Chapter 12
There Will Never Be a Good Place or Time to Burp (Or Barf) in Front of Your Crush
Pune, Saturday
Varun drives us all in the Sinhas’ Innova to JM Housefull Paratha, the place Charu referred to as the “Mahishmati thali place.”
Priti, Rudra, and I end up in the very back of the car, with me in the middle. I spend the whole drive jittery because of
how close Rudra and I are sitting. I can’t stop thinking about everything he’s said to me.
Rudra Desai is definitely flirting with me, and with each passing minute, he is being less subtle about it. Even as Varun
parks and we exit the car, I can’t help the dreadful feeling that Rudra’s doing it only because he wants to make Priti jealous.
He made that last comment right before Priti sat next to us, and I’m, like, one hundred percent sure she heard it.
That he intended for her to hear it.
Now, that wouldn’t be much of a problem if I weren’t into the flirting. But the truth is, I am. I am so into it that it sickens me.
At the paratha place, a few tables have been arranged just outside the entrance, where hordes of people sit taking bites out
of their ginormous thalis and sipping tumblers of chilled lassi. I’m already starving, and the sight of the food makes my
mouth water. We take one of the larger tables inside the restaurant, right under a poster that flaunts actress Anushka Shetty
from Baahubali with a large thali photoshopped in front of her.
Priti snorts as she flops into a chair against the wall, staring at the poster in amusement. Rudra sits beside her, which
leaves one vacant spot, right next to him. Digha passes us a menu, and the pages are flipped open to the section with the thalis.
At the top right corner of the page, there’s a picture of actor Prabhas from Baahubali hefting a thali onto his shoulder. I haven’t watched the movie, but there’s a famous scene in it where Prabhas carries a Shivalinga
across a waterfall. In the poster, they’ve replaced the Shivalinga with the thali, and the hilarity of it makes me giggle.
It’s creative, I’ve got to give them that.
“Is there some sort of eating challenge for this?” Rudra asks, reading the menu closely.
“Yeah, but it’s for an individual,” Varun says. “If someone manages to finish the Baahubali thali by themselves, their money
is refunded, and the restaurant will give them free meals for the rest of their life.”
“Whoa, that’s a hell of a deal. Have any of you ever tried?”
“Tried and failed, yes,” Varun says, sighing. “It’s impossible. No one’s ever won.”
“No one in the history of this place?” I ask, amazed. “It can’t be all that hard.”
Charu grins. “Once you see the size of the thali, you’ll know.”
We place an order for the Mahishmati thali, which is apparently even bigger than the Baahubali thali, and something the Sinhas have been wanting to try for a while.
Priti, Rudra, and I watch in utter shock as not one, not two, but three waiters heave a humongous thali the diameter of a ceiling fan from the kitchen over to our table and set it at the very center.
Charu bursts into laughter as the three of us stare at it with our jaws unhinged.
“Still doubtful, Krishna?” Digha asks, covering her mouth with her fist to control her laughter.
“No!” I exclaim. Any shred of doubt I had about the impossibility of the challenge flies right out the window. I don’t think
even the seven of us together can finish it; surely this needs an army of starving soldiers? There are a dozen different types of parathas,
rotis, rice, sabjis, and sweets, accompanied by glasses of virgin mojitos and lassis, and other condiments like salads, raitas,
pickles, and papads. The waiter tells us about each item in detail, and even just looking at the thali makes me feel bloated.
“I was thinking we could have a contest,” Varun says enthusiastically. “Our own contest.”
Digha groans. “Could we just eat? I’m starving.”
“No, hear me out. Let’s divide ourselves into groups of two, two, and three, and compete. Whichever team finishes first wins.”
“Won’t the team with three have an advantage?” I ask.
“Nope. We can have Digha be the third, and considering she barely eats, it won’t matter.”
“Hey!” Digha protests.
“It’s true,” Varun says, ruffling her hair. “You know it is.” Jalaj and Charu nod in agreement.
Digha relents. “Fine.”
“What would the winning team get?” Priti asks.
“A pass on having to chip in on the check?” Jalaj suggests.
“I think we can raise the stakes,” I say, grinning. “How about that and covering the trek fees? The losing teams can split the cost among themselves.”
“I like the sound of that,” Priti says. “You’re on.”
I look around at the others, one by one, and they each nod in turn, all toothy smiles. I can already feel the thrill of the
challenge burbling up within me. If there’s one thing I can’t resist, it’s the pull of a good competition. It’s like a high for me, watching the jealousy and disappointment roil over my
opponents’ faces while I ride the euphoria that comes with the win. And when it comes to food? I bet you there’s no one at
this table that can eat the way I can.
And it would help to save some money. I’ve been spending way too much.
“How do we divide the teams?” Rudra asks.
“Pugata,” Priti says, stretching her hand out, palm facing downward. It’s a simple way of dividing teams; I used to do it
all the time when I played kabaddi or kho-kho with my friends in Mulund.
Once we’ve stacked our hands, one on top of the other, Priti calls out, “Pugata!” and we draw out, flipping our hands either
palm upward or downward. Priti’s and Charu’s hands are palms up, while the rest of our hands remain palms down. So they form
one team, exchanging high-fives.
We do another round. When we draw out this time, Digha, Varun, and Jalaj are palms up, while Rudra and I are palms down. The
trio cheers, while Rudra and I exchange shy glances.
We call for the waiter to help divide the food into three parts, and Priti and I switch seats. That leaves Rudra and me on
one side of the table; Digha, Varun, and Jalaj on the opposite side; and Priti and Charu adjacent to us.
As the waiter piles the portions of food onto three separate plates, I turn to Rudra, eyes gleaming with determination and voice lowered so only he can hear me. “I want to win this thing. So I hope you can eat.”
“I can.” Those dimples appear, drawing my attention. They’re shaped like tiny hearts, etched on either side of his chin. Not the time, Krishna. “Though I have my doubts about you.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Excuse the fuck me?”
Rudra looks me up and down, eyes grazing my body so fluidly I can feel them on my skin. “You’re . . . small.”
“I’m five foot three, for your kind information,” I huff, sizing him up in return. “Mr. Five Foot Seven?”
He looks so offended I nearly bark out a laugh. “Five foot eight.”
“Same difference.”
Rudra shakes his head and turns away. I smile cheekily to myself. The waiter sets down the plate with our portion of food
in front of us, and I drag my chair so close to Rudra’s that our arms are brushing.
“Okay, remember, not a morsel of food should be left on the plate!” Charu says, cracking her knuckles.
“Someone count to three,” I say, hands poised and ready.
“One . . .” Priti says. Adrenaline pulses through me. “Two . . .” Rudra and I exchange resolute nods. “Three!”
We practically attack the food.
Rudra and I start with the rotis and naans first. We tear into them, scooping up mouthfuls of a different sabji at each turn,
stuffing our throats. I take gulps of the mojito and the lassi between bites, knowing I won’t be able to drink them with a
full stomach later. It’s a strategy I’ve utilized plenty of times in the past at countless thali places.
We’re barely halfway through the rotis and naans and I already feel like I’m going to be sick, but I power on, packing my mouth with so much food it gets difficult to swallow.
At one point, I nearly choke on a bite of roti, and Rudra has to thump my back until the food goes down.
But if there’s anyone who can do this, who can win this, it’s me.
It’s close so far; the three teams are neck and neck (and neck). I’m amused by how right Varun was about Digha eating less,
because even with three people on their team, they’re falling behind.
Priti groans from where she’s struggling with her last roti. “Look away, boys,” she says, reaching for the waistband of her
camo pants. “I’m unbuttoning my pants.”
“Whoa, whoa, hey!”
Varun and Jalaj protest as Priti undoes the first button, and Rudra jerks his head to the side so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t
sprain his neck. There’s color blotting his cheeks, and I hastily look away to avoid him catching me staring.
I don’t know whether to laugh at how mortified he looks or feel jealous. The resulting feeling is a gut-churning mix of confusion,
and I accidentally end up biting down on a green chili.
A sudden, sharp sting of spice explodes in my mouth. “Ohmygod!” I gasp, waving my hand frantically in front of my face, eyes
already watering. “Chili!”
“Here, have the gulab jamun,” Rudra says, sliding the cup toward me as he starts spooning up rice, chewing with impeccable
speed.
I don’t bother with a spoon and instead directly stuff a gulab jamun into my mouth, the sweet and sticky sugar syrup coating
my fingers. Unfortunately, that doesn’t do the job either, and I have to force down half the gajar ka halwa to douse the spice.
The heaviness of the food settles in the pit of my stomach, making me press the back of my hand to my mouth. Rudra looks over
to me, eyebrows raised.
I open my mouth to assure him I’m okay and can keep going, but I can’t speak because I think I actually may be on the verge of puking up everything I just ate.
Oh no. Oh hell no.
There is no way this is happening right now.
Not in front of another boy.
Not again!
But no matter what I do, I can’t hold it in, and when I open my mouth, it’s not vomit that comes out—it’s a full-blown, sickening