’ I asked after I finished.

  ‘Can’t.’ Bhooto answered. ‘My Kirtan Kitty is tomorrow.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said in fake sad tone. ‘I’ll miss you, Mummyji.’

  ‘But if you want me to miss it – ?’ she started.

  ‘No, no,’ I said quickly. ‘Kitty and opportunity don’t come every day.’

  I turned to look at Niku.

  ‘Sorry, yaar, can’t –’

  ‘Go, Niku, go,’ Bhooto encouraged him. ‘Don’t work so hard. Last holiday you took was Goa…’

  She stopped, guilty expression on her face. Oho, last year’s syaapa? Only 50% had happened in Delhi. Other 50% took place in Goa.

  I’d come back from Rape Capital one-and-half months back. From then, it was understood. That words connected to my past were banned. And thee ban was stricter than beef ban.

  Bhooto looked at me with so much pity, so much pity as if I’d AIDS, cancer and sugar.

  Niku smartly changed thee topic. ‘So, what time tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Eight.’

  ‘Will give wake-up call at seven?’

  I nodded fully gratefully. He was small brother with big heart.

  KNOCK!KNOCK!

  Sharp seven o’clock, my alarm clock gave wake-up call on my room door.

  ‘Thank you, Niku. I’m awake,’ I called out in faku sleepy voice.

  Faku because I hadn’t slept even this much.

  It was like Mata Ka Jagran night for me. Whole-whole night I hadn’t slept. But instead of being devotional for goddess, I was emotional over ex love God. Thee ban had been broken with LG (not electronics, Lavith-Goa) words. I’d tossed and turned, turned and tossed, thinking about thee past. Rewinding, fast forwarding, pausing. Asking myself thee same questions. Did I make big blunder? I should have stayed back in Delhi? I should have done something? I should have said something?

  Night came, midnight came, morning came, but my answers did not.

  I dragged myself to thee loo, got ready fast-fast and then made second mistake. Of not calling Dumpy immediately. First mistake was agreeing to go to Bathinda with his Combo Pack.

  Irresponsible fellow was missing till nine o clock. I called and called him, but got only Airtel girl on thee line. ‘Number you’re calling is switched off.’ By thee time, I heard his car horn, my thermometer’s mercury was touching sky.

  HONK!HONK!

  Keep maaroing horn, I boiled, refusing to get up.

  BEEP!BEEP!

  Keep calling cell, I steamed, refusing to pick up.

  TING TONG! TING TONG!

  Keep bajaoing doorbell, I fried, refusing to step out.

  KNOCK!KNOCK!

  ‘Where were you, maa ke @#$% –’ I opened thee door.

  And found Mummyji standing there in her nightie, dupatta forming V on chest.

  I don’t know who was more shockum-shocked, she or me.

  Hai, how did I know Sukhna would be sleeping and Mummyji awake? She was thee Sleeping Beauty of Ahluwali House. Her (non-kitty) mornings started at 10 o’ clock.

  ‘I thought Sukhna had opened main door…thought it was that Dumpy knocking,’ I said, PMS (oho, Please Mistake Sorry) expression on my face. ‘Ok, ta ta bye bye. See you.’

  I picked up my Louis Vuitton bag (two thousand rupees only, from Dumpy Da Swag) and ran to thee main door without waiting for her reply.

  Dumpy, Simran, Yograj were standing outside, leaning against Dumpy’s family car. Thee car was like Dumpy Da Swag products – Ford Endeavor, but with BMW symbol. (Dumpy’s Honda City also had four bangle – oho, Audi – symbol.)

  ‘What, yaar, Mahi,’ Dumpy complained. ‘How many times I rang thee door. Your ting-tong not working or what?’

  ‘Your ding-dong’s working, na, then be quiet!’

  3

  In which a long drives turns into the longest drive of the heroine’s life

  PHATTTTT!

  Raj and Simran’s mouths fell to thee ground.

  I gave them ‘Ya, I’m like this only, what you’ll do’ look.

  Dumpy burst out laughing. ‘Oh Mahi, you’re too much!’

  ‘I’m three much,’ I said, walking to thee backseat. ‘Now can we go? Or you want to be more late?’

  ‘You remember Simran and Raj?’ Dumpy asked, going to thee driver side.

  ‘Simran and Raj? From Dilwale Dulhania Le Jayenge?’ I asked innocently.

  ‘No, no, Simran and Raj from Model Town, Ludhiana.’

  ‘Oh.’

  We did Hello, How are you, Nice to meet you.

  ‘Please excuse, Mahi,’ Raj said urgently, ‘but can I use your toilet?’

  ‘NO!’ Dumpy, Simran and I answered at thee same time.

  ‘Didn’t you go at Dumpy’s house?’ Sister asked brother.

  Brother did mumble-mumble and avoided looking at me. I turned my face. As if I wanted to hear details of his susu times.

  ‘You can have thee front seat,’ Simran said as I reached for thee back door. ‘You’re senior to us, after all.’

  Hai, I toh felt like Kareena when Alia said Kareena was her senior in film industry. Fully insulted.

  ‘I’m twenty-six,’ I said in rough voice.

  ‘I’m twenty-one,’ Simran informed, getting inside. ‘So is Raj…’

  Then what? Her twin brother would be eighty-one?

  ‘By thee time I was twenty-one, I’d already started Ludhiana to London,’ I said softly like I was remembering thee good old time. Actually, I was maaroing her taunt crisper than Ludhiana winter. College was over months back, but Madam was still thinking ‘What to do next’. Jobless!

  Raj went running to hold front door open for me like he was my personal driver.

  ‘Did you know we’re twins?’ Simran asked.

  ‘I didn’t know,’ I said.

  ‘What you didn’t know?’ Dumpy said, getting into driver seat. ‘I told you, Mahi, thee first time you met Simran-Raj in my house.’

  ‘Our Mummyji also has memory problem,’ Simran said understandingly. ‘Happens with age.’

  Kutti! Talking as if I was hundred year old with legs dangloing in grave.

  Before I could give matching reply, she took out her cell phone and started going click! click! click!

  ‘Come, come, come, let’s all
take selfies.’

  ‘I don’t take selfies,’ I growled.

  Not early in thee morning. Not after spending sleepless night. Not looking like one horror film.

  For thee next few minutes, there were only clickum-click sounds in thee car.

  Suddenly, Simran went squeal-squeal, ‘Oh, ladoo, open your top no, please, please.’

  ‘You want me to open my shirt, barfi?’ Dumpy replied in same lovey-dovey voice.

  Uff! I toh felt like I was watching shooting of Love in Haldiram.

  ‘Not that top, naughty boy,’ Simran went giggle giggle, ‘top top.’ She pointed to car’s sun roof.

  She wanted our heads to fly off in the heat or what?

  I used my senior citizen veto power. ‘No.’

  ‘Please.’

  ‘No means no.’

  She made ‘huhn’ sound, crossed her arms and sat back in seat with bugged face.

  ‘Oh, jalebi, don’t be sad,’ Dumpy cooed like pigeon. ‘Here, take, take,’ He reached for one button.

  SWISHHHHH!

  Sun roof opened, Simran jumped up like excited puppy, her head disappeared.

  ‘Wooooo! Wooooo! I love wind hitting my face.’

  I toh wanted to hit her face thee same way.

  ‘Raj, come and join me.’

  ‘I’m fine here,’ Raj replied.

  ‘Dumpy, you come.’

  It was Dumpy, not Shaktimaan. As if he could drive and put head in sun roof at thee same time. Khotti!

  ‘Mahi Didi, you –’

  ‘STOP THEE CAR!’ I shouted.

  Dumpy turned to look at me with concern. ‘What? What? What happened?’

  ‘STOP! CAR! NOW!’

  Dumpy braked and his tyres – means, his car tyres – went screech-screech.

  ‘Hello, thee name is Mahi!’ I told Headless Body firmly. ‘M-A-H-I, Mahi. Got it? Not Mahi Didi. No one calls me Didi. Not even my little brother Nikku.’

  ‘Sorry, Didi…I mean, sorry, Mahi,’ Simran’s headless body replied. ‘I was going to call Behenji, but I thought…’

  Oh! toh MJ (not Michael Jackson, Madam Jobless) could think also?

  There was silence in thee car for few minutes.

  ‘Idea!’ Headless body spoke again. ‘Let’s all play antakshari!’

  We were going in school bus or what?

  ‘Come, let’s play, please,’ she begged.