Secrets and Sins. Jaishree Misra

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      ‘Chicken makhani’s my speciality actually,’ Aman said, warming to his theme.

      ‘Cor!’ Riva looked gratifyingly impressed. ‘Teach me!’ she demanded.

      ‘Teach you? Now?’

      ‘Now!’

      ‘But the match…’

      ‘Stuff the match! We’re neither of us here for the footie anyway. C’mon, let’s escape this hellhole.’ Riva knocked back the last of her lager and picked up her coat and bag from under her chair. Aman, needing no further invitation, got up and looked apologetically around at the others.

      ‘Hey, guys, Aman and I are off in search of some nosh,’ Riva said casually as she pulled on her jacket. ‘Be back by the end of the game.’

      Aman did not miss the renewed glare from Ben, who looked ready to get up and punch him, but none of the others seemed too bothered as it was nearing kick-off and the attention of the whole bar was starting to focus on the screen. Riva was already halfway out of the back door and lighting up a cigarette by the time Aman caught up with her.

      ‘Don’t think Ben was too pleased,’ Aman said.

      ‘Ben? Why, what makes you say that?’ Riva blew a plume of smoke out into the cold air.

      ‘He is your boyfriend, isn’t he?’

      ‘Naaah.’ Riva shrugged and asked, ‘Have you got the stuff you need, Aman?’

      ‘Stuff?’

      ‘You know, the chicken, onions…what else will we need? Rice? Oh, chicken makhani sounds great. I’d love to learn how to cook it.’

      ‘Er, no, I haven’t got the stuff…I was thinking of buying it from the campus shop on my way back.’

      ‘Okay, we’ll do it together then. And I’ll buy a bottle of wine – that’ll be my contribution to the meal. God, I’m starving! So much nicer to sit down to a proper meal and conversation, rather than spend the evening watching a sport I hate. Overpaid prima donnas who call themselves sportsmen, tribal warfare, loutish crowds…I loathe the whole shebang, honestly!’

      Aman felt weak at the knees as he walked along beside Riva. He could not tell if it was due to the prospect of a whole evening alone with such a beautiful, clever, sassy girl, or the fact that he had no idea at all how to make chicken makhani. It was his favourite dish at the dhaba around the corner from his house in Bombay and, occasionally his mother got the bai to cook a version of it at home as well, but the thought of making it himself had never crossed Aman’s mind before.

      At the shop, he did his best to look masterful, throwing two onions and a bulb of garlic into his shopping basket, next to a cling-filmed pack of chopped chicken. The shape of the pieces (long and narrow) didn’t look quite right to him but it would have to do. Remembering in the nick of time that he would need a substance to fry everything in, Aman added a block of butter to his shopping. It stood to reason that chicken makhani would bear some relation to ‘makhan’, which was Hindi for butter. Good idea to use plenty of it, he reckoned.

      Riva was waiting at the till with a bottle of red wine and insisted on paying for it, even though Aman tried to persuade her to let him take care of the entire bill. It was only when they walked into his hall fifteen minutes later, stamping their feet to get rid of the snow and mud from the soles of their boots, that Aman realised he had nothing but salt and pepper by way of seasoning. While Riva went to the toilet, Aman frantically opened a few cupboards, hoping to find a stray bottle of spices. He finally stumbled upon a can of mixed herbs and sniffed its contents. It smelt vaguely of pizza. Quite clearly, no Indian masala had been anywhere near this bottle – but it would have to do. Aman rolled up his sleeves and began to yank the peel off the onions before chopping them into large rough chunks. Riva returned and rooted around inside a drawer to unearth a corkscrew and a pair of wine glasses. As she busied herself opening the bottle she had bought, Aman wondered if he ought to confess that, apart from not having a clue how to cook this meal, he did not drink either. He wasn’t sure if Riva had already noticed his variety of fruit juices on the few occasions they had been in bars and pubs together, and he was worried that she would think he was a stick-in-the-mud, rather than just an obedient son to Muslim parents.

      ‘Do you mind if I have OJ?’ Aman asked as Riva started to pour the wine into two glasses.

      ‘I’ll let you off for now, seeing as you need to concentrate. That’s a rather delicate operation you’re carrying out there,’ Riva replied, watching nervously as Aman ham-fistedly attempted to light the gas cooker.

      Eventually (with some help from Riva), Aman got a weak blue flame going and began piling the pieces of chicken, onions and garlic together into the pan and stuck it on the hob. Riva was halfway through the bottle of wine by this time. Aman stirred the mixture together to form a pale white sludge. He continued to stir it in a determined fashion, willing it to change colour and look more appealing, but the best it could do was deepen to a pale brown as the onions started to burn in their pool of butter. Riva did not appear to notice, however, but sat on a kitchen stool throughout his exertions, chatting about her school and family back in Ealing. Aman wasn’t sure where exactly Ealing was but, from Riva’s few mentions of London, he gathered it was a suburb of the capital. She had questions for Aman about his Bombay upbringing too, carefully referring to the city as Mumbai, even though Aman himself almost always referred to it as Bombay. He kept his answers brief, standing near the stove, terrified that his dish would go up in flames if he did not keep stirring it. It looked terribly pale compared to the chicken makhani that he so enjoyed back at Sardar’s dhaba, which was usually bright orange and served up with giant wedges of pillowy soft naans.

      ‘I don’t have all the spices I need, so it’s a bit colourless I’m afraid,’ he said apologetically to Riva.

      She got up and peered into the frying pan. ‘Yes, something’s missing. Could it be…hang on, you need tomatoes to make a curry, don’t you? I’m sure I’ve heard my mum say that…’

      Aman froze. Of course a curry needed bloody tomatoes! He closed his eyes and slapped his forehead, making Riva throw her head back and laugh.

      ‘Never mind,’ she said, ‘as long as the chicken’s cooked through, it’ll still be edible. I might have mine on toast. Be a shame to waste all that butter.’

      Aman looked at her hopefully. ‘Now? Shall I make you some toast now? I have bread in the fridge…’

      ‘Later. I’m not hungry yet,’ Riva said. ‘Shall we take this somewhere else?’ she asked, picking up the wine bottle. ‘Or we’ll both be stinking of food. You must have a glass too, seeing that it’s my pressie to you.’

      ‘Good idea, let’s get outta here,’ Aman said, switching off the flame with relief. He washed his hands as Riva poured him a glass. Hopefully, by the time Riva had finished the bottle, she’d be too drunk to remember to eat. Aman took a tentative sip as he followed her down the corridor, the taste making him want to pucker his lips and spit it out forthwith. Aman had never been able to tell why people drank the stuff but it was sure making Riva laugh a lot tonight, her cheeks turning a pretty soft pink as the colour rose in her face. She stepped back for Aman to open his room door and he hoped desperately he’d left it in a reasonable state earlier. Luckily it was neat enough, except for a small pile of discarded clothes that Aman hastily kicked under his bed while Riva wandered around his room looking at the pictures on the wall and table.

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