Maithaly BanikThe smell of chai filled up my apartment when I used to wake up, once. I do not remember how long it has been. Two years, probably five. It’s been six months.
I walk through the pavements alongside the palm trees. This luxurious neighbourhood holds no space for a plebeian like me. But I walk through it every day to my office. The big ‘Hollywood’ sign laughs down as the cars zoom by in the street. The LA life is full of glitz, glamour and lies. I do not fit in well.
I never fit in anywhere. But even though I did not fit in the cold Toronto or the gritty New York, I imagined the sunny LA would be my home. At least it was, for a while.
I check in to my office every day at 9 a.m. It is the life of a hustler. We punch in and sit in front of the screen, typing away article after article on the lives of influencers and D-rate celebrities. That is what we do, like parasites, we feed on their lives to sustain ours. This world will drain you of life, beta. I walk down to the cafeteria.
“Milo!” Agatha calls from her table, where she sits with her Pomeranian on her lap. She is sitting, pecking on her fries like a bird. Her faux coat makes her look like one, too. Her waving hand was trying to draw me in. I could not ignore her. She is my boss, after all.
I pick up my tray of food and sit down with her. I find her dog licking a cup, probably a Puppiccino. Her wide smile looks welcoming, scalding. I know it is a mask; behind which she holds a grudge against all her employees. I am her target of degradation, humiliation today. I cannot escape.
“I do not see you carrying your lunch box anymore, Milo.” She shoots her first bullet. I just sat down! She knows why I no longer carry a lunch box. She was invited to the funeral, obviously. Yet she digs up my past, making me defenceless. “I miss the aromatic smell of your curries. They added the feeling of home in the office.” I know she used to despise the smell. She had her secretary spray air fresheners the moment she entered the cafeteria before. I smile at her, that is all I can do.
Suddenly she grabs my hand from across the table and holds my astonished attention. “I am so happy to see you accommodate to the American lifestyle.” I want to run away. Throw the tray of fries and ketchup at her face. I smile. She leaves me alone to eat in peace after that. She has inflicted her wound. Her hunger is satiated. I have been left empty.
I make my way through the day. I survived another day of eating the dead flesh of the celebrities. I make my way home the same way I walked in the morning. Now the tall palm trees look like slender giants, the monsters from a child’s nightmare. But not from my nightmare. My nightmares see the red snow on the Himalayas.
There is a Starbucks right around the corner of my apartment. I look around the crowd gathered outside it. There seems to be a special offer on something. I join the queue of white women with their blonde bobs. They are talking about their sons, who all go to the same school. I try not to overhear. But one of them starts talking about the article I wrote this morning about a celebrity divorce. They say how the article blames the man for abuse and not the woman for infidelity. I ponder on my life decisions in the line.
Finally, it was time for them to place their order. “Four chai tea latte, please.” Their voices bubble up in the air like milk foam. I feel my face contort into a look of deep contempt.
I see myself in the mirror. And then I find her. I hear her speak to me. From the mirror. “What is this chai tea latte, beta? This tastes just like normal milk chai… It is so bland… And we spend so much for this… Let us go home… I will make you masala chai.”
My vision starts to blur. I blink continuously. Does not help. I step out of the line. I turn my face. Walk out of the glass doors. No drink in my hands.
Rain washes over me as I step out. It is strong. I get drenched in minutes. Always keep an umbrella, babu. I run. I run. I run. My vision flickers in and out. I see tall banyan trees. The palm trees come back. I see yellow auto-rickshaws on the road, they are yellow taxis now. I think I see a man with a Sikh turban, but the next moment it is a homeless man with a beanie cap.
I somehow, make it to my apartment. I pass out the moment I lock the door.
……
It’s the snow again. White like a swan. We run down the slopes. Sheep and goats on our heels. We run holding hands. Me and Asha pull each other forward. The cottage blends with the brown barks of the trees. We see Abba coming to the house with his cart of wood. We help him take the logs into the garage.
He pats our heads. “My little girls.” His face is blurred but I know he is smiling. “Come inside!” The melody from the house ropes us in. The prism of white, blues and greens is home. Her lap of love is home. Her humming sounds are the angels’ harmony.
I float in the bliss of her smell, coconuts and jasmines. Her hands through my hair, the show of her love and adoration. I am home indeed.
……
I blink hard. It is tough to open my eyes. My lids are glued together. My head throbs. I think I am dying.
That’s when it hits me. The smell of ginger! A very strong tingling knocks my nose. I know this smell. Another remnant of my lost haven.
Weakly, I open my eyes. And sit on my bed. The room I am in looks strange. This smell does not belong in this bland grey cube. I rub my eyes. I hear sounds. Sounds of utensils.
I see a figure on the other side of the room. A blur of maroon cloth. It’s like the ghost from my past has manifested itself in a spectre in my room. The figure is moving around the kitchen. An unfocused moving film.
I clear my throat to speak. The figure turns around. “Da!” The sound is familiar. I look for my glasses. Can not find them. The figure moves closer and I freeze.
Slowly the face starts coming into focus. A soft smile, a button nose, a nose pin, thick brows, deep-set eyes. “Ammi,” I find myself uttering. But I know it is not her. The woman in front of me does not have the same heart-shaped face I saw in my dream or the mole above her lips. I wish it was her, though. I really, really wish it was my dead mother in front of me. How I would become small and lie on her lap again. How I would tell her to pat my head. How I would tell her that I love her. And this time I would agree to take her back Home. Asha brings me the hot cup of masala chai, with the strong smell of ginger. Asha, my sister, the mirror of my mother. She sits down next to me. She too smells like Ammi – coconuts and jasmines. The emotions flood out of me the minute I take a sip of her tea. It tastes just like hers.
