Cleats, Corsets, and the Cutie: The Keely Brothers, #2

Chapter 1: Chuk chuk chak chak

Raghuvendra

From Jodhpur to London, the heart goes boom-boom.

Urgh! Stop. The sliced lemon in my hand bears the brunt of my frustration while my brain is busy sauteing the ingredients to my crush-fuelled misadventure. The tune of a song from the Hindi movie Rafoo Chakkar plays on a loop while I add the finishing touches to the dish. Rishi Kapoor in drag was a fluffy cheesecake, but he is no match to the Dame. 

Uff! What a tamarind chutney like situation I have got myself into. I wipe the bead of sweat from my forehead. For over six months now, every Tuesday at the Queenie’s night in our club in Southall, my heart hooks itself on a Diwali-style rocket and goes off into the sky. 

The sexy cooing on the mic was the first thing that had woofed into my ears. I was working the night shift, busy using my culinary skills at the Funkee Monkee like I had done three weeknights for a year. The New Year tamasha had simmered down, but, three weeks into January, the patrons were still in a holiday mood. The Tuesday night had become busier than the weekend, thanks to Janet, the second-generation British-Indian owner of the club. Her idea to lure the crowd in with a weekly drag show had worked wonders.

The first time the Dame went on stage, her sonorous voice pulled me out of my cave. Until then, I had never ventured outside the kitchen into the club, even though the owners were a lesbian couple and a large LGBTQ crowd patronised the evenings. With one peek, I fell head over heels, in true literal sense. The crashing plates diverted everyone’s attention to my stumbling into Charlie, who was on his way to the kitchen with a stack of empty dishes after clearing a table. The drums and guitars of the live band fell silent; the hush spread like a blanket on the guests.

The Dame noticed the commotion. Our eyes met across the room. Hers narrowed. Mine widened. When she winked and puckered her shining glossed red lips to blow a kiss, my soul migrated skyward with mortification. My efforts to douse the flash of lust in my longing pan with ladles full of determined avoidance have yet to meet success. The flame flickers back to life every Tuesday.

The Dame’s voice draws me in like a kite string on a spindle. I give into the temptation only once, taking a sly fox-like glance from the shadows beside the bar while fighting the desire to sit and gaze at her shimming body in one of the magnificent kaleidoscopic dresses she wears to her shows—a collection of satins, sheers, silks, and frills.

My foxiness worked for twenty-four Tuesdays since my eyes locked with the Dame for the first time, or so I thought. Janet caught me warming my eyes last week and put an end to my tiny luxury. She pooh-poohed my pretext of wanting to check the patrons’ reactions to the food like the electric chimney sucks in the fumes. 

Janet put her foot down, and the servers ganged up, refusing to take the dish I keep aside for The Dame on her nights here. And she returns my affection. My piggy bank is overflowing with the twenty-pound tips I find in a cherry-scented envelope on my Saturday trip to the club. But the money is not the reason my heart does a giddy-hop. The handwritten thank-you notes accompanying the money are tucked away in a box which I open every night before going to bed. One dish, one note at a time, The Dame and I will find our way to each other.

‘Tum kaho jab tak, pakate rahein tab tak humm, hummmm.’

Yeah, no matter what Janet and her minions say, I will keep serenading the Dame with my food mastery until she asks me to stop. But that’s not how the lyrics go. If he were here, Yash would have scoffed at my twist of the lyrics. The traces of a smile gathering on my lips at the memory of my gangly brother are smothered by a pang of longing. I miss Maa, Papa, and Yash. ‘You are at least safe.’ Papa’s words of relief during our tear-filled goodbyes echo in my mind.

Ready, mate? The Dame’s act is about to finish. Charlie bumps his elbow against mine, drawing my attention to the soft strumming of the guitarist. The Dame’s sing-song voice accompanies the notes in a perfect rhythm.

No, no. I panic. My stupid heart keeps coming in the way.

I place a fresh, steam-dried, dinner plate on the mirror-like stainless steel kitchen top. Come here, Ginny, I call my assistant, not trusting my hands with the design I have planned.

I place the two marinated tandoori chicken legs on the plate and instruct Ginny to position the potato tikki next to the chicken, matching my rough nursery kid-style sketch.

Remember. Triangles represent chicken legs, and circles are for the stuffed potato patties.

I hand her the raisins. "Stuff this deep into the tikki." The sweet tanginess will add a surprise element to the spicy dish.

Push harder. I watch Ginny with eagle eyes. The raisin disappears below the crispy potato crust.

Squeeze! I hand her the cone filled with tamarind chutney. Gentle. Don’t squirt!

"Urgh! Boss. Ginny snaps at me. Stop watching those cheap porn videos for your English lessons." She is a short, buxom Sikh girl who, even with heels during her day off, comes only up to my shoulders. I call her my little packet of thunder. How Gurpreet became Ginny though is beyond my comprehension and is not a story for me to ask. The day I walked into my first shift at the club, she adopted me as one of her own. In this foreign land, Ginny is the sister I never had.

I shuffle on my legs, trying to hide my embarrassment. Kapil Paji, forgive me. I pray to the Indian cricket legend whose efforts inspired me to learn English. The English medium schools in Jodhpur were way above Papa’s pay grade, so I did my schooling in Hindi. English was an inconsequential second language, and I did the bare minimum to pass. 

The bug of wrestling had bitten me hard by the time high school ended, so college was out of the question. The memory turns my mood sour. I gulp down the bitterness and focus on the present. I am in England. No one from my family has ever crossed the sea. And except for my brother, no one speaks English. Kapil paji, thank you so much.

The Indian cricket icon had been a brand ambassador for the rapid English-speaking course, and when the chance to escape to England came my way, I bought the online version. After arriving here though, I realised I needed practice. The spoken language was so different from what the course videos taught. Hence, my reliance on YouTube. I watch anything and everything with English language. In my zest, I may or may not have tumbled down the free porn sites. I watch them with closed eyes, fearful of Maa and Papa back home. They will skin me alive if they ever find my internet search history.

Done. How does this look, boss? Ginny grins at her work of art. She has added a few curves to the paisley design of the chutney and some dots with the whipped curd and mint sauce. A star anise pod adorns the centre of onion rings placed at the top of the pattern. 

Better than this. I wave the paper with the sketch.

Now go and seduce your man. She winks and walks away.

Wait! I call after her. "What is the name of the singer? Did the Dame say today is Abba song day?"

Ginny turns and slams her palm to her forehead. What will we ever do with you? She huffs in frustration and places her hands on her waist. "The group is called ABBA. Not abba. Repeat after me. Aaa-Baa."

I make puppy eyes at her and repeat the name, making every effort to get the pronunciation correct. I did wonder why a European group would label themselves using the Urdu word for father.

Raghu make a mess of this. Raghu need more time. I squeeze my eyes, praying to God.

The sound of hoots, hollers, and claps trickling through the walls makes my knees turn into butter on a frying pan. Oh.

Oh, what, mate? Janet walks to stand beside me. With shoulder-length black hair braided into pleats, and a tuft of pink hair flowing across her forehead, she is dressed in her official navy-blue jacket over a white collared shirt and matching blue trousers. As usual, she has her Converse shoes on when doing club rounds during open hours. 

Raghu exciting, but also anxieting. All emotions in a mixer are grinding. I move my right fist in a circle over my left palm.

Janet chuckles. Such a cutie. But— she waves her index finger in an arc. We’re not backing away now. She unties my apron and straightens my borrowed sky-blue cotton shirt, patting my chest in reassurance. 

Henry, the bouncer with a permanent scowl, has short, curly hair and a darker skin than mine. He matches my almost hundred kilos weight and six-feet height; though his muscles are more defined. He was kind enough to lend me a dress shirt for tonight when he learned of the potpourri the staff of the club had concocted.

You can do this. Janet winks and positions the tray in my hands. Remember what I told you? 

Breathe. Smile. I like your performance. I parrot the words. She nods and sends me on my way to the backstage dressing room.

Khatu Shyam Ji, laaj rakhyo maahri. I plead with my family’s deity to keep my dignity.

Ready, Chef? Henry greets me at the door to the dressing room. 

No. Raghu not ready. I wipe the sweat off my forehead with my hand towel and tuck it back into my black trousers while balancing the tray on my other hand.

Who is not ready? 

The familiar voice startles me a few seconds after the cherry fragrance hits my nose. In my haste to turn, the tray sways and trips on the Dame. The chicken legs have their own agenda. They sneak into the wedge between the Dames’. Into the Dames’. Even my mind is stuttering. Big bosoms. The chutney splatters on her face. The plate and steel cutlery run for their life and clatter to the ground. Boxed in by a wide-eyed Henry behind me, I do not even have the option to scamper from the crime scene.

Sorry. Sorry. I plunge my hand to retrieve the deviant bird’s legs, but my thick palm gets stuck between her breasts. The chicken legs decide to play hide and seek. They move lower into the dress. I huff and take my hand out.

The Dame’s eyes are two saucers. Fake. They are fake. She clarifies, waving her hands in crazy patterns.

My mind stuck on the lingering squishy feeling on my hands after groping the Dame, has gone numb. In a frenzied state, I make an error the size of a camel. I pull at the neckline of her purple satin blouse and rip it apart. The chickens drop to the ground with a plop. They tumble merrily to the side after causing such mayhem, to watch the drama unfold from the side-lines as the crowds in India do.

Oh, dear. If you wanted to see me naked, you should have asked. The Dame chuckles, holding the two torn edges of her dress close to her chest. Henry joins her with a belly-shaking laugh.

I should drown myself in the Ranisar Padamsar Lake, but unfortunately, the pond is beside the Meharana Fort, thousands of kilometres away in Jodhpur. So I take the only available option—scurry from the scene to escape from the club. If I survive my humiliation, I will try to find another job. I hope Janet will give me a reference.

At least say hi, The Dame calls from behind.

No hi. Only bye-bye. I shake my hands above my head, not daring to look back. What a colossal shame to Raghuvendra Singh Rathore, once India’s most promising freestyle Olympic wrestler in the 97-kilo class and the eldest son of Nahar Singh Rathore – retired Principal of Government Senior Secondary School of Jodhpur.

Chapter 2: Aag lagi pani mein 

(Fire in the water)

Raghuvendra

Umm, Raghu! Why are you wearing sunglasses at night? We’re indoors. Ginny stands with her arms crossed, blocking my way to the club kitchen.

Ah! My two minutes of solitude are shattered. I need these to breathe in the aromas wafting through the kitchen. There is a row of pristine stainless steel on opposing white tiled walls, two humongous refrigerators at the back, and a central island of tables where the action happens. Cut, chop, whirl, and grind. I sync my brain with the music of the tinkling and clanking of utensils. These, together with the voices of my cooking team, fill the emptiness of my life in London. This is my passion and they are my people. Tonight, the light, crisp, and earthy fragrance of celery from the chicken broth fills the air. Oh! How I had missed this.

Raghu not show face. Move. I wave her away.

My hiding lasted two Tuesdays. Nicki, Janet’s wife, caught up with me last Sunday. She is a retired boxer. Tall, dark, and solid muscles doing justice to her African ancestry. She keeps her hair cropped, and I have heard she packs a mean punch. Though I was a wrestler myself, I don’t cross the likes of her. Only the ground suffers when lions and tigers fight. 

The flames of my shame, though, have not lessened, so I did what the long-legged, big, nasty land bird did in the jungle documentary I watched two days ago. These cheap sunglasses will have to do, as I cannot work if my head is buried in a ditch. Lucky bird, unlucky Raghu.

Aww, cho chweet. But we can still see you. Ginny pouts and pats me on the back, puncturing the confidence balloon I had filled with my little self-pep talk. 

All the wrestling-style bluster whooshes out with my breath. This did not work. I should have used a bucket, but I only have one. If I made holes for eyes, with what would I take a bath in the shared bathroom?

Stop duck-talking. Give the marker to me, I say, taking a piece of paper from our stationery drawer. 

Rude grump. Ginny scowls and hands me a black pen from her apron pocket. After scribbling the note, I place the paper on the fridge with the rainbow heart-shaped magnets. Ginny reads the message out loud over my shoulder.

Murder chicken dead before cooking. Tie legs.

Oi mates, listen up! She hollers to gather the staff. Boss Man is watching murder mystery videos. She and the other team members double over, laughing. 

You minions, stop. No laugh at important matters of life and death. Dismiss. I shoo them off to their stations.

We begin our preparations for the guests. My work is light as we are serving standard British fare on the menu tonight. Having planned an apology to the Dame, I focus on the fish and chips. 

While the others work at their stations, I retrieve the cod and examine the fish first, poking and prodding with the two-pronged kitchen fork. At least, fish don’t have legs. Once I am sure the fillets are lifeless and do not move, I dip them in the batter and keep them aside. Next, I test the readiness of the oil in the pan by dropping a tiny drop of the batter like Maa had taught me while frying pakodas. The little round ball bubbles over. 

Hi.

My back stiffens. Hands freeze. Legs become filled with iron. The Dame had never ever come into the kitchen before. I swallow the dread-stone and turn.

The Dame smiles and flutters her eyes. She is wearing a body-hugging baby pink Lycra suit with layers of shiny frills, like the ones on little girl frocks. They hang from the shoulders till above her narrow waist. Her fingernail extensions are polished and shiny. I shudder at the thought of those pointy things digging into my back as—as you what, Raghu? I shake my head to dissipate the wild images forming in my brain.

Like what you see? The Dame turns in a circle with her arms extended on the sides.

This time, I move my head up and down, hoping she understands I like everything from the silver colour of her wig to the pointed heel of her footwear and all that lies in between. Also, what lies underneath. I have only peeped at parts of her smooth, glowing, pale skin; her long legs, through the slits of her dress, and her well-rounded shoulders extending into those athletic arms when her dress starts at the — At the—. God, not again. I glance at her in panic. The brilliance of The Dame’s smile breaking on her face makes me want to fall at her feet.

What are we making tonight? The Dame coos, sending currents through my entire body.

The signals converge on my groin. I cross my legs and squeeze my thighs to cut off the blood supply to the mutinous thing between my legs.

Fish and chips, I croak, in my worst frog voice. 

Show me? She moves a step closer, flooding me with her fragrance.

My breath hitches. One of her eyebrows rises, and she holds my gaze. I put my hand in a bowl to pick the fish pieces. Strange. The fillets are dry and too thin. I am terrified to move my eyes from The Dame, lest the fish, like the chicken, decide to misbehave. They, after all, are slippery beings. With my gaze fixed on her lips, I drop the ingredients in my hand into the frying pan. 

There is a crackle, and the kitchen is engulfed in the smell of chillies. Burning red chillies. I scramble to shut the stove knob, but the train has already left the station. The pan catches fire, and the flames reach the roof in a fraction of a second. The smoke alarms start blaring, announcing with all their might my idiocy to the world. Everyone in the kitchen coughs, clutching their throats. The Dame and I join them in this orchestra. 

Oh, my. The Dame gasps and fiddles with her two-stringed silver beads necklace.

Move. I stand with my back to The Dame, spreading my arms to the sides, protecting her from the flames and myself from my smouldering dignity.

Ginny is the smart one. She picks the fire extinguisher and sprays the pan, dousing the fire.

"Oh, God. You two do have something