Chapter 40
FORTY
I invite my friends over for papri chaat, traditional fast food that combines crispy wafers with chickpeas, potato chunks, diced onion, yogurt, and tamarind chutney.
All of us, Uncle included, eat the special treat in the living room.
“I have news,” I say, scraping my spoon through the bottom of my dish.
Kiren and Noor put their bowls down at the same time. “ We have news.”
“Say it at the same time,” suggests Uncle, scooping himself a second serving of chaat since it’s his favorite indulgence and my homemade version has not been made in a long time.
“I got a job!” I say, at the same time, Kiren announces, “We got you an opportunity!”
I’d been relaxing in my chair, but now I’m perched forward, knees almost touching the ground. “Opportunity?”
Noor snaps her head in my direction. “What job?”
“Data entry. What opportunity?”
Kiren and Noor look at each other, silently consulting with each other. When eye communication isn’t enough, they turn their backs and hurriedly whisper, as if coordinating an offensive.
“Ho! Don’t leave us in suspense,” chides Uncle.
He’s got yogurt on his mustache. I pass him a napkin, pretending to be nonchalant about the whole matter.
There’s no point in getting worked up when I have a reasonable opportunity already secured.
One that—if I work long enough at it—will secure me health and dental benefits.
“You know the videos we’ve been recording?” starts Kiren.
“Yes. Seeing as I star in them through coercion, I do know these videos.”
“We sent them out,” says Noor.
“To who?”
“Everyone and anyone linked to MealKits Masala.”
“Oh God .”
“Don’t worry.” Noor reassures. “Most of their emails blocked us as spam, so it’s not quite gotten everywhere?—”
“But it got to the right person,” Kiren finishes. “Prabjot Gill.”
“Who is she?” asks Uncle.
“A top lawyer at TM Legal Services. Her cousin is actually a high school friend with one of the packaging managers at MealKits Masala. Anyway, Prabjot loved your videos and all your cooking!”
“That’s amazing.” Uncle puts down his chaat and claps his hands. “She’ll introduce Rita to her contact at MealKits Masala and then she’ll get a proper chance to interview there!”
“Actually, she mentioned she has corporate lunch coming up that she needs catered, and she?—”
“Wants Rita to do it?” Uncle guesses.
“Maybe,” says Noor, chewing the edge of her lip. “She wants Rita to create a sample menu for it, and then if her manager approves it, they’ll hire you, Rita, for the lunch.”
“So it’s not a sure thing,” I say, resolving myself to sink back into the couch.
“Well, Prabjot is optimistic! She thinks if you curate a great menu mixing traditional Punjabi food with unique modern twists, then you’ll definitely beat out the other company competing for the job. Like your Tandoori Mac N’Cheese. That’ll get them excited!”
“Okay…” I say, not hundred percent enthused, but still interested. “It won’t take me long to write up a menu. We can send it to her and see what happens.”
Kiren makes a production of examining her nails before meeting my eyes. “Not exactly. The ask is to produce a menu with some inspired gluten- and dairy-free options.”
“I don’t have any of those already developed,” I say, grabbing a pillow so I can hold on to it. “Out of curiosity, who am I competing with and when is the lunch?”
Noor names an astonishingly reputable and popular catering company.
“They’ll surely win,” I say. “And two weeks is not a long time. Especially since I have a job that starts tomorrow. In the interview, I promised I’d be okay with overtime hours for these next few months.
Not that I mind, since you all know my savings have dwindled.
Not working has almost drained whatever I saved up in the first place. ”
Uncle gave a low whistle. “Noor. Help me to my room.”
I quickly stand. “What is it? Do you feel tired?”
He waves me away. “Don’t fuss, puth. Noor will take me.”
She does and I’m left with Kiren, who appears to be trying to solve a very complicated theorem in her mind the way her mouth has utterly pinched.
But since I know her, I also know she is shoring up possible arguments that might sway me to give this catering gig a chance.
It’s not that I don’t want to. Or that I’m not tempted.
Even the challenge of dairy-free and gluten-free makes my hands tingle.
I just won’t have time or energy to do both. Overtime means twelve-hour shifts, and factoring in the commute, plus the visit I want to make to see my dad this week and next—it isn’t possible.
I either pick the job or this possible, potential, not-even-guaranteed chance.
Kiren straightens up, but before she can launch her reorganized offensive, Uncle walks back into the living and comes over to sit beside me. He places a wad of cash into my lap.
I gaggle.
“I believe in you,” he states as if it’s the easiest, stress-free investment he’ll ever make.
The money trembles, but that’s because my hands are shaking as I lift it. “What is this, Uncle? Where did you get this?”
“I’ve been squirreling it away until the right time. This is it.”
I try to put the money back into his hands, but he keeps them away from me. “I’m not worth the risk,” I insist. “I can’t take this. We should save it for something else!”
Uncle flicks the side of my head. “I decide what I want to do with it. And I choose you.”
“We believe in you as well,” adds Noor.
“It’s your choice, of course,” says Kiren.
“And I know this is not an international contest, but Prabjot’s firm works closely with a lot of businesses.
Word-of-mouth potential is high. Catering for corporate events isn’t like owning a restaurant, but it’s a spark.
If you win this contract, it could be the start… if you are willing to try again?”
Am I?
“I don’t know,” I confess honestly. When I’d pinned everything on the meal kit competition and lost, it crumpled the ground beneath my feet.
Since then, I’ve been crawling forward more than walking.
This data entry job—it means we can fix the toilet in our apartment, that Uncle’s medicines won’t be a problem, that I don’t have to haggle at different markets trying to get the cheapest ingredients for dinner.
It’s a break. A steady income.
“Think on it,” says Kiren.
“This cash is your money,” says Uncle. “Not mine anymore. You spend it however you like.”
Noor simply brushes her arm against mine in support.
That night—like all the ones before it—I sleep poorly.
My alarm goes off at five in the morning and I get dressed for my first day at work.
I pair black dress pants with a light gray collared shirt that fits a bit too snugly under my armpits.
My hair is braided and gathered into a tight bun.
Keeping my makeup simple, I stick to concealer for my under-eyes, mascara for my lashes, and a touch of unscented balm for my lips.
Shoes are ballet flats in a dark navy, which matches the stocky, if a bit stiff, messenger bag I bought to transport any paperwork around in the office.
Uncle is still asleep when I step out of my room.
I’ve got a bit of time before I have to head out, but I simply stand there instead of making chai. Not only because I’ve stopped drinking tea specifically in the mornings, but because I’m staring at my kitchen.
There’s a lot of gluten-free dishes already in Punjabi cuisine. And some dairy-free. But what about both? You can blend cashew nuts as a cream substitute…but what’s the twist if I only swap that out?
Worry about the twist after. The memory of his voice teases me.
“Easier said than done, coming from a plebeian who knows nothing in the kitchen,” I whisper.
This isn’t about me, darling. It’s about you. Why aren’t you betting on yourself?
“Rich, coming from a multi-millionaire.”
Nice, deflection. Back to you. Stop getting in your head. Don’t doubt yourself, not when you’ve spent all night knocking around ideas in your head.
“Because I can’t sleep. Because of you!”
Are you talking to yourself? Yikes, that’s not a good sign. Do you miss me?
“Don’t.”
Pineapple fried rice fused with biryani. That’s my own voice again. Would I start the base with lamb meat?
I drop my bag and go back into my room. My shirt is restricting my movements as I rifle through my drawers, so I pop open a few buttons, and then untuck it fully when I have to drop down to my knees so I can pull out a container from under my cot.
Heaving the lid off, I’m clawing at the contents until I find it.
It’s a thick wedge in my hand. I bring it back out into the living room where there is more light.
My notebook. Pen in hand, I get to scribbling down ingredients, and then the possible orders of ingredients, and then which ones would need to be cooked separately, and then the cost of the approximate dish and whether it could be made in large batch portions.
By the time I’ve got my first concrete dish down, it’s lunchtime.
Uncle doesn’t say anything about me still being home when he wakes up. If anything, he’s got this strangely peaceful expression.
“I’m going to try,” I whisper to myself. “Let’s give it a go.”
Two weeks later, Prabjot calls me.
I got the contract.