Served with Love Read online

  To Mama, for teaching me time;

  for Acchacchan,

  I don’t remember you, but if I were to imagine you, I’m sure you’d

  have been like Abhimanyu’s grandfather;

  and for Ammacchan;

  I know you’re looking out for me from wherever you are,

  I miss you

  Contents

  Prologue

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Prologue

  ‘Rajeev, why are you being so difficult about this?’ For the life of her, Pakhi couldn’t understand why her fiancé wasn’t onboard with her plan.

  ‘She has no one except my father and me,’ she pleaded.

  ‘I don’t care. You have your job here – being an assistant chef at the Leela Palace, Bengaluru, is no joke! You can’t just give that up and move back to Mumbai. Put her in a bloody orphanage if you have to,’ came Rajeev’s cold response.

  In the middle of the overcrowded Richmond Road, in the heart of Bengaluru, Pakhi looked up at the man whom she had believed she loved with all her heart. Now, all at once, she felt nothing. All she saw was a cold-hearted and self-centred man.

  ‘Thank you, Rajeev. Thank you for making this easier for me,’ she said and turned to walk away from him when he caught her right arm in a vice-like grip.

  ‘What the hell are you on about, Pakhi?’ he demanded, his eyes flashing fire.

  Pakhi, however, didn’t cower under his temper. She realized she didn’t need to anymore. She shook her arm free of his grip and said, ‘I’m done with you, Rajeev. You can only ever think of yourself and I want nothing more to do with you.’ She looked up into his dark, muddy brown eyes. Her own eyes had turned into dark brown chips of ice.

  ‘You bitch!’

  ‘Yeah, you know what? I am one. And you know something else? You’re the only one who brings it out in me. Goodbye, Rajeev Ramaswamy. I wish I could say it was nice knowing you.’

  And with that, Pakhi turned and walked away from him.

  ‘This is not over, Pakhi Mehra,’ Rajeev muttered to himself and walked back to his office building.

  1

  Fourteen months later

  ‘A bhi!’ Pakhi called out to her three-year-old niece as she drew a ketchup smiley on a sandwich. She placed the sandwich carefully into a blue Cinderella snack-box and put it on the kitchen counter, right next to a matching blue Cinderella water bottle.

  ‘Abhi, c’mon, beta! We are going to be late for school,’ she called out. The little girl came waddling into the kitchen, wearing a blue pinafore with a white T-shirt.

  ‘Ooaa!’ she squealed as she launched herself into Pakhi’s arms. Abhithi, or Abhi as she was lovingly called, was her brother Sanjay’s daughter and had been left in Pakhi and her father’s care. Sanjay and his wife Shefali had died in a road accident on the Mumbai–Pune Expressway almost a year and a half ago. Their little girl had been the sole survivor of the collision with an oil tanker.

  Pakhi smiled at Abhi who was now clinging to her legs and fervently protesting against going to school. Scooping her up, Pakhi kissed her on the cheek, careful not to touch the scar that ran down the left side of her face – it still hurt her every now and then. The doctors had assured Pakhi that the scar would eventually fade and the pain was only temporary.

  ‘Ooaa, I no go,’ she whispered softly into her aunt’s ear and wrapped her arms around Pakhi’s neck.

  Pakhi almost melted. The letter ‘B’ still hadn’t made it to Abhi’s vocabulary. Pakhi was her bua, her father’s sister, and Abhi called her ‘Ooaa’. She looked into the sea-blue eyes of her darling girl, which she had inherited from her mother and realized she would just have to give in.

  Sighing as she relented, she said, ‘OK, Abhi. No go.’

  The hug that came as Abhi’s response was the best thing in the world. Pakhi loved Abhi like her own daughter. There wasn’t anything she wouldn’t do for her, which was perhaps why at twenty-six, she had quit her job at the Leela in Bengaluru and returned to Mumbai. Her career wasn’t her priority anymore. Only this bundle of joy mattered now.

  She set Abhi on the kitchen counter, tried to put on her best strict face and said, ‘Last time. OK?’

  ‘Okiiii,’ Abhi squealed happily, shaking her legs as an indication that she wanted to get off the counter.

  Pakhi laughed softly and said, ‘Let’s go see what Dadu is up to.’

  Dadu was sitting at his desk, hammering away at the typewriter. Pakhi’s father was a retired school principal and now wrote books for children. He was currently working on a book about a little girl who had a blue butterfly for a pet. It had been Pakhi’s favourite story as a child and she loved the additions her father had made with Abhithi’s arrival.

  Abhi’s excited ‘Daduuuuuu’ was all the old man needed to set aside his typewriter and pull his granddaughter into his arms.

  ‘Arre, my princess is ready for school. Good girl.’

  ‘No, Dadu,’ she shook her head and her short black curls went flying about. ‘Ooaa said no school.’

  Pakhi sighed at how conveniently the little minx had made it sound like it was her idea to bunk school.

  ‘Yes, we can have some fun today,’ she said.

  Abhi looked at her aunt, her eyes full of immeasurable excitement. ‘We go to sand place, Ooaa?’

  The beach was Abhi’s sand place.

  ‘No, darling. Ooaa has some work in the afternoon.’ As she said those words she saw Abhi’s face fall and quickly added, ‘But we can go to the sand place after that, in the evening. OK?’

  ‘Yaaayyyyyy!’ Abhi screamed into her grandfather’s ear who immediately set her down on his desk and began to rub the offended area.

  ‘Abhi, you nearly tore my eardrum,’ he complained to the little girl who promptly asked, ‘What is eedwum, Dadu?’

  The old man threw his head back and laughed loudly. Abhi was confused for a second. She looked to her aunt for an answer. In turn, Pakhi threw her head back and started laughing too.

  ‘How difficult is it to make a tandoori pomfret? It’s not like I’m asking you to climb Mount Everest!’

  Chef Abhimanyu Dev was trying very hard to remain calm. But this was now a crisis. This was the sixth time in three weeks that he was going to have to fire his sous-chef – and he didn’t like it one bit. But this new guy didn’t even know the difference between salmon and pomfret! Not only would he have to fire him, but he would also have to put yet another pointless advertisement in the newspapers. The only respondents he ever got were worthless idiots. It was time to go back to the drawing board. Dammit!

  Abhimanyu was the Head Chef at Spicy Tango, the Indian restaurant at one of the most luxurious hotels in Mumbai, Dev Intercontinental. The first hotel was started in 1953 by his grandfather Pratap Dev. Today, Dev Intercontinental had properties in cities like Mumbai, Bengaluru, Kochi and Lucknow with Delhi, Jaipur, and Kolkata joining the list after Abhimanyu had taken over the business, once Pratap Dev had retired. However, his grandfather’s legacy and greatest gift was not the hotel business but his love for food.

  ‘You’re lucky that you haven’t become fat, Abhi,’ his grandfather teased him that night over dinner at home. ‘Otherwise, I will never be able to find a girl for you,
’ the old man chuckled.

  Abhi kissed his grandfather on the top of his head and said, ‘If I become fat, will you promise to stop hounding me about getting married?’

  ‘No. That’s all I have to look forward to now. I want to see my great-grandchildren before I die,’ he said softly, his voice tender with emotion.

  ‘So, basically you want great-grandchildren. Why do I have to get married to give them to you?’ Abhi joined in the banter.

  ‘Ha ha … you think you’re very funny,’ his grandfather countered sarcastically.

  ‘Yes, well, you’re the one who started it. Anyway,’ he looked at his watch and realized that it was nearly 2 a.m. ‘Haven’t I told you a gazillion times that you shouldn’t wait up for me?’ he admonished his ninety-six-year-old grandfather.

  ‘And haven’t I told you that I cannot sleep till the time you get home?’ his grandfather responded fittingly.

  At times like these, Abhimanyu had to remind himself that he was almost forty-three years old, and not the nineteen-year-old boy his grandfather thought he was. But he loved the old man dearly.

  He had come to live with his grandfather when he was only six years old. Both his parents had died in a boating accident, and Abhimanyu had been rescued from drowning by the coast guards. His grandfather had brought him up in a no-nonsense manner, but he also did occasionally indulge Abhimanyu. After all, he was the only grandson!

  Growing up, Abhimanyu had had a tough time coming to terms with the death of his parents. It had taken all his grandfather’s efforts to pull him out of the abyss he had been determined to fall into, and finally make something of himself.

  But there were still times, when those memories came back. The gushing waves, the loud howling winds, the burning sensation in his eyes and the back of his throat as he fell deeper into the saltwater. It all came back. He’d tried many times to overcome his fear of the water. But nothing ever worked.

  For the thousandth time Pakhi rechecked her folder to see whether she had all her certificates and documents. Abhithi sat on the kitchen counter with her legs crossed, her elbows resting on her thighs and her chin in her cupped hands watching her aunt flit around the kitchen.

  ‘Ooaa is going to be late, Abhi,’ Pakhi said breathlessly. ‘You have to be a good girl and not trouble Dadu, OK? Will you promise Ooaa?’ she cooed, while tucking a soft, black curl behind Abhi’s ear.

  Abhi nodded and Pakhi set her down. Together they walked into her father’s room. ‘Papa, will you two be OK? Should I cancel the interview? It’s OK? I think I’ll stay home,’ Pakhi muttered, even more breathlessly.

  Her father raised a hand to soothe his daughter’s anxiety. ‘Pakhi, go, beta. You need this. Abhi and I will be fine,’ he said in a placating tone. He picked his granddaughter up and said, ‘Abhi and Dadu are going to the park.’

  Just hearing that got the little girl into such a tizzy that she started waving her arms and almost knocked her grandfather’s glasses off in the process.

  Righting his glasses, he turned to his daughter and said, ‘Go.’

  Pakhi sighed. She kissed Abhi on her cheek and left. She wondered how her father, the formidable Principal Mehra, who once had a reputation for being a hard taskmaster, had managed to fall under the spell of a three-year-old. But then again, Abhi was precious. No one could resist her.

  Abhimanyu tossed his mobile phone onto one of the counters as he entered his kitchen. Damn women! He hated how some of them thought they could get away with anything by just batting their eyelids and swaying their hips provocatively. He’d known women who were different, who were more concerned about economics and public policy, rather than just getting free publicity. So it was a little disconcerting that his girlfriend, no, correction: his ex-girlfriend, and one of India’s top supermodels, Tamara Chopra thought she could get away with posting somewhat provocative photos on the internet.

  ‘It’s just some publicity, Abhi baby,’ she had whispered breathlessly into the phone when he had called her that morning to give her a piece of his mind.

  The newspapers and social media had been abuzz that morning with the new headline – ‘Chef’s Model Girlfriend in Publicity Soup’.

  Even his grandfather, who normally refrained from commenting on his personal life, had said, ‘This is not good, Abhimanyu.’

  Abhi had immediately broken off the relationship. He didn’t even have the heart to do it personally. So he sent flowers over to her flat, with a note – This is not going to work out, Tamara.

  He knew he should have delivered the message in person. But he wouldn’t be able to take another minute of being called ‘Abhi baby’.

  As he was putting on his apron and going over the specials for the day with his staff, the manager of the restaurant, Rajat Shergill, walked into the kitchen.

  ‘Chef, you have three candidates lined up for today.’

  Abhi let out an exasperated sigh in anticipation of what was to come. ‘Are they any good, Rajat?’

  ‘Yes, one of them seems pretty good. She has an interesting CV for someone who is twenty-seven-years-old, although she hasn’t worked anywhere in the last fifteen months,’ he said plainly, knowing what would come next.

  ‘What? She hasn’t worked in fifteen months?’ Abhi stormed, and the other chefs retreated a few steps, as did Rajat.

  ‘Well, yes, Chef,’ he tried to say, but Abhi held up his hand.

  ‘Tell her to leave. She is obviously not suitable for this position. And tell the other two that I will be out in ten minutes,’ he finished.

  2

  Pakhi couldn’t understand what had just happened now. It had been only ten minutes since she had arrived and been asked to sit in the waiting lounge when the manager, a man who looked to be in his mid- to late-forties came back and told her that she was not suitable for the post.

  ‘Ms Mehra, you’ve been away from the kitchens for fifteen months,’ he said, in an attempt to explain her rejection.

  Her face fell and her heart broke because without even looking at her or her certificates she had been rejected. She got up and gathered her bag and folder. The other two candidates smirked at her as she walked out of the lounge and into the hotel lobby.

  She sat down on one of the plush cream sofas in a small alcove annexed to the lobby, right next to the reception. When she had first entered the hotel, she hadn’t noticed her surroundings in her nervousness. She took out a bottle of water from her bag. The lobby had flawless white marble flooring, and was further brightened by the eclectically designed furniture and light fittings, and a small table with a basket of white and yellow carnations every couple of feet. But all of this did nothing for Pakhi’s frayed nerves. She had half a mind to go back and give the Head Chef of the restaurant a piece of her mind. How could he have rejected her without talking to her? Or even looking at her credentials? Odious man!

  She had to find a job quickly. Her savings were almost depleted and she didn’t want her father to dip into his.

  She decided to call her father and say that she would be home sooner than expected – she could take Abhi to the park. But she couldn’t find her phone in her bag. Realizing that there was no need to panic, she calmly went over the last fifteen minutes that had passed and figured that she must have dropped her phone at the restaurant in her haste to leave. She turned dejectedly and started to make her way back to the restaurant, cursing the chef as she walked.

  ‘So you’re telling me you can add seasoning to the stock and that the only way to determine the flavour of garlic or cheese is to smell it? Seriously? What culinary school did you go to?’ Or did you even go to culinary school? Abhimanyu wondered.

  He was ready to stick a fork in this particular applicant’s eye. The guy was twenty-five years old with bulging muscles, dressed in a tight yellow T-shirt with light-blue ripped jeans and purple Converse shoes. Anyone would have thought he was auditioning for a role in a bad Hindi soap. God!

  ‘Well, yeah. Cheese smells gross, dude. But it tastes p
retty good,’ the guy added.

  Putting his pen down, Abhi pushed his chair back and stood up. The young Mr Roy also clumsily stood up, spilling orange juice on to the pristine white cloth. Abhi would have committed murder right then, but his grandfather would be alone if he went away to jail. That was the only reason he didn’t haul Mr Roy to the kitchen and stick his head inside the tandoor.

  Instead, he put on a brittle smile and said, ‘Thank you, Mr Roy. We will be in touch.’

  The moment the younger man walked out of sight, Abhi sat back in his chair and began massaging his temples. Rajat appeared with a glass of chilled water. ‘Rajat, seriously? These were the candidates? God! This last moron didn’t know anything about seasoning the stock and believes the only way to determine the flavour of garlic is to smell it, even though it tastes gross!’

  Rajat sat down opposite Abhi and fiddled with a long-stemmed white rose in the thin vase on the table. He started to speak, but a soft and husky voice stopped him.

  ‘In order to ascertain the flavour of garlic, you should hold your nose and put a small morsel of the dish on your tongue. Then rub it against the roof of your mouth. Now let go of your nose and breathe in. You can easily taste the flavours as they just burst in your mouth and even your nose. And you mustn’t add seasoning to the stock because you will most likely season the final dish anyway.’

  Abhi whipped around to see who had spoken those words. Barely five feet tall with her black hair scraped back into a tight knot stood Abhi’s answer to all his questions. She was curvy and was dressed in a plain cream kurta with a bottle-green churidar and gold Kolhapuri chappals. A green-and-yellow bandhini dupatta was draped across her shoulders, but it did nothing to hide her ample breasts. Abhi was trying hard to think of a word other than ample, but nothing came to mind. In her ears, she wore small gold hoops. She had a small diamond nose pin, and her forehead sported a bindi in the same shade of bottle green.

  ‘And you are?’ he asked, with a big smile on his face.