While travelling by local trains, or ‘locals’ in
Bombay, one gets to meet a wide cast of characters. The quiet ones. The serial
mutterers. The bhajan singers. The card sharps. The scammers. The
‘let-me-use-your-shoulder-as-a-pillow’ sleep addicts. The newspaper snatchers.
The nose miners. It was like a daily lottery. If I found myself next to a quiet one,
I’d mentally high-five myself. The most feared amongst these were the talkers.
Let me give you an example. You had a long day. Maybe you are looking at a working
weekend. Your spirits are low. Understandably tired, and more than a bit uncomfortable
because you have been wearing tight jeans all day long. You just want to reach
home. You caught the 20:15 Andheri slow. You manage to slide into the only
empty seat in the compartment. Your weary bottom sighs with relief as it comes
into contact with the seat. You find your eyes closing involuntarily. You are
just about to surrender yourself to 30 minutes of merciful sleep. And then you
find a finger jabbing your rib cage. Your eyes fly open and you find yourself staring into the eyes of a talker. For the remaining
part of your journey, you will be answering one inane question after another.
Long day? Is that new film starring Uday Chopra worth a watch? Do you want to
know why the boss’s secretary arranged for Pepsi to be served at our monthly
meeting instead of Coke? Do you have life insurance? Actually, even if you answer in
monosyllables, it’s fine. A talker just needs an audience. The question is just
a ploy for him to start talking.
I ended up sitting next to one such talker once. After a rather frustrating and long day too. He was dressed in a sherwani that
could have given stiff competition to the shiny decor of Daisy Bar, our agency’s
favourite watering hole. The talker was regaling his more soberly dressed companions
with his exploits at a wedding they attended. How he ensured everything happened
smoothly. But forget about having the decency to offer him a taxi ride
back home; they didn't even offer him a second glass of Rooh Afza. He was hurt. But, this is life. You do good. But don't expect
anything back in return. Saying this, he turned his attention to me. Usually my
modus operandi in these situations is to sport a glazed look, sniff repeatedly,
and ask for money. That shuts them up. Maybe because I had a day in which a
client was breathing down my neck ramming his unpalatable ideas down my throat,
I decided enough is enough. It was time to throw caution to the winds. Live
life dangerously, I thought. Take on a talker. The opening gambit was predictably
silly.
‘Where are you going?’ Mr. Sherwani Kumar beamed
at me.
‘To Mannat.’ I replied with a touch of aplomb.
To the uninitiated, Mannat is the residence of
the king of Bollywood, Shah Rukh Khan. Every Mumbaikar knows the residences of
big film stars by their names. Jalsa, for example, is Amitabh Bachchan’s
residence. Salman Khan lives in Galaxy Apartments. I had judged Sherwani Kumar
rightly to be a big Bollywood fan. Who isn’t, actually? The bait was taken. Sherwani
looked disbelievingly at me.
‘Shah Rukh’s Mannat?’
‘How many other Mannat’s do you know?’ An
attitude helps to lend credence to facts being stated.
‘At this hour?’
‘These are stars, my friend. They snap their
fingers and we come running.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘I am part of the kitchen staff. I am a Taste
Master’
Befuddled looks all around. Now Sherwani Kumar is
obviously a know-it-all. So, it took a lot of courage to ask the next question.
‘What does a Taste Master do?
I looked at him, a bit haughtily.
‘Shah Rukh and I have similar taste buds.
Whatever is spicy for me is spicy for him. If I find something salty, rest
assured, he would also find it salty. So, whatever food is cooked in the
kitchen, first I need to taste it, give my approval and only then it’s served
to Shah Rukh. Even Gauri goes by my recommendation. The other day, she made
kheer and I told her that’s too sweet. And she didn’t serve it.’
Sherwani Kumar didn’t know what to say. His
companions were staring at me open-mouthed. He quickly glanced at his
companions with a look that indicated ‘don’t worry, I will figure this fraud
out. Taste Master, eh!’
He desperately tried to get the spotlight back to
him by questioning my official status.
‘But I have never heard of taste masters before.’
I shot back.
‘Do you work with film stars, my friend? If
emperors and kings had personal tasters, can’t the Badshah of Bollywood have a
personal taster of his own?’
Sherwani Kumar stared out of the window the rest
of the journey. I hardly could stop myself from exulting with joy.
It really felt good to silence a talker.