The Lives of Amrit, Multiple Persona

Image source: SVG Silh

Camping I

The short squat man walked over to the grill pit with his hands swinging from side to side. He did not so much walk on the sand as bounce in the way a tennis ball would down a hallway.

“Everyone’s got an idea about what barbecuing should look like,” he said to himself, hands wagging with higher frequency when he spoke. “No one respects the guy who is the chef.”

The grill was a portable type, sitting on the orange sand, with coals glowing still.

He pulled out one skewer from the coals, and held it up to the sun, not noticing that the rest of the camping party were watching him. All except one large harmless man who sat with his back to him.

Amrit walked over to the man, his bounce turning more into a stride, and put the skewer into his back, pushing until it poked out from the chest.

The large man yelled and turned around. His wife yelled at the dogs to sic the assailant. The dogs unfortunately were not trained for this and instead took shits.

Shopping

“Listen, the budget for the camping food is 300 Dhs,” the voice on the phone said.

“But bro that’s impossible with all the fresh masalas for the meat.”

“Use what you already have.”

“But I still need fennel and-“

“Use something else.”

“It will change the taste.”

“You’re a chef right?” the voice chuckled. “Improvise.”

Amrit put the phone in his tight pants and placed both arms on the extra large shopping cart. He glided over the linoleum floor and contemplated. The Safestway special offers which were more than the prices of regular items at other supermarkets, flitted by. So far there were only 2 lollipops, a small fruit juice and a mini pack of frozen nuggets in the cart.

Getting to the butcher section, Amrit puffed up his chest.

“Hey man,” he squeaked in the voice he had before puberty, “How much is the steak?”

Camping II

It was utter confusion. The larger man’s wife was still yelling. As the dogs were pooping, Amrit had stabbed one in the eye with the skewer.

As the wife screamed, Amrit now walked up and punched her in her ample side. It was only as she fell sideways that the remaining dog began barking.

Amrit walked away in slow motion, not realizing that this also slowed down his bounce so that he looked like a doughnut dropped into sugar syrup.

Suddenly he felt something wet on his elbow, moving slowly. Touching his elbow, he felt the part thin, part thick consistency of spit that had phlegm in it. Looking, he saw the trail went up his arm. He touched his neck and felt it coming down from the dip in the back of his head.

“Who did this?” he screamed out.

No one said anything. Amrit had no idea that his girlfriend had spat on him at the moment he had punched the wife, using his adrenaline moment against him.

Finances

Amrit stood with his hands clenched on his hips, his belly protruding slightly under his t-shirt.

“Now see here,” he said in a voice resembling Mickey Mouse’s. “We have to get your spending in line. I’m taking your credit cards.”

His girlfriend sat quietly on the bed, thinking about all the decisions she had made that led to this moment.

Amrit was sweating.

“No more eating out!” he said, taking off his shirt.

The girlfriend guffawed, failing to stop the laugh from getting out.

“Oh you can’t take me seriously?” Amrit continued. “Well how about now?” He lay down on his side on the sofa, forming a sort of jumbo overheated Coke-bottle shape.

His girlfriend was in a fit of laughter.

“You think about what I said,” Amrit said as he got up. “I’ll make dinner.”

There was no one in the room to tell them that the man who had no savings should not be the one in charge of expenditure.

Amrit stirred the mutton biryani that had been cooking for 8 hours.

Phthuu!

“What the hell?! Who spat?” Amrit said as he touched the back of his neck.

“No idea,” the girlfriend said.

There were only the two of them in the flat.

Camping: the Finale

Amrit woke up lying outside instead of in the tent. He did not remember falling on his stomach after crawling for several minutes, pretending to be a caterpillar on the verge of transforming into a butterfly.

He was at the bottom of the dune on which he had rolled when he came out of his tent after drinking his backup bottle of vodka. The tent was now gone.

“Wow guys that was a hell of a night,” he said as he sat up, scratching his belly.

The wind whistled. Everyone had packed up and left.

“Yeah, one hell of a night,” he said looking at where the grill pit was.

A tumbleweed rolled behind him.

The Kissing Case

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Image source: Emily B

Another day in court, another mess of cases. Dubai Courts was full of all kinds of weirdos. There was a woman who bit a policeman who asked for her ID. A man had exposed himself to a truck full of camels being transported through Nasr Square. And of course a client had farted on a masseuse in Barsha Heights – he had paid to fart but had discharged something oily as well.

It was after a whole day of this that Magistrate Hon. Esa Abdul Al Kalam took his seat in the afternoon with a sigh. He looked forward to retiring, scratching his shiny pate at the thought. For a man who had done nothing but listen to people’s issues with one another for 35 years, he had a surprisingly small paunch. The good judge EAAK had switched to all organic food and drinking aloe juices. His skin shone. The man had just one weakness – Malbari paratha spread with Nutella with Chips Oman sprinkled. The chip powder from his post lunch snack stuck to his immaculate short cut beard white and black beard.

“Third case for today’s docket,” the clerk announced from somewhere at the back of the courtroom, “Is…umm…”

EAAK looked up from his doodling to see a short squat fat man standing with his hands on his hips at the prosecution table. Across from him at the defense table were two men, both tall and oily looking. One had curly long hair and the other short just-as-waxy locks.

“I don’t know how to announce this,” the clerk half-shouted and whispered.

“No matter” the short man said, rubbing his hands together in front of his shirt that had rather large black buttons. “I can describe the whole thing, no problem. You will see, I am right.”

“And you are?” EAAK tried to match names from his summary.

“Just call me Amrit. Al Quoz ka-. Um, I mean, just call me Amrit.”

“Okay. And then these men are then Mohammad Tayeb and Ali Tariq?”

The one with curly long hair replied, “Naam mudhir. Salaam waleikum.”

EAAK waved his hand. He wanted to cut down any kind of sniveling for favouritism. Especially from Arabs. Most especially from these Algerian types that were barely Arabs.

“Okay tell me,” he said to the short fat guy.

“Ahem,” he started, closing his collar, just to have it pop open again. “I was going to Mohammad’s shop in Jumeira, near Le Mer. You might know the area. Very exclusive. I live in Jumeira too, at Javeetah…”

15 years ago EAAK would have asked for an explanation as to what was Javeetah. But these days he only cared to know about what impacted the case.

“…I got to his shop and he came out from the back. Before I could say hi and introduce myself, he rushed to me and started kissing my neck.”

“What?” EAAK had to interject here because this was not where he was expecting this to head.

“KISSING ME,” Amrit voiced loudly, pointing at his neck. “He then kept one hand on my collar, and put lipstick on with the other one. Then he-” At this point he ripped open the lower part of his shirt all the way up to his chest. Buttons bounced all over the tiles. “-began to kiss me on my stomach.”

Everyone in the court – judge, police, clerks and various other cases – all looked at the wheatish belly that had faint lipstick marks all over it.

“Mmmwoah, mmwoah,” Amrit made wet kissing sounds. “And then he called Ali, who came running and punched me in the side of the stomach,” Here he pulled back the partially open shirt to show the left side of his stomach, which had a reddish hue.

The whole court was pin drop silent as Amrit described and mimed out all of this.

“Fearing for my life, I ran out of the restaurant.” He began running around the courtroom, his belly peering out of his shirt which was still buttoned at the top. “I ran out of the complex and got close to my car. But that Ali threw a fish that I was carrying, which hit me. I fell on the road and scraped myself. Then Mohammad said ‘What man would want you now,?’ and walked away.” As he said this, he rolled back his sleeves and showed scrape marks on his arms.

Amrit finished his narrative and panted, sweating from the running.

No one spoke for minutes.

“Defense?”

Mohammad got up and shook his long locks. “First, look at this Amrit,” he began. “Who can blame me because he has those folds and baby soft skin.”

“True,” most of the court murmured.

“Second, this man is making this case for money,” Mohammad accused, pointing his finger. Ali next to him also pointed his finger at Amrit.

“I have to ask, why you make this case?” EAAK asked Amrit.

“I want money,” Amrit said, wiping sweat from his forehead.

EAAK looked down at his papers. He hated life all of a sudden. All he could think about was retiring to Kuwait, which had no Indians or Algerians. He tried to concentrate.

There was nothing wrong with wanting money from a harasser. But with a body like that, the accuser would always be a victim.

Waiting too long would make the court think he was hesitant and weak. He had to ask a question to buy time.

“Why did you go to Moahammad’s shop?”

“I was delivering fish.”

The story was getting weirder.

“Are you a Bengali?”

“No!” Amrit’s voice echoed through the court. “I mean, no. I am Brahmin Indian. Quite a catch for Hindu ladies.”

“But why you take fish there?”

“I work for a distributor. They needed it for barbecue.”

“They barbecue?”

“Yes.”

“Using indirect heat?”

“What is that?”

“Barbecue means cooking using indirect heat. If you mean direct heat, it is grilling.”

“Ah okay.” Amrit looked confused.

EAAK looked at his notes. “How can you be distributor but you don’t know what is barbecue?”

It was a throwaway question. But as he looked at his notes, he heard Amrit’s voice whispering I am a chef over and over. EAAK looked up to see Amrit running towards him with a knife in one hand and a spatula in the other.

 

The Pattan Anal Interest Group

“Thank you everyone for a good meeting,” the man in the green and golden salwar khameez said to the cozy room of 20 men all wearing various colours and types of salwar. “Abh jao mauj manao. Now go and have fun.”

Joyful murmurs went through the room, which was quite tastefully though precisely furnished to look like an early 20th century English library. However, all the books were painted into the walls.

“Ahmed Khan, aap to kitna aacha leader hain! You are such a good leader!” one voice said.

The man in the green and gold paused for a moment and then realized that it was he of the three Ahmed Khans in the room that was being addressed.

“Shukriya, shukriya.” He bowed and sat in the ample leather armchair and leaned back as he took the opium pipe.

The door to the room suddenly flew open as a new pattan hurried in. Wearing a rose salwar, he fell into the empty armchair with a sigh.

“Azar Khan, kuch problem? AIDS?” Ahmed Khan asked with concern, leaning forward.

“Nahin nahin,” Azar Khan replied, sighing. “Jishko mein gandh marna, wo to ganda admi hein. Mein quit kiyan. The guy I was banging, is a dirty man. I quit.”

“Kesse ganda? Hep C?”

“Nahin wo subh kuch nahin. Wo uska shadi mein ekh hathi ko jaan se maara. Nothing like that. He killed an elephant at his wedding.”

The whole room murmured why?

“Maalum nahin. Kuch trauma hein usko. Not sure. He has some trauma.”

The room kept murmuring. No one was smoking anymore.

“Aur wo mujko drugs dediya. Kitna ganda. Mein bola nahin. Par usko ekh din drugs ke bina nahin jee sakta. And he gave me drugs. So dirty. I said no. But for him he can’t live a day without drugs.”

“Drugs, chey!” Ahmed Khan said.

Azar Khan shook his head.

“Mujko kitna dirty feeling hein.”

Someone turned off the qawali music that was playing softly in the background.

“Ye kesse ho sakta. How could this happen,” Ahmed Khan said as he shook his head. “Aap jesse esteemed university lecturer ki saath. To an esteemed university lecturer like you.”

“Um kya?” Azar Khan looked up. “Mein to Meena Bazaar mein ekh labourer hoon. I’m a labourer in Meena Bazaar.”

The whole room erupted into whats?

“Kya?” Ahmed Khan exclaimed. “Hum sabh ethar university lecturers hain. We’re all lecturers here.”

From the back of his armchair, Ahmed Khan produced an Oxford University jacket and put it on over his salwar. Everyone else in the room produced various jackets and put them on. All except Azar Khan.

“I think you should leave,” Ahmed Khan said, suddenly using an English accent.

Where Have Job Interviews Come To?

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It was just another day of hiring at the company. True, it was an economic downturn; however, people did need to be replaced. So here they were – the HR team for one of the biggest multi-national food companies – sitting in the familiar white room with a white table shaped like an equilateral triangle so that they could be on one side with the interviewee at one corner. A lone rhododendron plant was the only other furnishing in the room, so as to prevent distractions.

Steve was dressed as always in navy blue, being a former officer in Her Majesty’s Navy. Colin wore a black suit with a green silk shirt. Byron of course, refusing to be low-key about his preferences, wore clitoris red, with shoes to match.

“Well then, shall we see in the next interviewee?” Byron asked, putting his pencil deftly between his fore and middle finger to further intimidate his colleagues.

“I do hope to see something better than everything so far,” Colin mused, looking away.

“Well the company does insist on paying peanuts for these sales positions,” Steve shrugged. “We’ll keep getting these sorts of people.” He turned to the intercom on the table. “Miss Sarmiento, would you call in Am…rit?”

“Bloody short, but hard to say,” Colin muttered.

“Same with that Sarmiento girl,” Byron agreed. “Those lot have such simple first names. Why do they have to make surnames so hard?”

Colin and Steve rolled their eyes, knowing full well Byron would have no trouble saying the name were it attached to a penis.

The white door opened to let in a small mall with an unbelievably large belly. The belly entered far before the rest of the body. Then came a man who looked more a boy than an adult of any sort. He had a bowl cut and a huge smile on his small face. As he walked forward, his arms swung from side to side.

Colin groaned quietly.

“Mr. Amrit?” Steve said, all professional. “Please have a seat.”

The man being addressed almost bounced into the seat.

“Hi guys!” he beamed as he shook their hands.

They made quick introductions. Colin was already crossing the name off his list by the time Steve asked the first question.

“So Mr. Amrit, tell us a bit about your sales strategy.”

“Do you guys know what four fish not to buy at Carrefour supermarket?”

They had all heard all kinds of unorthodox ways to begin interviews. However, not a one could imagine this leading to sales strategy.

“Which…ones?” Steve asked.

“Hammour…” he gleefully listed them.

And then silence.

“What does this have to do with a sales strategy?” Steve asked.

“This is prime information,” Amrit replied.

“It’s information that’s available on the internet,” Byron said. “So we know you know how to use a browser.”

The other two knew when Byron cut a man short, he meant business.

“I brought with me the chicken from my last work.”

“What?” Colin dropped his pen.

“It’s in my car. You can have it.”

“We don’t want it,” Steve scratched his head.

“You can add it to your inventory,” Amrit insisted, pulling out a bottle of water and taking a swig. A bead of sweat ran down his head.

“We can get you some water,” Steve said.

“No I want this one.”

“Okay.”

“Let’s switch gears,” Colin said. “What strengths do you bring to this position?”

“Ah,” Amrit sat up. “I have lots of experience in distributions sales, marketing in general and know food really well-”

At this point, all three men looked at the belly in front of them.

“-because I am a chef.”

“You’re a chef?” Byron cocked his eyebrows.

“Yes.”

“Where’s your red seal certification?”

Amrit suddenly was sweating as though he were Rocky in the final round.

“I lost it. But I was a chef at Excelsior Hotel.”

“Overseeing how many staff?”

“Just myself.”

“Ah,” Byron sat back. “That makes you a cook.”

“No!” Amrit stood up.

“So what did you cook?”

“I prepared the vegetables for all three meals and mesan plan.”

“That makes you not even a cook. You were a cutter,” Byron would not blink.

Amrit got up suddenly, throwing the chair aside. His eyes glowered.

“I am a chef. A chef…a chef.”

He moved shockingly quickly back towards the door and clicked it locked. Amrit then ran towards the table, falling half way there onto his left arm. Rolling sideways, he got up onto one knee and continued forward.

The three men were more incredulous about what was happening than scared.

Running around the one edge of the table, Amrit screamed a high pitched note. As he reached Byron with his left arm hanging like a noodle, he sort of jumped and fell on him.

Bryon fell with a scream as Amrit choked him with one hand. Using the other hand even though it was broken, Amrit pulled out Byron’s pocket square – the only non-red item on the man’s wardrobe – and tied it around his neck. Using one arm and wrapping his short but strong legs around his body, Amrit then pulled the pocket square as Byron gasped.

Both Colin and Steve scrambled away, both terrified and also slightly relieved because they disliked Byron. Colin had been urinating on the man’s car once a week for months.

As the last gasps came out from Byron’s throat, Amrit whispered, but in a loud voice:

“Hum hain Amrit. Al Quoz ka Amrit.”

---

“That’s a lovely story, but I’m not sure why you left in the part about urinating on Byron,” Charles said.

“Ah well, I was on a roll,” Colin said. “Anyway, it looks like this Amrit chap is going to come in for this interview.”

“What?” Charles was incredulous.

“He did spend just one year in jail since Byron was a you-know-what.”

“But why are we interviewing him? He’s a murderer and unqualified.”

“It turns out old boy that this chap goes about burning down any place that won’t interview him. If the job posting is online, he’ll apply. And by bloody hell you have to interview him.”

“It just seems like we should be able to call the police about this.”

“And say what? That a man who is the size of a small boy might murder someone here? They’d laugh.”

“But the burnings.”

“There’s no proof it was him. He’s always at some rave when they occur.”

“So we’re going to interview a murderer who is also an arsonist?”

“Yes,” Colin returned, reaching for the intercom. “Just don’t question him and you might just live through this interview.”

Combo Meals Cause Consternation

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Amrit the fun-loving criminal goes to the movies

Ah the movies: where the human imagination remains both parked and also at 5th gear. Specifically, people park their own imaginations and enjoy that of film makers they will likely never meet outside of some kind of drunken groping #MeToo hangover.

One fine day, Amrit and his girlfriend went to the movies. She had just gotten her salary, and so it was time to spend as much of it as possible in one go before it came time to fret about paying back loans and credit cards.

And so, Amrit and she walked happily into the theatre, forgetting their many troubles as they felt the weight of the grande popcorn sitting in a tray with the combo of samosas and spring rolls.

Finding the seats that they had paid full price for without even bothering to look for any offers, they settled in as the previews began.

No one ever waits for the feature before they begin eating. The girlfriend tucked into the popcorn, with Amrit just taking a few kernels since he had begun his road to losing some weight.

“Why aren’t you taking some samosa and rolls,” the girlfriend asked, staring at the screen.

“I’m taking the weight loss seriously,” Amrit replied cautiously.

He held his breath as the girlfriend picked up a spring roll and went crunch.

“Hello who is this?” a voice called out in the flickering dark.

Amrit sighed, almost deflating.

“Who?” it was an emirati man in full kandura in the balcony, who was standing up looking around.

“It was me,” the girlfriend said. “Why?”

“Oho a big girl,” the emirati said, pushing back part of his guttra. “What you do with spring roll samosa here biggie?”

The girlfriend was shocked. Spring roll hit carpet with a small crunch.

“You think this Indian cafeteria big girl? Having sambar.”

“Why I never.”

The girlfriend was poking Amrit, He sighed again and got up.

“You can’t speak to my baby like that,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Aye fatty bombolati,” the emirati said. “Oh, shorty bombalati. No shame? Shorter than girldfriend.”

Amrit was sweating heavily.

“Aye fatty you want to get deport? I deport you today. Five minutes, back to Delhi.”

“Maybe we can just ignore him,” Amrit said as he sat in a pool of his own sweat.

“Ah you like to sweat? Party harty? I no deport you. I close all your parties.”

Amrit was terrified. Not having party spots to sweat away was far worse than deportation.

By this time the feature was beginning. People shushed all through the hall.

“You shush? You want to be deport?” the emirati asked. “Who want deport? Who?”

The man took out a machine shaped like a portable debit reader.

“I deport in 5 minutes,” he said. “Show Emirates ID, deport.”

The theatre fell into silence.

The emirati pulled up his chest and looked around carefully before he sat down, wagging his finger at the whole theatre.

Two Parties in One Flat

With a wedding like that, the house parties had to look like this.

On a hot as kettles in a madman’s house evening, a party of sorts was taking place in a flat at Jumeira Village Circle, referred to by Dubai-icans as JVC for short. No one ever mistook this for the popular Blu-ray player company.

Inside a brand new building 9 people were gathered in a studio flat, all looking at the hostess – a larger lady who seemed to be looking around herself for someone.

“Daarling, where is Amrit?” one of the guests asked.

The guests were mostly white or that sort of north Indian that could pass for white with enough imagination. All the men wore buttoned shirts of pastel colours with jumpers tied around their necks. Some, as if to dare God, wore cravats under their scarves, and hand kerchiefs tied around their necks. All wore some kind of khaki shorts. The women wore summer dresses, some that were far too tight for their figures.

“I have no idea,” the hostess said as she looked at her watch that had been gifted to her by Amrit. It was a brand with a name like the sound of an Italian vomiting on a Malbari – Cuchina or Contino. “He said he would be back an hour ago. He’s supposed to be bringing some things to make. So sorry about the lack of appies.”

“Daarling, don’t worry,” replied one of the interchangeable women.

Right then, a round man burst through the door like he was going to fight someone in the room. After getting up from the floor, the man flicked back his sweaty hair that looked as if he had been punched in a grueling 5-round boxing match. His body however did not look like it had been anywhere near a ring.

“Hey babe,” the man said to the hostess.

“Amrit, where have you been?”

“And why all that lower class sweat?” someone murmured.

“I don’t want to come back home and get yelled at!” Amrit yelled. “I’ll be outside.”

He huffed over to the balcony door and threw it open. Rushing out in order to not change his mind as the humid heat welcomed him, he clicked on the stereo sitting in the corner. Loud psi-trance music filled the muggy air and he began dancing in his work clothes.

“Arey Amrit aap aaya?” a voice downstairs shouted. “Rukh, mein bhi aoonga.”

It was a pattan who had been working all day on the nearby construction site.

Inside, smooth jazz was playing as the hostess put her hand to her forehead. She took some deep breaths and seemed to be ready to open her eyes when a knock was heard. She kept her eyes shut tightly as a guest went over and opened the door.

The pattan walked in and through the flat like he had taken that path many times before. His eyes were fixed on the figure dancing outside. For a moment the psi-trance music invaded the jazz as the door opened.

“Who is that man?” a woman asked.

“I don’t even know his name,” the hostess sighed, opening her eyes. “He comes over, dances with Amrit, and then gives him a bath.”

“What the hell?” almost every else in the room said in unison.

Outside, the pattan was opening a can of Red Horse extra strong beer alongside Amrit. As they both danced, the pattan cupped Amrit’s balls from behind.

“Leave me and let me dance,” Amrit said in an effort to be left unmolested while not incensing the pattan.

The pattan moved his hand away, and then bit Amrit on his fleshy back.

“Aaaa why!!!” Amrit yelled.

“Kyunki tu to meri pagli hein,” the pattan said, blushing.

“I am not,” Amrit insisted.

“Okay, okay, to aon mujko hug dedho. Galle lagao.”

Amrit and the pattan hugged it out. They would party late into the morning, until Amrit fell asleep on the balcony wearing just his briefs, which would by then be stained brown with sweat.