24
I figured it must be a special occasion when I heard excessive frying sounds from
Ananya’s kitchen. I had completed two months of tuitions and Manju had become
smarter than the kids in the Complan and Bournvita ads. I could bet one month of
my after-tax, PF and HRA alary that Manju would crack IIT, medical or any
draconian entrance exam known to man. Most of it was his own work, and my
waking up at five had little to do with it.
‘What’s going on,’ I said and sneezed twice. The pungent smell of burnt
chillies flared my nostrils.
‘Special cooking for special guests,’ Manju said, while continuing to solve his
physics numerical.
‘Who?’
‘Harish, from the bay area,’ Manju said.
‘Harish who?’
Another fryer went on the stove. This time smells of mustard, curry leaves and
onions reached us. If this was one of those prize-winning Indian novels, I’d spend
two pages on how wonderful those smells were. However, the only reaction I had
was a coughing fit and teary eyes.
‘You are rhumba sensitive,’ Manju said and looked up at me in disgust. He
stood up and went to the door. ‘Switch on the exhaust fan, amma,’ he screamed
and shut the door.
Ananya’s mother continued to tackle the contents of the fryer. ‘OK, you go for
bath. They will come anytime,’ Ananya’s mother said and went to max volume,
‘Ananya! Are you ready?’
‘Who is Harish?’ I asked again as Manju refused to look up from his problem.
‘The nakshatram matched no, so they are here. Ok, so g is 9.8 metres per
second squared and the root of ...’ Manju drifted off to the world he knew best,
leaving me alone to deal with my world, where a boy was coming to meet my
girlfriend to make her his wife.
I yanked Manju’s notebook from him.