Chapter 39
THIRTY-NINE
The aftermath of me leaving Luke is a mess of confusion, heartsickness, and pain I feel all the time, but most viscerally at night. There is little sleep I get. Someone—mostly Uncle—comments on how I wander around the apartment at all hours in a daze.
While I’ve shared everything with my loved ones, I’m not ready to expose the true depth of hurt I am in yet.
Even to myself. My excuses are in rotation, changing between how I’m shaken up over his strained hip, that I’ve got a case of wicked lingering jet lag, how reconnecting with my dad is emotionally exhausting, and finally, the major trouble circling my head: the question of my employment.
As in, what am I to do next since I’m no longer a meal-prep chef, and no longer in the running to win an international meal kit competition?
The safe and good choice is to try landing a salaried job, something in high tech, professional services, sales, hospitality, or entertainment.
Even with my limited background experience, if I send out enough applications, I’ll find somewhere willing to give me a shot since I speak English proficiently enough.
The problem with trying to make it in a culinary capacity in India hasn’t changed. Long hours, less pay. No real guarantee of advancement. It’s a mountain my legs currently can’t bear to climb.
Uncle looks at me, tidying up my non-cooking related resume, and expresses disappointment. So do my friends. They are quite persistent about it.
“Rita, think about how far you got,” says Kiren. “Your recipes beat out hundreds of other cooks, and we all know you have skills.”
“Yes, but there are a lot of good chefs out in the world that keep it as a hobby.”
Uncle, while still mostly immobile in his lower half, is doing arm raises to keep his upper half strong. “Can you really imagine doing anything else?”
“There’s a lot to be said about changing direction.”
“It will make you miserable,” predicts Noor.
I pull out my laptop, glad that despite it being an ancient model, it connects to the Internet after a few failed hiccups. “I’m just being practical. I—I don’t think I’m ready for another failure, that’s all. I need one thing to go right in my career.”
“Back up.” Kiren makes a circular gesture with her finger. “Let’s do a tally of everything you’ve accomplished. Your cakes for Luke?—”
I wince at the name, and my friends and Uncle pretend not to see.
“—they helped him win business deals. Like c’mon, you deserve a cut of those profits! Ask him to pay up.”
I’m scrolling through online job postings, trying to find anything entry-level. Why does entry-level need two to three years of experience? Isn’t that contradictory?
“He would pay up,” I mumble. I know he would.
I could ask Luke for anything and he would give it to me.
But it’s me who can’t be what he needs. The longer I’m in Mumbai, the clearer it is that we’re from completely different worlds.
Here I heat water in the kettle to have a warm bath.
There, a press of a finger sets off ten different jet settings in the standalone marbled shower stall.
More than that, though, I can’t stay in Barcelona where Abbot Industries is.
I’m needed here in Mumbai. Dad needs me. Uncle does. My friends need me.
And I want them.
I want this city. Being away has been a hole I had to learn to live with.
Luke—he’s busy with Abbot Industries. He needs to present a certain lifestyle in those meetings, and to have a certain fiancée on his arm, and to be around a certain kind of people.
It’s his life. It’s his legacy. He’s heir to the throne.
No matter how I think it through, I can’t see a way to bridge us together.
At the core of me…I’m a woman sitting in her kurta in front of our millennia old fan with afternoon plans of going to the market to grab some vegetables and protein for dinner this week.
“I can make tandoori roti for us,” I say to the group. “There’s a garlic-chili butter mashup that will taste good if I lightly brush it over for seasoning.”
“See! See! You can’t stop! It’s your passion!” Noor throws her hands up in the air.
“Hobby,” I repeat forcefully.
Kiren crosses her arms. “You know what? It’s fine. You keep searching for what you think is a safe job, and we’ll do the work of carrying your dreams while you take a break. Just promise me, you’ll cooperate with helping us help you too, if needed.”
“That’s vague. I don’t know what you mean.”
“Your friends are good people,” Uncle adds, throwing in his support. “Trust them.”
I roll my eyes, then huff out a sigh. “If it gets too annoying, I’m kiboshing whatever you want me to do. I really need to focus and get some stability back in my life.”
Noor and Kiren high-five each other in the face of my loose agreement, and then high-five Uncle.
Uncle doesn’t comment on how it’s a very particular news story I keep hunting for either on the television, my phone or my laptop.
I wake up and check. I apply for jobs and check. I make lunch and help Uncle do physiotherapy and check. After my friends visit and leave, I check. At night, I check—a few times.
Closure?
No, I just need to make sure his deal went through.
That I didn’t harm anything by leaving the conference so suddenly.
The headlines:
Luke Abbot and the Board of Abbot Industries: The Feud of the Century
EU antitrust regulators to review Abbot, Intel deal, sources sa y
Two Giants With Polar Opposite Values: Experts Weigh In On How This Merger Even Got To The Table
“The chai is going to boil over,” says Kiren, “if you don’t get off your phone, Rita.”
She doesn’t comment on what I’m reading, but takes over standing by the stove.
She also casually let it drop that, “Noor and I have subscribed to MealKits Masala’s newsletter, and we’ve started compiling a list of all the important people in that company, and also who their business associates are in the cooking industry. ”
I put my phone down, unable to understand what violating fiduciary duties means from the article I’m reading, but make a note to look it up later.
“If I apply to fine-dining restaurants, they’ll start me at the bottom and pay me barely anything.
Do you know that insurance company in Chembur?
Their starting pay means I’ll have savings I can grow.
Savings , Kiren! It’s such a novel concept. ”
Kiren strains the chai into tea cups. “I understand that, Rita. But have you thought about how it doesn’t have to be fine-dining in the traditional way?
You might not be destined to be a famous chef like Sanjeev Kapoor, but there is room for chef Rita Singh out there. There are so many ways to skin a cat.”
“I’m not skinning any cat.”
“ Metaphorically , obviously.” Kiren rolls her eyes.
“What I mean is that I agree. Life is supposed to fork and adjust. That’s not a bad thing, but don’t take a wild U-turn without trying out options.
Keep on the path to doing what you want in life—which is?
” She looks at me expectedly. “What is it? Be honest. What do you want?”
Luke. I miss him like a lost limb. Thought it would go away, but it hasn’t.
That’s not what we are talking about, though. She means what do I want in terms of being a chef.
To create new pairings. To have someone smile and think my dish is unique. To have collaborators who work with me. To make a living obsessed with food.
All of that is good in theory. In reality, I crash back into that moment. The bathroom. Email. The competition when I wasn’t good enough. There was no consolation prize. It was all or nothing. The thought of doing it all again…only to keep failing …
“I have an interview,” I tell Kiren. “At that insurance place I mentioned. I’m sorry, but that’s what I’m focussed on right now. I have to be.”
“That’s okay. Noor and I meant what we said. We’re going to figure this out for you because finally you are relying on us, and we won’t let you down.”
That’s a lot of pressure for them. I hug Kiren. I don’t want them disappointed if what they are planning doesn’t work out, so I’ll have to give it my best shot and find happiness in this other way of mine.
The interview is on Monday.
When it arrives, I get the same call I’ve been receiving each morning from Mr. Sunny Panday. The same man who drove me from the airport to the hospital, and who took us home after Uncle got released from the hospital. The one “anonymously” paid to take me around wherever I need to go.
He asks if I need his services. I refuse them. He cheerily says he will call again tomorrow.
This morning though—I hesitate. Typically traffic is horrible in the city, and transit gets you places faster, but I want to spend as much time as possible going through my notes to study the topic of insurance. Something I know scarcely anything about.
Mr. Panday leaps at my pause. He is already telling me he will be downstairs shortly.
And that’s how I end up in the back of his car again.
“Thank you again,” he says when I buckle my seat up. “I am very glad to drive you again. It is very helpful for me.”
Yes. His daughter.
“If I don’t ride with you,” I ask, “does that mean you don’t get paid? I know your daughter is going to medical school and?—”
“No, no. I get paid either way, but I am happier when I can also do the work. Is the air-conditioning to your liking, madam?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Where am I taking you today?”
“Chembur. I have a job interview there, so I apologize if I’m not going to be good company on this drive. I’ll be studying my notes.”
“It’s alright. I wish you good luck.”
He takes me there, I go inside and do the interview, and then come back and climb into Mr. Panday’s car.
“How was it, madam?” he asks.
My body feels cool and distant, as if it belongs to someone else. “Not well. I’m afraid they were looking for more experience.”
“I’m sorry, madam. I’m sure you’ll get the next one.”