The Thief’s Dinner

by Anu Kumar

It was around early evening when the thief broke into Zahira Suhrawardy’s house. She was at the end of her exercises and just beginning to get a bit impatient. Guests were expected for dinner but the servant had not returned with her list.

Zahira now spectacle-less groped with her hands for something on the table and as she wiped the last of her perspiration away, she realized the servant had not even readied the oatmeal drink with which she usually finished her routine. Zahira Suhrawardy took a last swing from the ropes. She moved in a circle, once and then again, twirling the rope strings around herself, then stamping hard on the floor every time she completed a move. She looked at the watch as she did her last moves, though this was disconcerting. Every time she turned head over heels, it showed a different time.

Understandably then, when the thief entered, through the tall window in the spacious room where she worked out, she was flummoxed. Though she did not take it amiss. People entered that way at times, for sometimes the front door malfunctioned. Zahira had complained to the maintenance several times but nothing had worked. As soon as she saw him enter, stealthily and furtively, a hazy upside-down figure to her still spectacle shorn eyes, she knew it was Kamlesh. It was just the way he would appear, guilty at having taking so much time. So she hollered down at him from her height.

“Good, you are back. Just put the stuff you have in the kitchen and put in a complaint. The door still is not working properly. Call the manager and tell him I have had enough, simply enough.”

The thief was startled. Coming in from the half-light, he could not see anyone yet but he heard someone clearly. Someone who spoke from on high and seemed to understand his every intention. Whoever it was, had also perhaps seen the bag he was carrying with his tools.

And then he saw her descend, flipping over the swinging ropes and landing smoothly on the ground like a meteorite falling thick and heavy on the earth. She was indeed a strong lady, he saw the rippling muscles in her arms, the thick neck and the gym suit she was dressed in, but then in his five years or so in Bombay he had come across the strangest of people. It was a city like that.

“There is lots to do. I wish you would not dawdle so long in the market, Kamlesh. Keep that bag down. Didn’t you hear me? And get down to making dinner. Anytime the lawyer will come. I have been making an inventory of the jewellery.”

He gripped the bag even more tightly around himself. And instantly, he heard her voice come bounding across the room. “I told you to put away that bag. What have you got in there anyway?”

He dumped it on the table, frightened. She squinted at him now, blinking rapidly, rubbing her arms free of the sweat. “Yes, I know what you have been up to? No need to look so guilty.”

He looked guiltily at the bag, the tools of his trade lying quietly side by side, waiting to be used. Now with her words, he thought they would come to life. One false sound, a clank or a click, would give him away. And his game would be over.

She waved a hand at him. Her bracelet caught the light from the window, her muscles rippled, and released a small gust of wind that sent a wave of reassurance towards him. “Sounds as if you are carrying gardener’s tools in there? I hope you are not planning to repair the door yourself. Now tell me quickly, what’s in the fridge?”

The fridge, tall and white, almost big enough for a man his size to live in, stood in the corner, giving off its familiar buzz. He stood there door open, hoping to quickly get over his daze. A blast of refreshing cold hair hit his face and the array of inviting foods lay spread out before him. Where would he start?

Nervously, he rattled off what he could see. “There are some vegetables, fruit, some chocolate, curds, and a bottle of liquor…”

“Speak up. Why has your voice curdled like the milk?”

The food still bedazzled him, the saliva rose like a flood and he was hard-pressed to keep it down. He could hear her behind him.

“Yes, yes. I can see the bottle, there… Is it that the new wine? And am unable to read what’s behind. What’s that coloured tin there, behind the curds? Read that out. Is that the Chinese sauce? I see. Good, now we can have a real fine meal for a change.

She looked happy, she was rubbing her hands and it made a strange scratchy sound. “Really, there are such fine things… Kamlesh, I am so touched. Here I thought you were only interested in stealing from me so you could bet on those horses, and instead you have filled up my fridge with all this wonderful stuff. It will make for a dinner fit for a king.”

“Ji, madam,” was all he could say.

She sat down at the table, and from that distance, squinted to see her fill of the fridge again. Like him, it seemed she could not get enough of what she saw there. Her elbows were like the dumbbells he had often seen at the local gym and he again swallowed nervously. If she caught him out, there was little hope of him escaping with his life. She could squeeze his neck easily with just a grip of her hand. But she squinted long, rubbed her eyes the way people who wear spectacles did. He saw her move her head side to side like a snake hypnotized by the open light of the refrigerator door and then her lips moved, slowly, deliberately as she read out the labels, jerking, squinting again, leaning forward for a closer look and beginning all over again.

Ching’s Special Sauce

Kareem’s Ready to Make Tikka Masala,

Kissan Mixed Fruit Jam

Walls’ Double chocolate

She had poor eyesight, he thought, a relief swamping over him, turning his legs to water, and tears filled his eyes at the happiness that would soon fill him.

“Fine, we can have some fine chicken soup, and that prawn tikka to go with it, and then you could prepare a bit of salmon that you got last week, use the curds there. They were bought last week only. And Mr. Seth likes his simple rice dal, so prepare that. It won’t take much time. And last, we could do with some of that chocolate ice-cream.”

He closed his eyes this time, fighting away the vision that filled his eyes. He had turned to jelly, his mouth like a cave full of water, his eyes streamed, and his heart beat painfully. He felt he had stepped into one of the puddles that always formed near his bed after an hour of unexpected heavy rain. He gulped several times, restraining himself, and his nervousness. He would cook a fine meal, he told himself. Like every single man on the loose in the city’s streets, forced to fend for himself in whatever manner possible, he knew how to cook.

“Will you be able to manage?” She asked, her inquiring eyebrows rose.

“Yes, I will.” His voice was loud, unnecessarily insistent. He could not allow her to see through him now that a fine meal was coming his way. It was like a bonus, unexpectedly awarded in the course of his work. How people would laugh when he told them about it.

It had been ages since he had had a good meal, and he always made his missions on a light stomach. A cup of black tea from Ramchand’s tea stall at eleven in the morning and then a wada pao he had grabbed at Dadar station. Ramchand had threatened to no longer extend credit to him for his bill stretched to a hundred already. But he had asked for a few days grace period. Cutting off the milk and doing away with the sugar for his tea was another way of skimping, though he knew that what Ramchand served was nothing more than badly boiled water, with the smell of the city on it. But it was still his city, though his digestion system worked in overdrive these days. Her voice boomed out again, into his thoughts.

“Good. Let’s do this together. You sulking or what?”

“Ji”

“Ji Ji. You not a horn that needs fixing? I am saying we will do it together.”

She swiveled around in her chair. It was like a heavy truck taking a turn. Then she turned to the bookshelf. Her face was almost at the level of the top shelf, and as she peered to read every title, her hands found her glasses, and he saw the way they moved, her glasses lifting and falling as she muttered the names out under her breath.

“A road roller,” he thought.

“Tarla Dalal or is it Nergis?” she was reading the names, mulling over some, dismissing others.

“Julia….”

“No, Nita will do…”

“No, a bulldozer,” he thought, staring at her heavy behind in contempt.

“Vegetarian dals… Traditional curries…”

Her hand moved along the shelf, still looking, pulling out a book and then another, leaving some halfway in, some lop-sided on the shelf, and moving on again, till she finally said, “Here it is.”

Her hands, he thought, moved like a truck wipers, as sweepingly and as careless. With an unmistakable creak in between. Soon the wiper would elongate into a ten feet long crane and catch him. His stomach was growling at the spread of food the refrigerator offered, all for his taking. His eyes were struck by all the rich colours, the ravishing aromas. Who knew that even cold frozen food could look so inviting. He could have got down on his knees and chomped his way through the two bunched up leaves of spinach.

“Ah, here it is. Soups of all Kinds by Persy Mistry…Just what I was looking for!

She rose from the bottom shelf and turned to him again. Her efforts at bending had disarranged her hair somewhat and she was breathing unevenly. Her mass of gray hair stood out as if she had been permanently electrocuted, her pencil thin eyebrows were like imposing question marks and her glasses glimmered, the two chandeliers reflected in their twin frames. Were her spectacles gold rimmed, and was it gold he saw embedded in her teeth as she yawned, opening her mouth wide and a new gust of wind filled the room with the force of a small cyclone. She clicked her fingers near her mouth as her lips closed on the yawn. She also had gold and diamond bangles on.

“You still standing there? Take the chicken out. Put it in running water, and then in the pressure cooker, three whistles. Idiot boy always dreaming. I can’t watch over you all the time. I have to look for my papers.”

The phone rang, startling him. It came as a gentle mewing sound, and rose in degrees. Like a cat, invisible, but that grew ever larger in size. He looked around startled before she boomed out again.

“That will be the lawyer. Finally he returned my call. You work, Kamlesh.”

His hands turned cold as he felt the chicken pieces emerge from their cellophane wrapping. Neatly cut up, pink and softly delicate. The saliva rose again in his mouth as he thought of chicken. Soups, tikkas. Butter chicken, rogan josh, chicken saashlik, chicken lollilop, and all those things he had served up at the restaurant once. Where he had been sacked on his first day, even before he had even tasted anything. Sacked just for staring hungrily at the food. Life was unfair. He had been so angry with the manager, he could have hit him as the man walked to his car that night, and instead all he had done was swallow back again the raging waterfall in his mouth, the feel of injustice and anger that was with him all the time.

He could now hear her talking on the phone. Her voice rose and fell in degrees, her words running into each other like a torrent and sometimes slowing down altogether.

There was only a little time that he had. Quick. He placed the chicken in the cooker, tossed in the spices, water — the necessary amount, three cups — and put the lid on. Ah, the delicious sizzle that would emanate in a few minutes. He could faint at just the thought.

But there was not a moment to waste. What should he look for? A dumbbell that would make the task quick and easy? But that might kill. No he could not do that. What about some medicine? Something that would make her unconscious. Through the open bathroom door, he saw the cupboard. All the pleasures of the rich ensconced in its shelves. Different bottles of fragrances. Perfumes. Combs. Tongue cleaners. Toothpaste and toothbrushes. There was even an unnecessary decorative figure on the mantelpiece. The rich have too much and no space to keep all they had. It was a tiny elephant ivory figure. The thief quietly slipped it into his pocket and continued with his search.

The box of medicines, just what he had been looking for, was right next to the bottle of Dettol. The rectangular silver strips of capsules, some with transparent encasing, others their own distinct colouring. Of course he could not read, but he could make out the paracetamol strips and the green ones that helped in digestion. That was almost a universal problem. The rich, in fact, suffered indigestion more than the rest of mankind. And just under all this, obliging him by rolling out from behind the medicine strips was the bottle he was looking for. Cough syrup. No one knew the uses of cough syrup better than he did. To swig off an entire bottle could put a man to sleep instantaneously or fill him with strange visions. A railway station bench, or the corner of a bus stop could appear to offer five star hotel comforts. What he should do with the bottle, he wondered.

Put it in the soup, or in the ice-cream, if she lasted till then? What if she collapsed on the dining table itself, and crash-landed on the floor? Would the noise send the neighbours rushing up? What if she broke her bones?

A little of it, he finally decided. Just enough. He told himself, and then he heard her again, her voice plaintive and raised, “Kamlesh, where are you? Just when I go to answer the phone, you vanish. Watching TV or what?”

“Ji”

He emerged, hoping that the bottle didn’t appear too obtrusive in his pocket, but he reminded himself she could not see very clearly.

“That was Mr. Sheth. Sethji. He is coming to dinner. So I must hurry, he promised to look over the property papers. Where have you kept them after I asked you to photocopy them…?”

“Where they are always, madam…”

He knew this was the best answer, he was pleased with himself for his quick thinking. But the pressure cooker was beating up a whizz, drumming on its walls for his attention, the steam was already foaming around its weight, and then it happened. The whistle, once, twice, and thrice and the smoke rising high, the weight beating on the cooker with a dancer’s abandon.

“What is that on the pressure cooker? Rice?”

“No,” he was puzzled. Was she so forgetful then? “No, that was the chicken for soup.”

“Oh, yes….soup…have the bread sticks ready. But put the rice on. Fast. Sethji likes his daal-baat. And no oil, remember, and very little spices, okay?”

He made the food, whistling to himself all the time. It was a long time since he had such good food. He had to swallow his growing greed several times, tell himself furiously to get a grip on himself. He could not let his guard down, not yet. Her voice came through in broken, random instructions, as she moved through the apartment.

“See if the salt is right, and the spices too.”

He now heard her moving in the other room. Sometimes the floor shook as she surged determinedly ahead, the vibrations rose, spread and rattled the floor tiles under him.

He tasted the food several times before he could finally say it was cooked to his satisfaction.

He was already half swooning with delight as he brought the food to the table.

“Too tired already?” She was there already, her face reddened with rouge and an excitement he couldn’t understand. Her hair had been tamed by the many colourful clips she had strung up in her hair, like a wedding decoration. They must be all inlaid with precious stones, he was sure. This lady was a walking jewellery store. He hoped he had been liberal with the cough syrup. Then he could eat his fill, and make a quick getaway.

“I hope you like the food,” he said nervously. She was looking at him with a fixed expression. Had she finally seen through things? Had she realized he was not what he was, who she thought she was. That he was not even what he wanted her to see? Would she rise and smote him unconscious with one blow of her powerful fist?

“Yes, it smells heavenly.” She leaned in and then back again, and sniffed. He could have swooned with pleasure. Yes, he knew the soup was just right as was the fish, where he had used curds and coriander. It softened the palate and teased the senses.

The phone rang again, the lady waddled away, her heavy steps pounding again on the floor. He laid the table, just as he had been taught in the restaurant. Forks and knife to the right, the soup spoon and the other spoons following, the paper napkins folded into the glass, fanning out like a flower. He heard her talking long after the table had been laid and the food arranged, invitingly. He had sprinkled slivers of coriander and carrot over the vegetable casserole he had found in the fridge. The fish looked very inviting, every golden piece arranged perfectly in the gravy, dressed up in finely shredded parsley. It all made him swoon. He could just not resist any more.

He was already into his fifth piece of fish but still was on the phone. It was typical of them, the rich society types, he thought, happily crunching, spitting out the small bones into a side plate. The rich never had to bother about anything. Phone bills were just small change for them. The food was making him think. A starving stomach, he realized, only made you philosophical. On a full stomach, brilliance was only a burp away. Random thoughts came in with the force of shiny stars.

The rich, he thought, did not really care even for people they were married to or lived with. Most of their friendships were so impersonal and distant, press-button friendships. Now that would be a good idea to start a business — offering a dating service, you just needed a telephone and perhaps a cupboard to store people’s resumes. Perhaps one needed a computer too. He was not sure suddenly. A computer, how much did that cost? How many zeros after the 5000? But when the answer eluded him, he thought of serving himself some ice-cream.

The strawberries would just be the right thing after tanginess of the fish. She was talking softly, though he could hear her every time she raised her voice. He heard her complain about the weather. She was saying how very hot it was. He grinned to himself, licking the bowl twice over; these ladies, they spent their days in their air-conditioned houses and then they complained their hearts out. A little sweating would not do her any harm. He could start a gym, he thought. With all the money he would steal, he could easily rent one of the posh establishments in Malabar Hill or even Parel where so many high rises were coming up. People would queue up to join his gym. The doorbell would never stop ringing.

It rang again and for so long that he refused to answer it this time. He should hire a security staff and even a secretary. A pretty one with a lip-sticked smile and a red-hot brain to match.

Now he heard voices clearly coming down the corridor.

“Yes, that’s him. I have been waiting for you to come…,” she was saying, a trifle breathlessly.

So the press people had come. The thief smiled. He had made such a name for himself with his chain of gyms.

“I was trying to keep him occupied,” she spoke in a rush, and he could barely make her out. “I thought he had seen through my game. But while he was in the bathroom and I finished my call early, I managed to sneak in some cough syrup in the soup. It wasn’t much, I thought I would wait for you to arrest him and make him confess to his crime but it looks as if…..

The voice was closer now and it seemed, was speaking over his head.

“…as if he has had too much too eat. Overeating. He must have stuffed himself so much that it would be difficult to move him.”

His eyes had closed of their own accord but he could feel them staring at him, looking down at him. There was another man with the lady, and her voice was raised and excited.

“Yes, I know it is a shock for you, darling. I do understand. But you know what, today is a strange day. I trapped Kamlesh, you know, the servant. I sent him to the police station with the file. I told him — go show the property file to the inspector, so he knows about it. But I knew the servant had been trying to get his hands on it for some time. I am serious, Kamlesh impersonated my signature many times and now he had even signed an agreement on my behalf. But in his haste, he had signed his own confession and that is what the police will find in the file once he hands it over. He confessed to not only forging my signature but that he had tried to poison me. Thank God, I saw things in time. Of course, darling, don’t shake your head. I know he was trying to poison me. I knew how my medicine supplies were getting over so fast and why the food tasted so different.”

She took a deep breath after she finished, then giggled flirtatiously and the man with her, still dressed in his office clothes, looked on impassive. From where the thief lay prone on the floor, he could see that the newcomer looked befuddled as well.

“This one here is just an additional job. I worked on him with yes, the cough syrup,” she was stumbling over her words, her cleverness and the presence of the man by her side. “It’s not where it was. I had stored the syrup in a different bottle, and filled the old one in the bathroom with water, so it never worked,” she giggled as she prodded the prostrate man with her foot.

Now he heard her cackling again. But he could not open his eyes any more. It was a merciful darkness the thief was sinking into. He smiled with pleasure thinking of the wonderful meal he had just had, one that he had prepared with his own hands.

“Can I give you some ice cream?” He heard her ask the man now. They were more relaxed. They were waiting for the police to come and take him away. He could hear the two of them in the dining room, savoring the rest of meal he had prepared.

The man with her tried to say no. But she was insistent. “Just a little bit. You know I made it with my own hands.”

She was a disgusting liar too, she fooled people all the time. The rich did that constantly, with all their greed. The thief thought but the words were all clogged up now, caught in a cottony fogginess that had settled in his mind.

“Well, a little,” her companion hesitated in agreement. The thief felt he should warn him but he couldn’t be sure about what.

“You can’t resist it too, can you?” She was in a very giggly, flirtatious mood, after all it was the end of a successful day’s work.

“I hope you don’t think they are poisoned,” she asked him as the visitor took his first bite. His voice was wobbly as he replied, and shook as if he was suddenly afraid.

“What are these? Strawberries?” he asked, his voice wavering. His voice turned faint, as if he spoke from a distance.

The thief felt very sorry for him.

“Yes, don’t you like them?”

The man got up with a yelp, put his bowl down and rushed away in the direction of the bathroom. Both of them, the thief and Zahira, heard the various sounds emanating from inside the white door. He saw her then emerge into the sitting room again, shaking her head. Then she dialed someone rapidly, perhaps her lawyer. One could make that out right away. She began complaining that he had been really difficult to live with.

“Mr. Sheth, it really is not working out. He and I just cannot even live together under the same roof. We are just incompatible. He can’t stand strawberries, even though I served it up with love and he is in the bathroom. I am sure he will leave it wet with the lid up. After twenty years, you can’t expect to give my marriage another try.

“Yes…”she was saying, as they heard him tottering back. “The papers, I had signed them. I am sure he will sign up too. In fact he already has.”

“You bitch, you knew I do not like strawberries,” The man, her husband, spoke through gnashed teeth, struggling to hold his trousers up.

“Yes,” she said blandly, hanging up abruptly. “I turned a blind eye to so many things you did, that perforce I may well be blind. You and Kamlesh were in it together. All the time. I killed the two of you in one stroke, one stone. Three…,” she added, tossing a careless look at the thief lying prone on the floor, “and the divorce papers are with the lawyer.”

“I will never agree,” said the man, tightening his belt once again but he felt the spasms grip him again.

“You don’t have a choice. And I have made a new will too, disinheriting you. It’s with the lawyer. He should be here any moment now.”

The thief heard everything. The bounding steps as the man made for Zahira. The swirl of his trousers falling to his feet. And the thief knew the moment the man placed his hands around her neck.

“It’s no use,” she was croaking. “You will get nothing, even my corpse is of little value, except to land you with a heavy jail sentence. The cameras in the corridor have recorded your entry…”

The thief turned over in sleep, still happy. These big people. They were always fighting over something or the other. Too much money. All you need at the end of the day is to sleep with a full stomach. He could leave the rest for the morning.

***

Kamlesh, the servant, waited at the railway station. He knew he was running late with all his errands, the madam had guests. But he would always be late now. For he’d never return. The important papers he had had with him were in a dustbin somewhere, perhaps already fodder for the stray mongrels that roamed everywhere. And he, Kamlesh, was taking a train back home, away from the city, away from the people he could never please.