Em and the Big Hoom (18 page)

The Big Hoom looked at his cup and said, ‘I think we need something stronger.'

I was not trying to be funny but since we had never kept alcohol in the house, I asked, ‘Coffee?'

‘No,' he said. ‘I want a drink. Go and get us a bottle of Old Monk.'

He began to dig in his pockets for money as if he had forgotten I was now earning money of my own and could buy us a bottle. But something told me to wait and finally he found the small, neat wad of notes and papers secured by a rubber band that served as his wallet. From it, he drew out a couple of notes. He looked at them slightly puzzled. ‘Will this be enough, do you think?' he asked.

I grinned at him.

‘I think,' I said.

The city continued on its way. Boys tried to sell me drumsticks, girls played hopscotch, the Bihari badli worker carried his gathri of ironed clothes to the homes from which they had come, and the buses honked at suicidal cyclists. At one level this was vaguely confusing. Surely, something should acknowledge how much things had changed? At another level, it was oddly comforting.

When I got back, The Big Hoom was boiling peanuts in brine.

‘To go with the rum,' he said. Susan was looking slightly suspicious.

I ordered a garlic chicken dry from the Chinese thela down the road and found it had gone all swanky. The dish came wrapped in foil instead of the usual thin plastic packet. When I held out the money, the boy looked abashed.

‘Uncle ko bolo, free.'

Then he dashed off. This was The City, India's biggest, a huge city, but people heard and responded to what was happening in your life. Sometimes, this much was enough.

Susan was annoyed when I dumped the parcel on the counter.

‘There's loads of food already.'

That was when I noticed how much food there was: casseroles and covered dishes and hotpots of it. The Big Hoom looked at it too. Then he went and dug out all the white plastic containers that restaurants use for takeaways.

‘What are you doing?' Susan asked. She liked her white plastic containers.

The Big Hoom said quietly, ‘This is too much food. I'm giving it away.'

And so all three of us settled down to dividing up the spoils: some carbohydrates, some meat, some vegetables into each one. It gave us something to do. Me, carbs. Susan, meat. The Big Hoom, veg. When we were finished, there were about twenty mini-meals packed and ready.

‘I'm going to clean up,' said Susan. ‘You two go.'

By acting cautiously, we managed to prevent any food scuffles, though there was one moment of Bombay bizarreness when an old woman asked if we had a vegetarian option. The Big Hoom was polite; I was not.

‘Beggars can't be choosers,' I said.

‘Did a beggar coin that phrase?' The Big Hoom asked.

‘Probably not.'

‘Then let's assume that some choices are left, even to beggars.'

‘It just sounds so bizarre. I haven't eaten for three days. I'm so hungry. But I won't eat your dirty non-veg food.'

‘Suppose she had an allergy? What if it had been an allergy to meat? Would that make it better?'

‘Do the poor have allergies?'

We got home to the peanuts and the rum and the garlic chicken dry, none of which looked particularly appetizing.

‘One more beggar run?' I asked

‘I wonder if there are any teetotal beggars,' Susan said.

‘Let's start with a small one each,' I said and we settled down to eat and drink. Susan filled her glass with cola and spiked it with a homoeopathic quantity of rum. I made The Big Hoom's small but he drank it circumspectly after the first big gulp.

‘I seem to have lost my taste for this,' he sighed, looking into his glass.

I went to make us some tea.

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