The crowds didn't do much to stem the free-flow of sweat down her back. She silently cursed, wondering if it were anti-sanskar to do so while shopping for Iftaar food.
"But then again, you're going to eat this as chakna. I think that's haraam enough for one night." She sniggered at her own internal monologue, and took a deep breath as the smell of the tandoor danced towards her.
He liked red meat, she made a mental note to pick up seekh kebabs last, to make sure they didn't dry out. She stopped at the haleem stall and asked for a plate. Home was haleem, he had said.
"It's shitty to feel transplanted and out of your comfort zone," she defended; her internal monologue taking offence at her brain pointing out the obvious. There was no ulterior motive at all, to this last minute search for food, it was just the right time, and a universal favourite!
She shrugged it off, threw in an extra plate of seekh kebab, and crossed over to the other side of the road, ready to head home.
"Oh crap, I need a mixer." she looked around for a general store, frantically digging through dimly lit memories of late nights in bars, for the accompaniment to honestly the worst whiskey in the history of time. But it was sitting in a bottle at home, smuggled away from the offsite, and he liked it, so why not? "See? More proof. I didn't get a thing specially for him. I was using that stuff to cook, anyway.", she sniffed to herself, rubbishing the argument.
"I don't think that damn whiskey dreamed in all its brewed & barreled time on earth, that its life would come to this."
She walked home, in a huff at herself, hugging the food, and more soda than she'd ever had in her fridge.
Standing outside her door, he thought how odd this could end up being. "But why odd, there's nothing odd about hanging out with each other. You've done it multiple times. It wasn't weird then."
But the context...
"Ignore it."
He took a deep breath, and rang the bell. And laughed to himself as he heard the music from behind the doors. She opened the door as he was mid-laugh.
"Hi! Er, are you laughing at my doorbell?"
"I didn't expect that to ring..."
She giggled, opened the door wider, leaned past him, and rang the bell a couple more times. "There's a song for that..."
His laugh caught in his throat as she pulled back.
There was something about the scent of kebabs that arrested your senses. Something irresistible about cooking meat sparking its scent across the night air.
She was fresh out of the shower, he guessed, the whiff of Johnson's Baby was unmistakable. But her hair retained the allure of the tandoor.
"You got Iftaar food?"
She turned around and made a face, "Okay, that's an uncanny guess... Tukka maara?"
He grinned at her, "Haan, I thought you'd return the favour of all those times back when you'd come to my city."
"Uff itna predictable, I never thought I was. We can get pizza if you want. That also pairs well with the subtle smokiness of your DSP."
"Kebab se shuru karte hain, then we'll see. Let's see what your Bombay can do with tandoor."
The comfortable togetherness of the corner bar sets in without your noticing. Somewhere between the first sip of your first drink, and hitting the bottom of the third one, the inhibitions all nod off, and fall asleep. And you're sitting in the most companionable bubble.
He reached around her, trying to pick up her empty glass, "One more?"
She swept her hair off her neck, and nodded. He stopped, mid reach, looking at her fingers playing with her hair. "You made the kebab over a tandoor yourself, kya?"
"What?"
"Your hair smells like we're standing at the kebab stall right now."
She pulled back, "Oh crap, sorry, I'll keep it tied, I didn't get around to washing it before you came over."
He shook his head, "I like standing at the tandoor with you. Let it be."
She ducked her head, but he knew she was laughing.
"Yes, one more, please."
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