The Guptas are celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary at the Lee Hung Dragon in Handforth.
“Can we leave early? It will be a boring evening,” I say to Geeta, but she’s having none of it.
“They’re our best friends, and Amar is invited too. The Patels will be there, and the…” She reels off a list of names. I know them all – small-time businessmen, doctors and accountants, carefully eking out a living in a foreign land. They are good people, but I don’t necessarily want to hang out with them.
I know how the evening will go. There’ll be lukewarm house wine waiting for us when we arrive, and platters of spring rolls and chilli sauce slapped down on each table. The women will huddle together, dumping their shawls and handbags on the chairs, saving seats for their best friends. Geeta will make sure she finds a chair next to Mrs Gupta, the chief attraction of the evening for her. I’ll make my way to the fake marble bar at the end of the room, where the other husbands crowd together for warmth and solidarity. Here I’ll find Gupta, keeping a sharp eye on the bar orders.
“Come on, yaar, don’t get carried away, it’s only an anniversary; let’s just stick to the house wine,” he’ll say. There’ll be a scowl and angry mutterings if someone dares to order something fancier like vodka and lime.
The evening is just as I have imagined it. Gupta has reserved a table for us – his “nearest and dearest”, as he puts it. I sit down and look around for an empty chair for Amar.
“Let him mingle with the other kids,” Gupta says. “That’s how these youngsters learn how to grow up.”
But Amar isn’t mingling. He goes straight to Geeta and perches awkwardly on her lap. From time to time, his hand dives to the centre of the table, and he snatches a fistful of prawn crackers and stuffs them in his mouth. Embarrassed, I look away.
“So, how is business these days, PK, bhai?”
It’s Biku Patel. He sells tights – or “hosiery”, as he likes to call it. Small and rotund, with a small finger perpetually fishing out dirt from his ear, he isn’t an ideal dining companion, but I’m stuck between him and Gupta, who is busy scribbling something on a piece of paper.
“Business is fine, just fine, Bikuji. Sold a container load of dresses to a store in Belfast. But things could be better. Lot of competition these days…” My voice falters.
“That’s good, that’s very good.” Biku Patel nods. “Ever thought of adding to the line? My cousin in Surat has just started a dip-dye factory, and he wants to export. You can send him jeans and dresses and he can dye them any colour.”
“Actually, I am using a factory in Italy for that kind of stuff. It’s a small family-run place just outside Milan.”
“Their costs must be high, no? They are in Europe. My cousin, he is using the latest Chinese technology.”
I shake my head. “The Italians know quality. The Chinese don’t have it. They are like robots.”
But Biku Patel won’t understand the difference. He sells third-rate polyester tights out of a small, dark cubicle on Thomas Street, opposite a kebab place called Kabana. These tights turn up selling by the kilo for 99p a pair in market stalls around the country. But then again, he’s obviously doing something right, because his kids go to private schools and his wife flaunts a big, fat diamond on her ring finger.
“Any plans for going to India soon?” The man sitting next to Biku Patel cranes his neck forward and asks him.
“Going to Gujarat soon, after three long years. I’m taking the family to see the new Swaminarayan temple,” Biku Patel says proudly. His eyes shine.
The man who’d asked the question – I don’t recognise him in the shadowy half-light of the restaurant – declares him a lucky man. “I’m thinking of taking the kids to Orlando. They don’t want to go to India. They find it smelly and dirty.” He sighs and turns to me. “What about you, PK? What are your summer plans?”
“I’d love to see the Colosseum in Rome. I’ve heard the way the light hits the buildings in Rome, you can’t beat it. But not this year.” I shut my eyes and then open them. I’m still in Handforth.
The men give me a strange look, as though I’d proposed a trip to the Playboy Mansion.
The waitress arrives, interrupting our conversation. All eyes turn to the steaming bowls of food.
“Chop suey… tofu in black-bean sauce… mixed veg in garlic… some more spring rolls and rice,” Gupta announces each dish as it is put down. There’s no meat, no duck. The duck is the reason Amar has agreed to come to the restaurant.
“I kept it all strictly non-meat – didn’t want to offend the vegetarian ladies,” Gupta winks and points to the women whose chit-chat had stopped whilst they focused on eating. But I know he’s done it to keep the costs down.
Amar has somehow slipped from Geeta’s lap and is slumped down at her feet. He’s playing with his shoelaces, an intent look on his face. Geeta keeps feeding him titbits from her plate like a dog.
Excerpted with permission from Still Lives, Reshma Ruia, Speaking Tiger Books.
