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for his party?’
    ‘It’s not as if Jasper’s party doesn’t have thieves.’
    ‘The rate at which Jose Bovain is gaining popularity, he’s sure to win if he contests this election.’
    ‘Nonsense—just rumours. If it suits your business then MacDonalds is no inconvenience. Let them give food so cheap—the very idea of competition will be a death-blow to them.’
    In one corner it was Sanal and Sunil: arguing non-stop in French. The subject was cricket.
    Minakshi and Odil sat on one side; they talked mainly about their children.
    Sahana came and joined Nila and Chaitali.
    The topic was the home—a new home; markets: where one would get river fish or which shop sold the five spices that were used in Bengali cuisine. Then it was a discussion of recipes.
    In Kishan’s group politics was nudged out and industry inched in.
    Salmonella in chicken, mad cow disease!
    All propaganda!
    Fish and meat were being imported heavily and so mutton was very expensive.
    ‘Damn, there’s no sense in running a restaurant in this country! England is the best for that. All the immigrants are migrating to Italy in hordes—where is my workforce?’ Kishan said. Then he looked at Nila, crinkled one eye and said, ‘I guess I’ll push my wife into the business—she’ll cook and I’ll serve. How good is your cooking?’ Kishan nudged Nila’s stomach with his elbow.
    Nila edged out from her group and said, ‘I don’t know how to cook.’
    Kishan laughed out loud, ‘What’s this—how can you be a woman and not know how to cook? Go and check out my restaurant—thoseboys who never even peeped into their kitchens at home are cooking away merrily. So you’ll do just fine.’
    Sunil put his cricket talk on hold and said, ‘Hey, hey, don’t bombard your new bride with talk of cooking just yet. Let a few days pass.’
    Nila pressed Chaitali’s hands and said, ‘Enough of this meaningless jabber. Why don’t you sing something?’
    ‘Sing? No way. That’s for the Bengali group. Non-Bengalis know nothing of singing! Philistines, all of them.’ Chaitali spoke in Bangla.
    At eight o’clock a man in a black suit and a necktie came with packets of food. It was from Kishan’s restaurant: rotis and vegetable curry. Kishanlal was a vegetarian. Meat and fish weren’t allowed in his house.
    Mojammel, in the black suit and tie, kept the food on the table and came to see Kishan’s wife. He wore a broad grin and his eyes were so dark that he looked like he was wearing kohl in them.
    ‘Didi, I work in Kishanbabu’s restaurant. I am from Bangladesh.’
    ‘Bengali!’ Nila’s eyes brimmed with joy.
    Chaitali laid the table. Some people sat on the sofa and some at the table.
    As they ate, Sunil said, ‘Nila, whenever you feel like having fish curry and rice, come to our place. Chaitali is a great cook.’
    Nila said, ‘I feel like going right now. I can have roti and vegetables one day, but not two.’
    Mojammel smiled and said, ‘Don’t you worry, didi, just come to Taj Mahal. Our chef cooks fish and meat quite well.’
    The banter continued until well after dinner. Kishan opened a fresh bottle. The Tariqs left early because they had left their schizophrenic son alone at home. Rajesh and his wife also left. Sunil and Chaitali had left their daughter, Tumpa, at a friend’s place in Sandani and so they were not in a hurry. Once the bottle was empty, Sanal rose to go. As he put on his warm jacket which was hanging on the coat rack by the door, Sanal said loudly, ‘Nila-bhabhi, it’s customary to kiss you on both cheeks as I leave. But I won’t. Today the honours belong to Kishan and I leave him to do it, right Kishan?’
    Kishan was lounging on the sofa and his tummy bulged out of hisshirt; more fat than stomach. He laughed crudely. His shovel-teeth bulged out and the fatty stomach bulged even more.
    Once Sanal left, Sunil and Chaitali also made a move to go.
    ‘What’s this, all of you are leaving! The house will be so empty. Why