“Impressive isn’t it?” I smile.
“Oh gosh, have I got to eat everything?” says my wife, Laura.
In front of each of us lies a circular metal tray, in the centre of which stands a bowl of steaming rice. The grains are tiny, some coloured red, yellow or green. Surrounding it are small metal pots containing vegetables – some plain, some battered and fried, in a variety of sauces. One pot contains chopped tomato, cucumber and raw onion, and another, plain yoghurt. The restaurant is full of the aroma of curry and I’m salivating like crazy.
“Would you like anything to drink sir?” smiles a young Indian girl with deep brown eyes, darker than her dusky skin.
“Can I have Cobra please?” Laura asks for mineral water.
“I remember the first time I came here I ate the shrikhand with my curry! I didn’t realise it was a sweet.” I laugh, indicating a pot, half full of a thick yellow paste, inconspicuous amongst the others.
I serve myself rice, curried cauliflower, and some small pieces of potato in a thin, greasy-looking sauce. “Wow, this is hot!” I exclaim. They’d not spared the chilli! I spoon a generous portion of yoghurt on top. It’s delicious, my taste buds overwhelmed by the fiery, aromatic experience.
It’s September 1987, the seventh year of my marriage to Laura. The first years had been wonderful, although marred by frequent fights, but isn’t that usually the way? Her long dark hair still looks glamorous, but the pretty face has grown rounder and the pounds have piled on. Health problems abound with increasing frequency. Still, ‘Till death do us part ….’
“Impressive isn’t it?” I smile.
“We have bigger thalis in Gangtok!” says my partner, Lhamo.
She laughs, shaking her red-brown bob, her hooded cat-like eyes twinkling.
It’s September 1997 and once again I’m in Diwanas. I haven’t been here for ten years, but it’s like a time warp, everything seems exactly the same, even the waitress.
Lhamo isn’t eating a thali. Instead, she has a dosa, a long, rolled pancake, fried and filled with spiced potato, lentils and onion.
The restaurant’s packed, as always. A small queue stands by the door, resignedly waiting for a vacant table.
Lhamo looks apprehensive. “I need to tell you something.”
I know what’s coming. I’ve heard it often enough. “What?”
“I’m leaving, going back to Rasheb.”
I could save my breath. “Why?”
“I miss Ahmed. He needs me.” Her eyes mist over.
I take a mouthful of Cobra, close my eyes, and swill it round my tongue with my mouth slightly open. The light hoppy flavour mingles with those of butterscotch and dandelion. It’s amazing what you find when you really focus on something. Back to reality. “Please don’t go.” And I mean it. Despite all the problems with her estranged husband and her collusion with him, I really love her.
We’d met at a theatre group in our small town. There were a handful of good actors, the rest of us weren’t any great shakes. To my astonishment she’d taken a shine to me, saying I reminded her of Robert Redford, and it was only weeks before she’d moved in, leaving her fifteen year old son and husband gnashing their teeth. Soon that slim brown body and her willingness to please had made every bedtime an exquisite experience.
“Impressive, isn’t it, sir?” The Indian holds out the huge aubergine I’d been eying up outside his shop. “Only seventy five pence sir!”
I laugh, not wanting to lug vegetables around London, and tell him so.
“We’re open till 10 p.m. sir. You pick it up later!”
“Maybe.” I smile.
It’s September 2017, and I’m back in Drummond Street, just around the corner from Euston Station, inhaling the wonderful smell of curry that always envelopes the area. I pass other greengrocers, admiring the colourful displays of unrecognisable vegetables outside. Curious, I look at something resembling a bent white courgette, about 18 inches long. I wonder what it’s called and where it comes from?
Passing two Indian restaurants I reach the Ambala Sweet Centre. I remember how Laura and I would buy boxes of delicious sweets there – made from condensed milk, coconut and suchlike, flavoured with spices. My mouth waters at the thought of gulab jamun, small cardamom syrup-soaked doughnuts. I ask myself why Indians aren’t enormously fat?
I walk a little further to Diwana Bhel Poori House. As usual, it’s packed, even though it’s only 7 p.m. I’d like to go in. But not on my own. I gaze through the window at the crowded tables where I’d sat with Laura and Lhamo. A waitress is serving plates of steaming dosas. A car drives past playing Michael Jackson on the radio – Bad.
Suddenly it seems like yesterday. I wonder where they are and what they are doing right now. I feel an ache in my guts, of nostalgia and loneliness.
I walk back the way I came. Thankfully my mood lifts. Never mind Laura, Lhamo and the rest of those damned women, I’m going to buy that aubergine!
NB. There is a 2000 word version of this story. Please click HERE to read.
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15 thoughts on “I Dream of Diwana”
I loved the story! I’ll read around more 🙂
Hi, thank you, and if you enjoyed this there is actually a longer version on my blog, 2000 words. I wrote some extra scenes to submit it for a competition (It didn’t win and the critique said it wasn’t really a story, just a collection of scenes. Hmm. But I like it!)
Great! I am reading it asap 😊
Delicious. Sweet and sour with a touch of heat and a hint of spice
What a lovely analogy. Thank you so much!
Another great story Simon, just thought I’d let you know that you’re a big inspiration for my own writing. I want to practice using more dialogue in my tales and you do it in such a way that just works. Thanks for another great read before bed, and I hope I can take some of your talent with me in the future 🙂
Hi Matt, thanks for your (too) kind words! *blushes*. Seriously, it’s great to know that my stories can inspire other people’s writing. It’s not anything I’d really considered.
When I was young I used to like short stories best, and I read a lot by Ray Bradbury, John Wyndham, Daphne du Maurier, H G Wells in particular. I find those influences coming out in my own stories.
I was a bit afraid of writing dialogue myself, at first, I’d never done it before. But once I started I began to hear it in my head and it flowed a lot easier. And it’s fun!
It’s also recommended to read your dialogue out aloud to check it sounds natural. I usually let my computer do that, and to check for typos. I’d also recommend Internal Dialogue, and Dialogue, both by Marc Kennedy, I found those helpful (as well as the rest of her books, I have them all). I wish you every success with your own writing!
I enjoyed your story. It was a feast for the senses! I’m hungry now!
Hi Kristina, thank you very much. You can try googling ‘South Indian Vegetarian food,’ then click on Images. That will definitely make you feel hungry! 🙂
Thank you so much!
The Thali looks damn delicious. By the way, your post is extremely relatable, people may come and go, but food is always constant. You can live without love but can’t live without food, am I right?
P.S.- Some Indians are enormously fat. 😀
Hello, yes, when I was looking through images to find something suitable, I thought how wonderful Indian vegetarian food looks, all those gorgeous breads and curries! I didn’t have that thought in mind when writing the piece but, yes, you are right, delicious food is always there (in the UK anyway) and you can experience pleasure from it. No need to look outside oneself for any ‘damned woman,’ or ‘man’ as the case may be!
The cuisine is not exactly low calorie, so I well believe your observation. I just haven’t come across any really fat ones myself.