The Crunch Factor

by Andaleeb Wajid

Genres: Romance

Synopsis

Love comes in all tastes and spices! Twenty-six-year-old Aliya loves almost everything to do with food – eating it, styling it, photographing it. But while her career as a food photographer is on track, her personal life is entirely derailed. Determined to move out of her parents’ house, she agrees to marry Kamaal, the hot owner of the trendy new restaurant in town. But why does she feel like she’s waded into a bowl of bland khichri? Where’s the papad, dammit? Where’s the crunch factor? Then, on the day of her engagement, she finds out that the celebrated chef at Kamaal’s restaurant is none other than Sameer, an old crush from her younger days. Aliya cannot believe that, even a decade later, he’s still as hot as jalapeno poppers and as charming as cheesecake, and that she’s as attracted to him as she was all those years ago. What is Aliya to do now? Should she go ahead with the wedding and settle for a Milky Bar-like relationship with Kamaal, or should she choose rocky road pie and explore her possibilities with Sameer?

Release date: April 7, 2017

Publisher: Hachette India

Print pages: 272

Sample

One

The crispy prawn tempura sits invitingly on the plate, begging to be picked up and dipped into the tiny pot of honey chilli sauce on the side.

A lone parsley sprig, artistically arranged alongside a wedge of lemon completes the composition. The plate is clean, white and perfect. With my eyes on the delicious-looking entrée, I get to work, taking photos, focusing entirely on the food before me. When I’m done, I step back and let out the breath I’ve been holding.

The chef peers over my shoulder as I check the photographs.

‘Not bad,’ he admits, almost reluctantly. I roll my eyes at Meeta, my best friend and upcoming food critic who sometimes likes to tag along when I’m doing a photo shoot. She grins in response. A chef admitting that my styling and composition is ‘not bad’ is, well, something! Most of these guys insisted on doing their own styling but I had managed to convince him to let me give it a shot.

After a few more pictures, he approves and heads back to the kitchen, leaving us alone at the table. I look around at the empty restaurant feeling slightly uneasy, like I’m the only one writing an exam while everyone else has already gone home.

‘Can we dig in yet?’ Meeta asks.

‘I think so. This tempura is going to get soggy soon anyway,’ I tell her while I continue checking the photos, making sure everything is perfect.

‘How do you do it?’ She comes and stands next to me, taking a crunchy bite of the prawn as she looks at the photos.

‘Do what?’ I ask her absent-mindedly.

‘Make the food come alive! I can almost feel that tempura talking to me.’

‘Thank God. I thought that was just me,’ I joke.

I’m done for the day and Meeta is trying to convince me to stay over at her place, not too far from here.

‘We’ll binge-watch a show together,’ she says, trying to tempt me. ‘We’ll order an ice cream cake and eat it right out of the box.’

‘I can’t!’ I tell her as I start to pack away my precious Canon 7D Mark II.

‘Ugh. Don’t tell me your parents have plans.’

‘Er, yeah.’

‘Then tell that bratty sister of yours to go with them!’

‘She’s coming along too. It’s a family thing. I have to be there.’ I zip up my bag and sit down to enjoy whatever is left of the tempura. It’s delicious.

‘Aliya, it’s okay if you don’t always go with your parents wherever they want to drag you to. You’re not a child any more. Just look around you. All our college friends have moved on and you’re still stuck with your parents. Babe, you really need to move out. Come and stay with me till you find your own place,’ she urges me for the umpteenth time.

I sigh. It’s difficult to explain this to someone like her, who can only see things from the outside. My parents and I share a complicated relationship. On the one hand, I feel like I should be living on my own because I make decent money at my job and, well, because I’m an adult. On the other hand, I know that I need to be there for my parents. They didn’t get to where they are easily. Money and keeping up appearances are extremely important to them. We weren’t exactly rich to begin with. Comfortably off, yes, but my parents have had to struggle to reach the juncture where they can pretty much afford everything they want. And it’s important to them.

Mom has been trying to get into the upper-crust club, with highbrow ladies who lunch, for a few years now. Dad, meanwhile, has tried hard not to let his real-estate past and present affect the illusion he likes to perpetuate about being a tycoon of sorts. Let’s not even begin to talk about my sister, Faria. Yet, I know they feel a bit affronted when they find themselves painted with the nouveau-riche brush.

Yes, my parents are wannabes. I feel bad for them often enough but I try not to show it. It’s one of the reasons why I haven’t left home. I feel like I have to protect them from themselves. For there own good.

‘So where are you guys going tonight?’ Meeta asks as I get up from the table.

‘Don’t know. Some new restaurant apparently.’

I wonder why Dad has hired a driver when I normally drive them around.

Half an hour later, I pull my car up outside our house and then just sit in silence, clutching the steering wheel. Meeta’s words ring in my ears. This is no life. But what can I do? I know that someone at home needs to strike some sort of a balance between what my family is trying to be and what they actually are. If it weren’t for me, there’s no guessing how overboard my parents would have gone while trying too hard to fit in.

I remember, it was only last year when Faria had convinced my mother to fire Salma Apa and hire a professional chef. I’d been livid. Firstly, no one cooked better than Salma Apa and, secondly, what professional chef would actually want to come and cook for us at home? As it turned out, a new company that offered precisely those services had been launched in the city, and Faria was eager to be one of its first users. I had put my foot down. There are so many other instances that I can recall. And this is just the one time. I try not to think about them too much.

I stare at the house for a little bit, remembering the old house we’d lived in when I was in school. It had been a small, two-bedroom apartment but I felt as though we had been happier there. The moment my father started making money, we moved here because it was a posh locality and he’d got the house as a part of some deal. That was nearly twelve years ago. Ever since then, my sister and I have slowly drifted apart and my parents have been too busy trying to impress their new social circle to notice.

As I enter the house, Mom and Dad are having tea at the table. Tea used to be plain old tea sometimes steeped with crushed ginger, or with elaichi, in large mugs, until my mom got wind of the concept of high tea. Now, there’s an Indian version of it at our house every day. Today, there’s a plate of lightly browned kheema samosas, slices of feather-soft sponge cake, and a plate of chivda along with the tea served in proper cups and saucers.

‘Come, join us,’ Mom says, nodding towards an empty chair.

I shake my head, even though I’m tempted. Mom is just trying to butter me up because she knows I’m annoyed about being forced to go with them tonight. It isn’t like we do these family things often but Dad told me before I left home this morning that he needed me to be there today.

‘I just ate,’ I tell her as I start to run upstairs to my room.

‘Come down soon, okay? We have reservations at eight. The driver will be here on the dot,’ Dad calls out.

I am really curious now. Ever since Dad’s eyesight began to fail, I’ve been the designated driver for almost all outings. My sister Faria knows how to drive too, but the joint consensus is that she’s awful at it, so almost all driving duties fall upon me. So, why a driver tonight? Is Dad trying to impress someone?

Up in my room, I take a shower, run a brush through my still wet hair, tug on some clothes, and head downstairs, my lips set into a mutinous line. Whatever I’m doing with my life, sticking around at home, I’m doing it of my own free will. Doesn’t mean I have to like it, though.

I walk into the kitchen – my refuge, the one place that can fix my mood – and open the fridge. Truthfully speaking, I’m more irritated than hungry, and only chocolate can straighten that out. I usually stash some chocolate-covered almonds in a box here, but I can’t find them.

‘I ate them,’ Faria says, sweeping in.

‘What are you wearing?’ I ask her, annoyed that we’re no longer seven and five respectively so that I can hit her for taking my chocolate. Actually, I still can, but I’m distracted by her dress. It’s long and flowy, a buttery soft drape of silk and satin. She looks stunning – a bit like an ostrich if I were to be painfully honest, but a pretty ostrich nonetheless.

‘It’s a gharara,’ she says as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

‘But why are you wearing it?’ I turn back to the fridge.

‘Because I want to.’ She sounds exactly like the five-year-old I’d wanted to smack a minute ago.

I roll my eyes at her and she gives me a fake smile as she sits down at the kitchen table, careful not to let her gharara sweep the kitchen floor, which is spotless thanks to the efforts of Salma Apa.

Mom walks in just then and her eyes narrow when she sees what I am wearing.

‘Are you seriously coming to the restaurant like this?’ she asks, taking in the faded T-shirt and jeans that I had picked.

I look down at my clothes and then up at her. Mom is wearing an elegant saree with restrained bling, her hair done up in a stylish bun. I, on the other hand, looked like something the cat dragged in.

I stare at her for a minute, wondering what’s going on. She raises her eyebrows at me and I shrug.

‘What’s wrong with this?’ I ask.

‘It’s a fancy restaurant, Aliya. You should know by now that your dad will not be happy to see you dressed like this at such a place,’ she says, looking at Faria approvingly. Faria preens a little and I slink out of the kitchen.

‘I’ll change,’ I mutter on my way back upstairs, wishing for the umpteenth time that my parents were not so appearance obsessed.

Almost on autopilot, I change into a pale blue full-length chiffon outfit that is wispy and light. I brush my hair out and work on my eyeliner, making sure it’s winged and proper. Just as I finish putting on a coat of mascara, Faria walks in, glaring at my reflection in the mirror.

Faria is still mentally stuck at the age where she thinks that if she throws a big enough tantrum my parents will take whatever it is I have (and she wants) and hand it to her, just to shut her up.

‘That colour makes you look like an aunty,’ she says sulkily. I raise an eyebrow at her in the mirror. It does not and I know that. She walks past me in a huff.

Then, suddenly, I feel a crawling sensation down my back.

It’s a spider Faria has plucked from some corner of the wall and put on my back. I scream and throw my hairbrush at her. She dodges and laughs, happy that she has made me late. For someone as effortlessly sophisticated as her, it’s almost baffling that she doesn’t mind touching all forms of creepy-crawlies.

‘Come down soon!’ she gurgles as she runs downstairs. I peel off the outfit and throw it on the ground, before beginning my hunt for something else to wear.

Two

I have never said no to desserts and I don’t think I’m about to begin now because I intend to order dessert even if no one else wants any. In fact, we’re all looking at him impatiently, mentally urging him to hurry up. The waiter hovering at the table looks at us with an apologetic smile, as though Dad’s inability to make a quick decision is somehow his fault. I smile back at him automatically and he quickly brings us another menu card. Faria and I pore over the choices while Dad still strokes his moustache absent-mindedly, which he does when he’s thinking. It’s like he’s checking if that caterpillar of a moustache is still there.

‘Gajar ka halwa tarts?’ Faria asks, narrowing her eyes. ‘Well, that sounds so wrong on so many levels!’

‘Er…would you rather have a firni mousse?’ I ask. This restaurant’s Mughlai-with-a-modern-twist cuisine certainly sounds interesting.

I look around at the elite crowd around us. This restaurant has become the talk of the town within days of its opening. I have to admit, the people who run this place have everything sorted. With a strategic social media presence and effective word-of-mouth publicity, they have managed to garner a fiercely loyal clientele in just one month. It also helps that the place has an unusual name: B for Biryani.

When Dad had announced where we were going in the car, I had groaned loudly.

‘No! Not another biryani joint!’ I had protested, even though I knew I was being a bit unfair. Being in the food photography field, I’d already heard of B for Biryani and I knew it was not just another run-of-the-mill restaurant. It had already made a name for itself, with people turning up in droves to try its unusual Mughlai curries, its sophisticated desserts and, of course, its signature Biryani – so good it deserved a capital letter.

In fact, I can attest to it. Normally, we never order biryani at restaurants because no one makes it better than Salma Apa, but this place did not disappoint. In fact, no one spoke a word as we ate it all up, barring that one moment when I uttered a choked squeak because I spotted Dad trying to noisily suck the marrow out of a nice, juicy bone. I reached over and knocked it out of his hand and sat back immediately, pretending nothing had happened. I sometimes don’t know which is worse – Dad overdoing his sophisticated real-estate mogul act or the part when he forgets about it completely.

Yes, apart from that, it had been an uneventful dinner. I don’t know why Dad made such a big deal about this evening. Why he hired a driver for the night or why Mom insisted that we look prim and proper. In fact, Mom had looked at me with a great deal of approval in her eyes when I had come back downstairs wearing a royal blue anarkali. It was the kind of look that was usually reserved for Faria. My sister just glared at me – she didn’t know that I wore this anarkali only because it was the outfit with the least number of wrinkles.

‘I’ll have the chocolate gulab jamun,’ says Dad finally. The waiter nods and expectantly moves his gaze towards us. But before we can place an order, a man puts his hand on the waiter’s shoulder, gives him a cordial pat, and says, ‘I’ll take it from here, Dinesh. You go on in.’ The waiter’s eyes widen, and he nods and leaves.

Is he the head waiter or something? He doesn’t look like it. Dressed in a black shirt and jeans, with sleeves rolled up to reveal sexy forearms, this man looks like he’s just stepped out of the pages of a men’s fashion magazine. He smiles at us and I feel a tiny tingle inside me when his gaze lingers a second longer on me. Faria fidgets next to me, but I can’t look away from him.

Dad clears his throat and I turn to him. He looks at this man and smiles genially. Does he know him? Who is he? Dad gets up and shakes hands with him and turns to introduce him to all of us.

‘Ladies, meet Kamaaluddin. The owner of this wonderful new restaurant. Young man, you’ve done the community proud. This is an excellent restaurant. Excellent!’ Dad gives his hand another vigorous shake and sits down, asking him to join us.

Kamaaluddin? I think. Wow, what an old-fashioned name for such a…such a…good-looking guy. I find myself getting distracted every time I look at him.

‘Let me take your dessert order first,’ he says. I take an instant liking to him. He’s smart, decent-looking, has a nice voice, and owns a restaurant. What’s not to like, apart from his name? And I begin to think that he is similarly affected by me, when I realize that he’s looking at me expectantly, waiting for me to place my order.

‘What would you suggest?’ Faria asks, playing with her hair unnecessarily. I look at her from the corner of my eye. Obviously, Faria is feeling the same level of interest towards this guy as I am.

‘I’d recommend the gajar ka halwa tarts.’ Even though he’s replying to her, he seems to be addressing me.

‘Really?’

‘Really. You’ll have to try it to believe it,’ he says, flashing a charming smile.

‘I’m sold. I’ll have that,’ Faria says. I try not to roll my eyes at how obvious my younger sister is when it comes to flirting. But I’m not really in a position to judge. I’m no expert at flirting either.

‘No dessert for me,’ Mom says. Mom does this sometimes. She pretends like she’s watching her weight and talks a lot of nonsense about calories and excuses herself from having dessert. But then she’ll take a generous ‘sample’ of what we are having.

‘I am not giving you even a little bite from mine,’ I announce hotly and then blush when I realize Kamaal is still standing here. What would he think? Faria pinches my thigh in reminder and I glare at her.

‘Fine,’ Mom says, her smile a little forced.

‘What about you…sorry, I didn’t get your name,’ he says, looking at me. None of us have told him our names.

‘Aliya. I think I’ll have the gajar ka halwa tart too.’

‘Excellent choice. I’ll be back in two minutes,’ he says and turns to leave.

‘How do you know him?’ I ask Dad as soon as he’s gone.

‘Kamaal’s family is one of the biggest names in the real-estate industry, and he’s funding my dream construction project.’ Dad has always wanted to move in to the big leagues, and that wouldn’t happen unless he bagged a huge construction project – like building a gated community on the outskirts of Bangalore, as most builders were doing. He’s been dreaming of this for the longest time.

I look in the direction of the kitchen where Kamaal went. Kamaal is so much nicer than Kamaaluddin. Fresher, sexier, like the man himself, I think with a smile.

Out of the blue, Dad makes an announcement that sends my heart into overdrive: ‘He’s also Amina Asghar Khan’s nephew.’

Whoa! The famous cookbook writer? I look at Dad in shock. Everyone at home knows how much I adore her. She’s like a desi version of Nigella. If only someone would give her a cooking show too. I’m surprised she hasn’t got a YouTube channel yet.

I’m still processing this information when I realize that Mom is looking a little uneasy while Dad is shifting in his seat.

‘I know we said we’d wait for you to be ready, but we can’t be waiting forever, Aliya,’ Dad says softly. ‘Everyone wants to know why my daughter isn’t married yet.’

My stomach tightens. Dad has had this conversation with me a few times already. Every time I tell him I’m not ready to get married, he nods his head unhappily. It’s funny how I’ve stuck around with them for so long is because I worry about them while they, on the other hand, worry just about getting me married.

‘You’re going to be twenty-seven soon,’ Mom reminds me with a tight smile. I stare at the tablecloth until it begins to appear all fuzzy.

‘So, we got to know that they’re looking for a girl for Kamaal,’ Dad starts saying slowly.

‘Good, I’ll marry him,’ Faria interrupts. We all look at her in shock. Dad sputters.

‘I was joking,’ she says fiercely after a pause. ‘But you better try and find someone like him when it’s my turn.’

‘Chup!’ Mom shushes her because Kamaal is wa. . .