Can You Hear the Nightbird Call? by Anita Rau Badami Page A

became the first man in space. It was also a banner year for Pa-ji and Bibi-ji, who finally opened their restaurant, The Delhi Junction Café—realizing yet another of Bibi-ji’s ambitions.
    Now here she was, six years later on a busy Saturday afternoon at The Delhi Junction, snapping a rubber band around a box of fresh samosas.
    “One dollar, please,” she said, pushing the box across the counter to the waiting customer.
    Another customer took his place with a request for chholey-bhaturey, followed by a woman who placed a large order for lamb curry. There was a lull in the traffic at the counter after she left. With a sigh of relief, Bibi-ji eased herself on to the bar stool and worked her shoes off her feet, wishing she had not worn the pointed green heels today. If the steady stream of customers was any indication, it would be another busy Saturday and she would be on her feet for a while. Not that she minded. A full restaurant was a good thing—yes, a very good thing indeed. She surveyed with satisfaction the crowded tables and the waiters running in and out of the kitchen carrying loaded trays. Her eyes fell on Colonel Samuel Hunt, ex-British India army, one of the regulars and the only gora in a sea of brown-skinned desis, deliberating over the brief menu before ordering, as always, the same items—mutton curry with naan and a pint of lager to wash it all down. In the six years since the restaurant had opened, Samuel Hunt had become known for his uncomplimentary sentiments towards immigrants who did not share his racial heritage—a fact that used to aggravate Bibi-ji no end, until she came to see him as a sad old man whose eyes and ears were so sealed by his skin that he could neither witness nor understand the changing world. But whatever his feelings towards the desis who gathered at The Delhi Junction, Sam Hunt could not resist their food. After twenty-five years in India, the old man had developed a taste for curries. The taste became a craving once a week, which was when he marched over to The Delhi Junction. There was also,perhaps, an unacknowledged need to mingle with the people who had surrounded him for a quarter of a century, to argue with them, to hear the mixture of languages, to smell familiar smells. In short, Bibi-ji realized with some amusement, Samuel Hunt, the Englishman transplanted to Canada, was doing the splits between two cultures, just like the desis were.
    Now she was relieved to see that he was being served by one of her more seasoned waiters, for the old India hand was crusty and reduced the less experienced waiters to nervous wrecks with his demands.
    “Hot, hotter, hottest, Colonel-ji?” the waiter asked politely, as he had been taught by Bibi-ji.
    Sam Hunt considered the question for a few moments, as if it were the first time he had heard it, and said, “The hotter, I think, or perhaps … no, on second thought, the hottest.”
    Bibi-ji smiled and looked away. Sometimes it was hard to believe that things had turned out exactly the way she had planned. It had started in 1958, when they purchased a small house on 56th Avenue. She and Pa-ji had rented out the apartment above the grocery store and then, in 1961, had leased out the store as well and bought this property on the corner of Main Street and 49th Avenue. It had once been a shop that sold sewing machines and had large display windows on three sides. On the left was a gas station, to the right was Mrs. Wu’s vegetable store, and across the road was a row of small shops selling, among other things, fabrics, groceries and baked goods. Not much, she had said to Pa-ji at the time.
    “But don’t worry,” Lalloo had advised in his Punjabi-accented English. “Locationn. Locationn. Locationn. I am telling you, Bibi-ji,” he added, as if he, not she, had discovered the place, “you wait and see, in a few more years this area will be booming.” Lalloo had evolved from an awkward turbaned youth to a man about town. He had set