Xossip Ultimate Story Contest 2015

[Expert]

the girl behind counter

Frankansteinthekount

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I leaned over the pabangt of the balcony of my apartment on the fifteenth floor. The preparations for the
evening bhajan ritual had begun, I deduced from the escalating hum downstairs. The building watchman
was arranging gray Neelkamal chairs in a semi-circle between a sleek red Honda and a black Chevrolet
SUV. I looked back up at the jumble of skyscbangrs. Yardley Gardens was one of Mumbai’s plushest
townships that my family had recently relocated to from the humble cobwebs of Nashik. The westward
sun made me squint and I withdrew to my cushy C-backed bamboo swing, resuming the novel in my
hand. There are few things as relaxing as an evening breeze tickling you while you turn the delicious
pages of Adiga’s The White Tiger .

It was now nearing six and I could hear the boys playing football downstairs. In spite of wanting to join
them, I stubbornly clung on to my novel. I didn’t want to open my mouth and make a fool of myself. I
remembered reading ‘It is better to stay silent and be thought wise than open your mouth and be proven
foolish’. Or was it the other way round? Immaterial, I wasn’t leaving.
My tenth standard was to start in a few days’ time. You could say I was a little nervous. The relocation
was a little bit of, like they say, a ‘culture shock’ to me. My father had taken up a new job that offered
thrice the pay of the previous, along with a horde of benefits like company quarters at this place, a Tata
sedan and discount coupons at various dining joints. A personal pizza was no more to be shared by the
family. The visit to the restaurants no more meant a strict decorum of mere daal, a paneer subzi and roti. I
could unblinkingly order appetizers to overpriced Cokes without a warning eyebrow. Just the very
thought of them now made me hungry. I got up from the swing.

‘Ma, can I have some money? I want to go out, eat something,’ I shouted as I went inside the house.
‘Why do you want to go outside?’ The voice came from the living room. I spotted her knitting, red and
white yarn balls by her side. ‘Your grandmother has packed us some …’
‘Mom!’
‘These kids of today,’ she muttered without annoyance. She was quite jovial ever since we’d moved in.
And in spite of being the unwilling kitchen recluse that she was, she made me take a plate of parathas to
both our neighbours, without paying any heed to my ‘But what do I say to them?’ What happened next is
something I fervently hope that twenty years later I will look back and laugh at.

She set aside the half-finished scarf for my grandmother and fished her hand into her purse that hung by
the armrest of the couch. All the years we stayed with my grandparents in my native town, there was a
non-stop bickering between my mother and grandma. The day we left, I sneaked a look at my mother
crying in my grandma’s lap and the usually stoic lady that my grandma is, even she couldn’t hold back
the Ganges streaming down her eyes.
‘Don’t spend all of it,’ she said. A crisp hundred-rupee note, from which Gandhiji grinned at me.
The elevator doors opened to a shockingly electric environment. I mean, when you come to such a
colony, you expect people to be silent and, what’s the word, ‘sophisticated’ to the point of being
considered curt. But with the noise these kids made with their Ringa Ringa and catch and hopscotch and
whatnot, I almost felt like I was back in Nashik. I avoided eye contact and went to the main gate. The path

to the street was blocked by a team of sweaty T-shirts and delirious outcries of boys of my age and less
playing football.
Let me tell you something about me and football. First, I hate this game. Second, and by no way because
of the first pointer, I am no good at it; although, that doesn’t stop me from admiring a good game when I
see one. And admire I did the fat guy in the midfield as he dribbled the ball between his legs. A tall stick
lurched towards him. Our fatso quickly defected to his left and furiously kicked the ball at a scared
teenager who turned reflexively to his side. The ball hit his elbow.
‘Hand!’ the fatso screamed in delight and duly encashed the free kick. I was impressed.
I looked at them from a distance, hoping they would notice and call me over. Maybe they were too
engrossed in the game or maybe they didn’t care about a stranger gawking at them. I stood unheeded.
Sighing, I made my way to the exit.

Spencer Mall is more of a two-floored convenience store. I was thrilled to spot an escalator and hopped
right on. The first floor hosts a small cafeteria consisting of three chairs each around circular wooden
tables. There is a glass counter on the left where you get ‘The best Frankies in town’.
Confession—I had no idea what Frankies were. I wondered if they were so expensive that it would drive
my pride of being loaded away.
At the first floor, one takes a U-turn to face the cafeteria. I occupied one of the empty tables and studied
the menu. The contents were reassuring. A basic vegetarian Frankie cost around forty and went up to fifty
five if you wanted many fancy fillings. Schezwan paneer Frankie commanded my interest. I went to place
an order at the glass-top counter and there she was—the Girl behind the Counter.

‘Hi! And what would you like to have today?’ she smiled at me affably. It was almost a smile of
recognition, as if she had been privileged to have known me since ages and that I was her favourite
customer. I bit on my braces—her perfect pearly whites probably never needed dental treatment. The
thick and sleek black tresses almost shone and one lock of hair hung cutely on her dusky face. Her eyes
were everything the on-screen actors swoon to and poets write couplets about. You get it, don’t you? She
was probably a few years older than me and wore a black T-shirt that read ‘Joe’s Frankies’.
I tried to power up. Speak up , I screamed inside and mentally rehearsed what I had to say. Just order as
you would normally do and say ‘Thank you’ when you get it. How hard is it? A question popped in my
head—how is schezwan pronounced? C and H are silent, duh , came the answer. How can two
consecutive letters be silent, I wondered. Well, it just sounds better, doesn’t it? ‘Sez-waan’ , I reasoned.
But this is taking too long, way beyond the line that separates a customer from this pint-sized
nincompoop. And was that sweat on my forehead?

‘Sir?’ the girl asked unflinchingly, her expressions intact. I hoped she wasn’t just pretending to be calm
while hunting for an alarm button under the counter.
‘One plate schezwan paneer Frankie,’ I said and instantly felt proud that I didn’t stutter. Smooth , I
praised myself.
‘That would be fifty rupees, sir,’ she looked into my eyes, smiling all the while.
I must tell you, gentle reader, that continuous eye contact is worse than browbeating. You see, girls are
not intimidating. Only pretty ones are. I understand I sound shallow but I call upon the puberty-license.

Yours truly is no exception to this rule. I feigned interest in the pile of tissues in the waste bin behind her
as I dug into my pocket. Finally, I produced the hundred rupee note and extended my hand to pay. At the
same time, she stretched hers too and ended up accidentally touching my fingers. I cringed as my fingers
tingled, feeling like a biscuit that’s been dunked in the tea a bit too long. I went back to the table with
eyes squeezed shut hard.
‘Excuse me, sir,’ I heard a voice in a couple of minutes. It was her voice. She meant me. Me !
‘One schezwan paneer Frankie.’ She gave me a roll with salad and cubes of cottage cheese lathered with
sauce and gravy peeking out of the open end.
She had pronounced ‘Schezwan’ as ‘Shej-waan’. In spite of the culinary wonder in front of me, my heart
sank. I felt like stabbing myself with a spoon. Smooth .

‘Thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘Hope to see you again.’
That night, I slept smiling ear to ear. In spite of having absolutely no dreams involving her, I woke up
fresh as a deodorant!
The next day I borrowed a fifty from mother and pressed the elevator button. The same noise on the
ground floor lobby, the same guys playing the football, and this time, a penalty shootout. I saw Fatso
taking his position in the D and stopped walking. It was the Tall Stick taking aim this time.
‘Ready!’ screamed the goalkeeper from Fatso’s team. The next instant, the ball was kicked. Fatso used
brute force and jerked aside the guys from the opposing team standing on both sides and jumped high, his
head deflecting the ball to a corner.

‘Foul!’ alleged a hysterical bunch. Fatso couldn’t care less and bent double laughing. Tall Stick pushed
him to the ground but Fatso was clearly having a time of his life. I grinned at him. I was impressed.
Again.
The same traffic, the same pedestrians, the same road, the same mall, the same first floor and the same
Frankie Girl. Bless her. I walked up to her and went straight to the counter. Today, I had taken special
measures to make myself presentable. I was wearing my best pair of shoes and my wrist sported father’s
metal-strap Sonata watch. I had taken the pain of applying a small amount of face powder, just the perfect
amount that separated complexion from make-up. My gait was confident and tone smooth. I went up
directly at the counter and ordered without referring to the menu. She gave me her known-you-since-ages
smile and asked me to take a seat. Since there were hardly any customers, the mood was relaxed. I took
the seat facing her, careful not to slouch.

She was an epitome of effortless grace. The way she fluently dealt with cash, her eased-out demeanour as
she mimicked one of her colleagues, the elegance with which her features aided every word of hers and
the voice that wafted, like an elixir to the ears. The more I observed, the more I was drawn towards her.
Ask what her name is , I scolded myself. It won’t compromise the national security . But I knew I
wouldn’t. I dreaded the moment I would finish my roll and walk back.
Finally, she summoned me and I went up to the counter. Taking the Frankie, I turned back. I wanted to
disappear from the spot that made me feel like a coward. I hurriedly walked to the escalator. Even when I

heard a minor commotion in the background, I didn’t bother to check it. Like I even cared. As I was just
stepping on it, I felt a pat on my shoulder.
It was her.
My heart violently jolted into a see-saw. She smiled at me. The same sunny smile. I smiled back stupidly,
not knowing what else to do.
‘Sir, you forgot to pay,’ she said.
As I lay on my bed that night, I wondered how I could have been so foolish. It was embarrassing. Or was
it? She gave no other indication of my lapse. What she did was exactly the opposite. She accepted the
money and said, ‘See you tomorrow, sir.’
I felt so invited !

Today is when this phoenix shall soar into the blue skies of hope , I decided the moment I woke up,
making up in clichés what he lacks in style . She was not going to eat me up if I strike a conversation with
her. Being well-mannered was her job description. Being myself just won’t do. Besides, there is no big
deal in asking a person’s name. I had Shakespeare to endorse that.
‘I can, I will,’ was the day’s mantra. I enjoyed the movie I saw, chomped up some more Adiga, laughed
hard at the silliest of sitcoms and in an uber-confident mood, practised pick-up lines in front of the mirror.
I enjoyed the familiar noise of the bhajans, was enthralled by one of the superb goals scored from a
distance, relished the evening chirping and even helped one of the ladies from the store with her shopping
bag. This is it, I thought as I went up the escalator.

It was yet another slow weekday. My palpitation jacked up as I noticed her. She was not at the counter
though, and occupied one of the tables with a guy in his early twenties, deeply engrossed in a
conversation. As I walked towards her, as if almost on cue, I saw her affectionately pulling his cheek. It
was only when I reached the counter that she noticed me.
‘Customer, darling,’ she whispered to the guy, getting up in a rush.
‘Hey, wait up,’ the guy insisted, catching her by her wrist.
‘Oh no,’ she began to protest. ‘I have to.’
‘Come now,’ the guy was persistent. ‘I am sure he won’t mind giving us a minute. Would you, kid?’
That was my call. ‘Oh, n-no. Carry on.’ I somehow mumbled. I wanted to look away. I didn’t. I
should’ve. I didn’t.

The guy kissed her on the cheek and she responded by whispering something in his ear. ‘See you soon,’
she said, waving him goodbye.
She went behind the counter and adorned her position. Giving me another of her well-practised smiles,
she asked, ‘A paneer-chilli Frankie?’
I didn’t know what to say. Somehow, I managed a, ‘Never mind,’ and started walking out.

‘Oh, I am so sorry,’ she said apologetically behind me, her voice dipped in desperation. ‘It’s schezwan
paneer, isn’t it?’
I didn’t respond and followed a chirpy middle-aged couple out on their grocery shopping down the
escalator. I rehashed the events in my mind and tried to articulate what I felt being the unwilling witness.
Was I sad? Nope, that was not what it felt like. It was a funny feeling. I cursed myself—funny won’t do,
such words are what stupid people resort to.
I did like her, yes sir, most definitely I did. Or did I? What was it that I felt for her? I stopped on my
tracks as the word hit me between the eyes—fascination. I turned and looked at one of the stained glass
windows of Spencer Mall. I was captivated by her, by the novelty she was, like a Da Vinci painting, like
an amazing novel. I turned to look at the stained glass facade of the mall. She was my white tiger. So why
did I turn back? Wasn’t today one of the most confident days? Why should it be a ‘was’? What if she has
a boyfriend? What was I hoping for anyway?

Nothing! a happy voice rang inside me. I like the Frankie, I like the Frankie Girl; so what’s stopping me
from having both of them just now?
Nothing! came the reply again, even happier.
I retraced my footsteps. There was no audible heartbeat this time, only pangs of joy, of inexplicable
ecstasy. I went to the counter and smiled.
‘Hello,’ I said.
‘Hi, sir,’ she replied, for once, more surprised than rehearsed happiness.
‘Name’s Arora. Nikhil Arora.’ I am the king of clichés, I smiled wider.
She followed suit. ‘Right, Nikhil,’ she said. ‘And you will have one schezwan …’
‘… paneer Frankie,’ I shared the moment with her. ‘That’s right.’
‘Right away, Nikhil,’ she said. ‘Please have a seat.’
‘Sure,’ I said and waited till she called me.

And eventually, call she did. ‘Nikhil, your Frankie’s ready.’
‘Oh yes, thank you,’ I took the roll from her. ‘By the way, there’s something I’ve been meaning to tell
you.’
‘Yes?’ She looked into my eyes inquisitively.
I took in a deep breath. Yes, I can . ‘I love your smile,’ I said.
‘Thank you, sir,’ she beamed, gracefully bowing her head a little. ‘Oh, and there’s something I’ve been
meaning to tell you too.’
I stared at her. This was unexpected. ‘Yes?’

‘My name’s Roshni,’ she grinned, extending her hand forward.
I shook it. This time there was no long lasting tingling sensation, no desperate urge to smell the palm for a
residual fragrance. It was just a warm handshake, the way it is meant to be.
I went back to my building. All the football players had evaporated but for one guy. Fatso was shooting
against the wall and chasing the ball as it bounced back. I felt inclined to talk to him but zeroed on
procrastinating it—I had socialized too much for a day already. As I walked towards the lobby, I heard a
‘Dude!’
I turned around to see the fatso calling me.
‘That,’ he said, pointing at the Frankie in my hand. ‘That has paneer in it?’
‘Yes,’ I said, slowly, wondering what the guy was up to.

‘Then share it, no? Don’t be so selfish,’ he said and grabbed at it. I didn’t mind it. Nothing about his tone
was forceful. On the contrary, it was friendly.
‘By the way,’ he said; his mouth full, ‘I am Aditya. And you?’
‘Nikhil,’ I said and extended a hand forward.
‘Good, man,’ Aditya said, almost moaning at the taste. ‘This shit’s good.’
I was amused. The guy was ravenously friendly. Somewhere, not far off, I saw a figure running towards
us. That thing was skipping, almost bounding toward us in excitement. Aditya recognized the figure and
his eyes lit up as the figure too gave a squeal of joy.
‘ Dude! ’ he said and, dropping the Frankie, hugged her. The girl was about my age, a few inches shorter
than me but extremely attractive. She hugged him back. ‘Oh my God, where’ve you been for so many
days?’

Awkwardness started flooding inside me again. Aditya noted my presence and quickly released her.
‘Dude,’ he said. ‘This is my cousin.’ Then he noticed the mess he created by dropping the Frankie. ‘Oh
shit, I dropped it, did I? Wait, I am going to run and get one for each of you. Hang in there. Won’t be long
…’
‘Well,’ the girl turned from a scampering Aditya to look at me. ‘What’s your name, did you say?’
‘I didn’t,’ I said almost reflexively. ‘Did I?’
‘Let’s try again,’ she chuckled. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Nikhil,’ I said.
‘I am Roshni,’ she said, extending her hand.
My face brightened. ‘Roshni, did you say?’
‘Yeah, why?’
‘ Pleased to meet you,’ I beamed and offered my hand. She shook it.
Was it a tingling sensation I felt?

______________________________
शौक तो बापू तेरे पैसे से ही पूरे हुए
मेरे डालरों से तो बस गुजारा होता है l

पढ़े मेरी कहानी दा डार्क साइड सागा