Recap: Back in Ranchi from Giridih, Ronny starts narrating the new story of his film to the group that he expects would be acting in it. That’s when he, unexpectedly, requests Shaarani Sen, who had left the silver screen 20 years ago, to play Abala Bose.
It was around 12.30 when Lata returned from New Market, her arms full of things, a film of sweat shimmering on her brow. Her hair was freshly blow-dried, her manner decisive. She threw off her shoes in the corridor, pulled on Manjulika’s apron from where it was drying on the clothesline at the end of the long veranda, handed Nimki her packages (Nimki had given a detailed list to Lata, all things for the house), and popped straight into the kitchen. Nimki followed in her wake. But Lata did not usually mind her hovering.
Humming “Jolene, Jolene, Jolene, Joleeeeeene,” Lata began to set out her precious ingredients on the counter: two oranges, a bottle of double cream, a jar of French marmalade, a slab of dark cooking chocolate, a hunk of white butter, a box of digestive biscuits, a small container of plain cream cheese. From the other bag, the one she’d forgotten on the dining table outside and doubled back to get, she took out a round springform pan and a pricey palette knife and placed them artfully next to the mise en scene of ingredients. Lata took out her phone to take a photograph — she had joined Instagram a few days ago and found she enjoyed its chatter-free aesthetics far more than Facebook — but at the end, she remained dissatisfied with the results. The kitchen was too cluttered with Nimki’s spices and oils and condiments; the wall behind had darkened with soot; plus, the sunlight was too dim.
“What was the need to buy another cake tin?” Nimki was now at her side, giving off the feel of a little dark cloud of tantrums. “We have thousands of these — heart-shaped, clown-faced, diamond-like, star-cornered. You are throwing money like kholaamkuchi just because you can.”
“An ordinary cake tin won’t do, Nimkidi. Not for this recipe. See, there’s a lever on the side. It loosens the bottom like this” — Lata demonstrated — “and the entire cake can be lifted out.”
“I know, I know,” said Nimki, “All tricks for lazy cooks. That kalojeere lady uses this on TV. I have seen.” Retreating to the furthest end of the kitchen, she now began to wash the heaped utensils noisily, all the while keeping an eye on Lata’s movements.
“Who is kalojeere lady?”
“That good-looking somewhat-chubby girl who cooks. Ingrej. Your Ma told me her name means kalojeere so I call her kalojeere. Though she’s fair. Have to give her that.”
“Ah, Nigella. That’s not a bad code name. Nimkidi, where did Ma keep the cake ornaments I brought this time?” Lata paused again, remembering the stunning hand-crafted flowers and edible gold paint she’d got from London.
“Must be in her almirah, under lock and key,” Nimki replied.
Lata narrowed her twinkling eyes. “Is your mood off?” she asked Nimki.
It was what Nimki used to ask her when she would return from school, back in the day, when Lata had newly discovered moods.
“My mood is mostly off,” replied Nimki.
“Then I have just the job for you,” Lata smiled. She counted out digestive biscuits from the packet, sealed them in a clear plastic foodbag and handed Nimki the flour-coated marble rolling pin that was kept alongside the board in the kitchen.
“What?” Nimki asked.
“Just smash the biscuits to smithereens,” Lata smirked. “Use all of your off mood.”
“What weird recipes you try out,” Nimki muttered suspiciously, but soon enough she’d taken to the task with keenness and, in five minutes, the biscuits were the right texture of powdery brown.
Meanwhile, having set up the makeshift double boiler to melt the chocolate, Lata cut the butter into little cubes and began to work them methodically into the biscuit-crumb base. Nothing would faze her anymore in life, she had decided.
The butter-and-powdered-biscuit concoction coated her fingertips lightly and the base began to come together in a cloud of cheery nuttiness. She would be happy.
Lata was still mortified by the memory of her stupidness that night at Aaduri’s office, after the big dinner, when she’d been a pathetic blubbering idiot right in front of Hem — god bless him! — and after which she had been feverish and bright-eyed in Aaduri’s tidy little flat, her all-over-the-placeness unsettling the orderly books and furniture. Aaduri had given her a severe talking to, apparently to cure her from falling prey to “bourgeoisie ordinariness” every now and then. She had accepted Aaduri’s admonitions with humility.
She was fine, Lata was. She was going to be okay, better than okay. She was going to be divine.
Lata zested the oranges quietly, the fresh scent and fine sprays of juice filling the kitchen with an air of quiet solitary joy. This is what growing up meant.
And now it was time to make the chocolate ganache.
*
It was a success.
At night, after they’d eaten the dinner Aaduri’s parents had sent from Calcutta Club and polished off half the Dessert a la Charulata and drunk large helpings of mulled wine that Hem had helped make earlier in the evening, Aaduri and Lata finally went to bed.
“Good birthday,” Aaduri said contentedly, gently patting her stomach.
“It was,” Lata agreed, “Appropriate too. Quiet. Just us.”
“You invited Hem,” Aaduri pointed out. “So not just us.”
“He’s become one of us, Aadu,” Lata said, “Somewhere down the line that happened.”
“Ha!” Aaduri half sat up in indignation, “You didn’t know him from Adam a few days ago.”
She drew up the dohaar and covered herself up to her chin. The nights had become cool suddenly.
“That’s not my fault now, is it? You’ve been working with him for two years and you didn’t know what a nice guy he was.”
“Enh.”
“What enh? He’s a nice guy. Not everyone has to be complicated and white-haired and writerly.”
“Shut up,” Aaduri muttered.
“How is he? The Professor?”
“Back in Boston. Back with the wife. He sent me a box of books actually. They’re in the office.”
Lata had never really liked Aaduri’s ex, “the Professor”. A famous social psychologist, 20 years older than Aaduri and a redoubtable intellect, Aaduri had met him at a lit fest a few years ago. But there was something about him that Lata never could put her finger on: a smoothness that discomfited her, a vague sense that he was too at home in his complicated arrangement with Aaduri. But in his presence — he had elected to teach a semester at Jadavpur University every year for nearly a decade — Aaduri would blossom in a way that Lata would have no way of suggesting, even subtly, “But he’s oooold, Aadu.” (Of course, can one really be subtle about this?) But something had happened last winter, Lata still didn’t know the details. The Professor had not renewed his JU commitments and Aaduri had stopped speaking of him altogether.
“Ari called to wish me,” Aaduri now said.
Lata turned to face the wall. “Good for him,” she said. “Never remembered your birthday in all the years we were together!”
“Well, he confessed as much. He faked a grown-up and pleasant and having-moved-on voice. Though below that I think I could discern pain. Otherwise why is he calling me? He’s never really liked me. And that’s not even the weirdest thing,” Aaduri chuckled, her low soft voice almost as deep as the mulled wine they had drunk. “Among your former lovers, there were two others who wished me. Joy left me a message on Facebook. But then he does every year so that’s okay.”
“What’s his wife like?” Lata asked.
“Odd,” Aaduri replied immediately, “But his type.”
“And the other former lover was Ronny, I presume.”
“Aagge na,” replied Aaduri.
Lata turned to face her.
Aaduri turned sideways and hoisted herself up on her elbow. “Not Ronny. He must have forgotten. His mother called though.”
“How is she?” Lata asked, “I always liked Mashima. When I was young, if I had known anything about anything, I would have married Ronny simply on the strength of that mother of his.”
“She is okay, getting old. His dad has a whole bunch of health issues. Anyway. Guess who called to wish me.”
Even if Lata had an inkling, she didn’t say anything.
“Aarjoe. Apparently he is coming to India. And Molly, who he met somewhere in Europe, has invited him to the wedding. He’s not sure if he should attend though.”
(To be continued)
This is Chapter 15 of The Romantics of College Street, a serial novel
by Devapriya Roy for t2oS. Find her on Instagram @roydevapriya
or email her at theromanticsofcollegestreet@gmail.com
