“See I'm a dreamer, man, and when I was a cook I'd always work with people who weren't dreamers. Like, I was cooking at this restaurant and I put a hot dog on the grill and my kitchen manager came over, and he said, "Mitch, put the hot dog up here, in the right hand corner of the grill, so in case you get a whole bunch of orders at once you have all this space available." See that's how I knew he wasn't a dreamer, 'cause the day I give up my dreams is the day I have strategic grill locations. A dreamer has a philosophy: The entire grill is hot.”
-Mitch Hedberg
I come out of the laundry room looking and feeling like I’ve just survived the boardwalk log flume. I’m wet, I’m soapy – the perfect solution? Head to the kitchen to dry off.
“Auntie! Auntie!” Roma comes running. I always feel strange when she calls me auntie. She must be at least seventy, which in India is old enough to be my great grandmother. She’s just under five feet, and skinny skinny skinny. Her eyes – big, sparkly – are enlarged by thick glasses, giving her the almost comic appearance of a cartoon character. She seems to always forget that I know Hindi, making high pitched noises to indicate things until I remind her I can speak. And then she won’t stop talking.
“You know, I am Bengali. Bengali. Yes I am. I moved here in 1972 from Kolkata, which is when I got married, 1972, in Kolkata, which is in Bengal. I am Bengali. Where do you live now? A family? Named what? Agrawal? Hm. Not Bengali. SO many mosquitos this morning. SO many.” And this next part she attempts to say in English, her eyes, if possible, growing even larger, “Moskweetoe! Moskweetoe! Moskweetoe! Moskweetoe! Baap arey baap! 10:45! Chapati time!”
She shows me how to make long snakes out of the dough, break pieces off of these, form them into balls, then roll them out into thin circles. A half hour later, I’m delegated to the grill, with Soni, another girl who works there full time.
I drape the thin, small circles on my palm like pizza dough, then send them through the air to their perfect destination. I master the aerodynamics of the tricky chapati, with each attempt, perfecting my throw: less frisbee, more shotput.
Soni and I work in a harmonic unison. I throw down some chapati, she shifts the browning, bubbling breads over, and I pop some more in their place.
Growing tired, my partner recruits another woman to help in the flipping. This newcomer is a resident of the Mother Teresa house. It’s never easy to say exactly why someone is there – maybe they have leprosy, are mentally challenged, have some sort of deformity. Anyway, this woman has her hair cut very short, goes around doing what she’s told. I’ve never seen her laugh, or even smile. Never heard her speak.
Soni is impatient. “Suneeta, move them quickly! Hey! Hey, Suneeta, you listening to me? Is the grill making you too hot? You need to think about where you’re putting the roti – hey, Suneeta, you listening to me? Why’d you put these chapati here? There’s no room for the next batch.” She pinched Suneeta’s ear.
I laughed to myself, remembering Mitch. Suneeta might be quiet, but she’s definitely a dreamer.
Friday, March 19
Tuesday, March 2
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