I sat down in the vacant chair between Lisa and Geeta. Lisa wore a thin, lava-red pullover beneath a black silk jacket, and a skirt. Geeta's silver spandex top and white jeans were tight enough to be anatomically explicit. She was a pretty girl, maybe twenty years old, with her long hair pulled into a high ponytail.
Her hands fretted at the table napkin, folding and unfolding a corner of the cloth. Reeta had a neat short hairstyle that suited her small face and gamine features. She wore a yellow blouse with a deep, confrontation neckline, and blue jeans. Cliff and Chandra both wore suits, and it seemed that they were coming from or going to an appointment of some significance. "I'm starved," Lisa said happily. Her voice was light and confident, but she squeezed my hand under the table so hard that her fingernails pinched their way into my skin. It was an important meeting for her. She knew that Mehta planned to offer us a formal partnership in the casting business we'd been running unofficially. Lisa wanted that contractual agreement. She wanted the approval that only a contract could provide. She wanted her future in writing. "Let's eat!"
"How about-what do you all think-if I make the order for all of us?" Chandra suggested.
"Since you're paying for it, I don't mind," Cliff said, laughing and winking at the girls.
"Sure," I agreed. "Go ahead."
He summoned the waiter with a glance and waved the menu aside, launching straight into his list of preferences. It began with a white soup entree made with lamb cooked in blanched-almond milk, worked its way through grilled chicken in a cayenne, cumin, and mango marinade, and ended, after many other side platters, with fruit salad, honey kachori balls, and kulfi ice cream.
Listening to Mehta's lengthy and precise list of dishes, we all knew that it would be a long lunch. I relaxed, and let myself drift in the flow of fine foods and conversation.
"So, you still haven't told me what you think," Mehta prodded.
"You're giving it more attention than it's worth," Cliff De Souza declared, fluttering a hand dismissively.
"No, man," Mehta insisted. "It happened right outside my damn office, yaar. If ten thousand people are shouting about killing you, outside your own damn office window, it's hard not to give it some attention."
"They weren't shouting about you personally, Chandrababu."
"Not me personally. But it's me, and everyone like me, they want to get. Come on, it's not so bad for you, and you should admit it. Your family is from Goa. You're Konkani speakers. Konkani and Marathi are very close. You speak Marathi as well as you speak English. But I don't speak a damn word of it. Still I'm born here, yaar, and my daddy was born here before me. He has his business here in Bombay. We pay taxes here. My kids all go to school here. My whole life is here in Bombay, man. But they're shouting Maharashtra for the Marathis, and they want to kick us out of the only home we have." "You have to see it from their point of view as well," Cliff added softly.
"See my eviction from their point of view," Mehta retorted, with such vehemence that several heads turned toward him from other tables. He continued more quietly but with just as much passion.
"I should see my murder from their point of view, is that it?"
"I love you, my friend, like I love my own third brother-in-law,"
Cliff replied, grinning widely. Mehta laughed with him and the girls joined in, clearly relieved to have the tension at the table diluted with the little joke. "I don't want to see anyone hurt, least of all you, Chandrabhai. All I'm saying is, you have to see it from their side if you want to understand why they're feeling all this. They're native Marathi speakers. They're born here in Maharashtra. Their grandfathers, all the way back to... who knows, three thousand years or more, they were all born here.
And then they look around in Bombay, and they see all the best jobs, all the businesses, all the companies owned by people from other places in India. It drives them crazy. And I think they have a point."
"What about the reserve jobs?" Mehta protested. "The post office, the police, the schools, the state bank, and lots of others, like the transport authority, they all reserve jobs for Marathi speakers. But that's not enough for these crazy fuckers. They want to kick us all out of Bombay and Maharashtra. But I tell you, if they get their way, if they kick us out, they'll lose most of the money and the talent and the brains that make this place what it is."
Cliff De Souza shrugged.
