Faasla

Eight

We were amidst a global pandemic. The doctors named it Corona Virus, and it wasn't just Mumbai - or India - but the whole world was under a lockdown.

I didn't care about all of that. It was the thought of being home alone with Darshan Raval that terrified me; I had a strong feeling that his Penthouse would be our battle ground, even though I had an embarrassing breakdown in front
of him and literally pleaded him to lend me my peace of my mind.

But it's day four of lockdown, and he hasn't been an obstacle in my path. Yet.

His Michelin Star Restaurant cook certainly would find his way to the Penthouse, nor could the house-help who did every damn thing for him around the house, which meant that he had to get his ass off the couch and do his shit. And he was a complete failure at it. Darshan Raval may be the best singer of his time, or whatever, but he has zero survival skills.

It's the fourth day of lockdown and all he ever made was Maggi and this mug of coffee that looked like...water straight out of the drainage.

The other day, out of sheer curiosity, I took a sip of his leftover "coffee" while he was in his studio, and I literally spat it into the sink. It tasted like...drainage water. No milk, nor sugar. I could tell with ease that he absolutely hated his coffee, because every time he made it, he'd pour more than half of the mug into the sink. His cook served him with the world's frothiest and milkiest coffee ever, and to go from that to this is something worse than a downgrade.

Honestly, I wished to make him a good cup of coffee and a warm meal with all my heart. The fact that he boiled Maggi for every meal did make me feel bad for him. But why would I trail behind an egoistic man, who was the one who wanted the partition in the first place? Even if I helped him, he would have either said something so rude, or walk away and I'm certainly not giving him the space to step on me.

I cooked a perfect vegetable Pulao, and blended an avocado into a thick, sweetened smoothie for dinner, while Darshan boiled water on the stove for his Maggi. But instead of making the noodles, he sat on the long couch and called up every restaurant one could think of. After the strong, triggering aroma that my Pulao welcomed into the living room, he evidently couldn't swallow down another round of boiled noodles.

While I hogged on my food, I overheard his conversion from the dining table.

"Hello. Do you deliver pizza to Navi Mumbai? I'll pay you extra for the delivery. 2000 rupees for delivery charges. No? What restrictions? What the fuck man!".

"Do you deliver Biryani to Navi Mumbai? I'm Darshan Raval. The Bollywood singer. Listen, I'll pay you three times the regular delivery charge. What do you mean that it's not possible?".

"Do you deliver food to Navi Mumbai? Then, why the fuck did you pick up the call?".

The annoyance in his voice continued to grow, and I sort of did feel bad for him. While he fought with yet another restaurant staff, I walked back into the kitchen, and served him what I cooked, right after turning off the stove.

The moment I kept a plate of Vegetable Pulao down on the coffee table, he halted his argument and looked up at me, baffled.

"They have clearly mentioned the food chains won't deliver after 9. Even if you're Darshan Raval - the Bollywood singer", I tell him. "It's Pulao, you can have some".

"My situation isn't so pathetic that I have to eat from you. I've kept water to boil, I'll make my Maggi", he rises to his feet. "I had a neighbour who ate Maggi every day, for a long time. He died of colon cancer last year", I cook up a lie and he stands to his ground, gawking at me in shock.

"It's Pulao, not poison. I'm having the same thing. You won't die", I tell him. "Eat it if you want or throw it into the dustbin, it's your choice. And eating from me won't make you a smaller person; I won't tell anyone".