The Cambridge Curry Club Read Online Free PDF Page A

away from the doctor, excitement driving him upstairs.
    ‘I know it’s you, Bob,’ accused the voice.
    Bob stared silently out of the window, telephone in hand.
    ‘We can’t go on like this. You know that. Tell her. Tell her now.’
    O Romeeeo, O Romeeeo, wherephore art thou Romeeeo,
wailed the cross-legged ‘Shakespeare’ as Bob wandered in a daze into the hallway and into his study. Eight children were on the carpet watching a Bollywood film in a room overflowing with laundry baskets, books and a computer on a tiny table. A photograph of Heera in a bridal sari stared back at his shuttered eyes as a plate of tikkis and chutney hovered over his shoulder. ‘There you are,
jaan
,’ chided Heera. ‘Why are you here? There are so many people you must meet – how can you neglect your guests? Come outside, come look after them.’
    A voice yelled, ‘Heera, forget your
bak bak.
Talk later, go to the kitchen, your kebabs are going to burn.’
    Heera peered into the oven and retrieved a steaming tray of kebabs. ‘This is Sam. She works at Smith’s. You know, the curtain shop on Burleigh Street. She’s the one with the tattoo on her thingy,’ said Heera on her way out to serve the kebabs.
    ‘Shall I show you my tattoo?’ challenged the girl called Sam.
    ‘That’s entirely your decision,’ replied Bob.
    Sam swiftly unbuttoned her blouse for an instant to reveal a black rose tattoo nestling between her Wonderbra-enhanced breasts, before turning to the aloo tikkis in the microwave. ‘I used to work in a salon on Green Street. I do hair, nails, mehndi, threading and facial. I used to do full body wax also,’ she continued archly. ‘You know –
full
. Where does she keep her pickles?’
    The young woman hunted in a cupboard. She walked closer to Bob, scrutinising his face. ‘You need to look after yourself. If you don’t, who will? Anyway, I’m saving up for a boob job now.’
    Bob felt no obligation to respond.
    ‘What’s that about boobs? Take some of mine, they’re too big.’ Heera turned to Bob, who was perched on a kitchen stool. ‘
Jaan
, again hiding? Sam, what magic are you working on my husband? Leave him alone. Come,
jaan
, look who’s here – it’s Manoj Daryanani!’ she announced flirtatiously.
    Manoj Daryanani was a tall, slim man with an unlined face. Dressed in a spotless white kurta pyjama, he greeted people from afar with folded hands, backing away as if from contamination.
    ‘
Jaan
, look after Manoj, give him some pakoras,’ advised Heera.
    ‘No fried things! He has a problem, you know, with his digestion,’ warned Manoj’s wife, a silent fellow sufferer.
    Charlie and Barry waved their whisky in wobbly unison . ‘And do you remember what Karnani said at the end of the shareholders’ meeting?’ asked Charlie. ‘That he must thank people “on the backside”.’ The two men roared at an old joke, the ice in their glasses rocking in merriment. Another voice roared from the carpet, reaching a crescendo:
    The evil that men do lives after them;
    The good is oft interred with their bones
    An elderly Englishman declared as he waved a kebab in his listener’s face, ‘I do agree, without Asian medical personnel, the NHS would collapse.’
    When shalla we three meet again
    In thunder, lightning,
    Orrrr in rain?
    When the hurrrlyburrrly’s done,
    When the battle’s losht and won
.
    Heera hurried over to ‘Shakespeare’. ‘Brahma-ji, you must be so tired, dinner is served on the table.’
    ‘Su-er.’
    Bob turned to leave the room. ‘Where are you off to, Bob? Aren’t you going to cut the cake?’ cried his sister Sarah.
    ‘You’re a lucky man, Bob,’ observed his cousin Jonathan.
    ‘Heera’s a lucky woman to be married to my brother,’ contradicted Sarah. ‘Let’s raise a toast to the happy couple.’
    ‘Speech, speech!’ clapped a woman with flaming henna-dyed hair and blue clanging bangles on her wrist.
    Bob put his arm around Heera and addressed a speck on the