King of Sweets - by Atul Joshi
ISLAND | ONLINE ONLYThis is part of our new 5-piece suite from South-Asian Australian writers inspired by the COVID situation in India and the Australian response
Yaseen said he would buy the jalebis himself.
He looked down William Street through the windscreen – what a sunset! Streetlamps cut through the lingering haze of backburns, creating a washed-out, apocalyptic landscape. Nothing like the streets that glittered back home, shimmering with life even through Mumbai’s constant smog – the lights of thousands of cars, autorickshaws and scooters, tracing the curve of Marine Drive, from Malabar Hill to Nariman Point; his road home. Beyond that, the city fading into the Arabian Sea.
“He wanted to call it a day and celebrate Iftar. The shift had been a series of short, circular rides that got him nowhere. Ten-dollar fares, earning him two-fifty, even less once he’d paid Firoz’s commission for using the Kia.”
He wanted to call it a day and celebrate Iftar. The shift had been a series of short, circular rides that got him nowhere. Ten-dollar fares, earning him two-fifty, even less once he’d paid Firoz’s commission for using the Kia. But the car earned nothing parked on the street. It was Yaseen’s job to keep it on the road while Firoz slept the night shift off in their bug-infested apartment.
Through his earpiece, and the background noise of the six-o-clock news, Firoz reminded him to pick up some halwa.
It’s the main story again.
As Firoz’s voice changed tone, all drowsiness gone, a fare pinged on Yaseen’s screen. A good one.
Bhai, you still there?
Yaseen grabbed the ride before it disappeared and ate the last piece of his fast-breaking samosa, scanned the car for crumbs, sniffed the air for odours.
Yaar, I got Darlinghurst to Lewisham.
With luck, another job would take him closer to Lakemba. He’d drop by King of Sweets or Dhaka Delight.
Wait, he told Firoz as the fare got in. The smell of alcohol.
Good evening sir, there’s sanitiser here if you wish. Would you like some water or mints? Will you mind if I finish the call to my friend? We are exchanging news from home. And would you like me to wear a mask for our trip?
Three hundred and seventy-nine thousand, two hundred and fifty-seven today, he heard Firoz say. Three thousand, six hundred and forty-five dead.
The passenger turned to him. Yaseen registered the assessment, however imperceptibly. He saw the mental cogs fall into place and smiled, knowing what was coming.
“The passenger turned to him. Yaseen registered the assessment, however imperceptibly. He saw the mental cogs fall into place and smiled, knowing what was coming.”
Yeah, mask up, the kid said. He unboxed a new pair of Air Pods, placed them in his ears and looked down at his phone.
At his age, Yaseen didn’t drink. Only the one time, out with his mates on his final night in Mumbai, staggering drunk through the Hanging Gardens to look at that view of Marine Drive one last time. Yaseen made sure he hid the smell with candies. Baba slapped him across the head anyway and never talked about it again.
He returned the box of mints to the cup-holder, positioned a mask over his face, and drove.
*
At that age. How long ago? Just a year and a half, but he could have been a married man, a father, by now. Maybe he and his parents should’ve accepted the proposal. She was pretty, smart, from a good Hyderabadi family. He’d be set for life in their firm. But Baba insisted Yaseen finish his study, complete a Masters. He didn’t want to see his son stuck.
Don’t you worry, Baba said. There’ll be plenty more families knocking on the door when you finish and get PR.
Baba believed in kismet and Yaseen believed in Baba. He had come here, started uni, then went into lockdown.
It’s time to go home, the Prime Minister said on TV. If you can’t support yourself, there’s an alternative. Return to your home country.
Wait, I just got here! he wanted to yell.
Please Baba, he asked, let me come home.
Baba refused and sent more money. If you come back, you’ll never be able to return.
The first casualty was Eid, his favourite holiday of the year. Baba said there’d be plenty more.
Then his cousin’s wedding. Be patient beta.
Baba’s hugs, Ummi’s cooking, Iftar meals with the household. Yaseen didn’t anticipate how homesick he would be. His new life relied on the ballast of family affection. Time, distance and lockdown left him drifting.
“Baba’s hugs, Ummi’s cooking, Iftar meals with the household. Yaseen didn’t anticipate how homesick he would be. His new life relied on the ballast of family affection. Time, distance and lockdown left him drifting.”
Just a month ago the number of cases had been tiny. Then, when it looked like India might have been spared the worst, things deteriorated. Now suddenly, it was way worse. What was the number Firoz read out?
Ekdum teek tak heh, Baba assured Yaseen when asked how things were.
Don’t worry beta, we are safe, Ummi told him the next time. Not leaving home until our vaccine appointment.
How is Dada? Yaseen asked, after they stopped talking about his grandfather. I want to come back for his birthday.
They changed the topic of conversation.
Their vaccination got delayed.
Dada never came online to speak.
Dude, where’re you taking me? The kid asked with such alarm that an Air Pod popped out onto the floor.
He saw he was on City West Link; he’d missed the Fish Market exit.
Health Minister’s on now, Firoz said. They’ve banned all flights. Failure to comply, five years prison. Nine thousand Australians waiting.
Both voices brought him back to the Kia. The realisation had been coming, but the Minister’s announcement sealed it. He could no longer see the way home.
*
The lights of King of Sweets blazed through its windows onto Haldon Street, where restaurants were emptying of Iftar diners.
A few customers lingered in the sweet shop. The staff boxed up purchases, weighing them, swiping cards, laughing at the sticky EFTPOS terminal they shared.
Ramadan Mubarak! they said, handing a package over.
Ramadan Mubarak! customers replied as they pushed past Yaseen.
His phone buzzed. The passenger’s review came in. One star, with a comment.
Car stank of curry, driver took the long way, stole my new Air Pods. Lodging a report.
Yaseen turned to the sweets sitting behind glass-panelled counters. What confections! Crispy, sticky mounds of jalebis, trays of multicoloured burfis; pista, kaju, badam, chocolate, gajar. Burnished gulab jamuns lolled in sugar baths, yellow pyramids of ladoos glowing with gold leaf. And halwa, trays and trays of halwa – semolina, orange, banana, pineapple. He breathed in rose, almond, cardamom and coconut as he waited, enjoying the warmth and chatter in the store, the bringing together of bodies for this brief hour.
An assistant he recognised motioned to him with a smile. He thought she looked kind, but tired. What had she said last time – that her brother had gone to visit a sick uncle? He was stuck on the wrong side of the travel ban. Yassen realised she had been crying.
He felt the Air Pod inside his pocket. He had meant to return it to its owner, but he dropped it to the floor and crushed it with his heel.
Assalaamu alaikum bhai, the assistant said. What would you like brother?
He pointed at the display as he made his selections, choosing this one, that one, and in increasing excitement, another. Nonsense, he berated himself, knowing he couldn’t afford this, that he’d have to redo his weekly budget, drive longer hours, keep ferrying idiots around; but then, as if all this beauty, this scent, this colour, and the assistant now smiling at him, her sadness gone in the infection of his eagerness, were a gentle wave which he let flow over him and surmount his grief and despair, it lifted him up as he found himself saying, in a rush of happiness: six boxes and mix a kilo of everything in each box!
And the wave would wash him through their front door, where he would hand his friend a bag of boxed sweets, and for this night, at least, they would be kings. ▼
Photo by Aditya Joshi on Unsplash
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