All You Can Eat - Chapter 3
Atithi Devo Bhava
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She doesn’t eat. She consumes.
I withdrew from my college courses. I had already missed six weeks, and even though I had initially been given a medically excused absence after my mother’s injury, there was no way I could catch up and still keep my shifts at the restaurant. The days of doing homework at the host station were long gone.
My parents protested my decision at first, holding onto optimism that the Brahma-Rakshasa would soon move on and life would go back to normal. But ultimately, they agreed it was my decision to make. I decided that I would return to school next semester, assuming we weren’t still feeding her around the clock.
Even though I dropped out, Avi and Sanjay continued with their schooling. Sanjay was a senior and months from graduating. Avi was only a sophomore, so a prolonged absence might arouse suspicion and draw unwanted attention to the restaurant.
Not that we were lacking attention. We were now taking reservations due to the overwhelming popularity of our restaurant. There was a line when we opened at eleven and a line when we closed every night. We even received an inquiry from Guy Fieri’s producer about filming a segment of his show at our restaurant. Dad turned it down, obviously; demons and FlavorTown don’t mix.
How gaining the Brahma-Rakshasa’s favor had translated into more customers was beyond my comprehension, but there was no other explanation for our spike in business. I didn’t question it; I had already learned that lesson the hard way after what happened to my mother.
We split the schedule so Uncle Samir and I worked the day shift while Mom and Dad covered the night. Avi and Sanjay worked relief shifts in the mornings before school and again in the evenings after they finished school and homework.
I wasn’t happy about working with Uncle Samir. I still blamed him for putting us in this situation. It was here because he invited it. But staying busy meant we could avoid speaking to one another.
Although he never spoke to me, Uncle Samir and the Brahma-Rakshasa spoke to one another like old friends. He greeted her every day when his shift started with a bow and a smile, showering her with praise and adoration. She would smile back at him, and they would chat as if everything were normal.
It wasn’t just my uncle. She would frequently ask my mother to sit with her and talk about life back in India before she came to America. She would ask Avi and Sanjay about school. She would sit with father and talk to him about his recipes. She spoke with everyone; everyone except me.
I was fine with not having to sit with her. I hated her, and I hated how my parents and uncle catered to this creature’s needs so willfully.
Not having to sit with her also meant I could avoid smelling her up close. She had taken on a new odor from the crusted lines of dried food that accumulated in the folds of her pantsuit as she ate. The acrid sour smell fought to overtake the garam masala and curry spices from the buffet table. At a shift change one night in the kitchen, I suggested to Dad that we try moving her to a new booth so the smell wouldn’t bother the other customers.
“We do not want to upset her again,” he said. “We are in her debt, so she is an honored guest.”
“An honored guest who smells like soured milk-”
“Quiet, girl!”
He raised his hand like he was going to backhand me across the face. I locked eyes with my father, but instead of anger, there was only terror. His hand trembled as it fell back to his side. He took a shuddering breath before returning to cooking.
His voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the sizzle of vegetables frying in the pan in front of him. “What happened with your mother was only a warning. We dare not upset her again, Siya. It hears and sees more than you know.”
I nodded, then turned to look through the kitchen window. The Brahma-Rakshasa was staring back at me from her booth. She had stopped eating and watched me with a grin too wide for her face, showing far too many teeth. A trickle of blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.
Early the next morning, I was mopping the dining area when she grabbed my wrist as I passed her booth. She held my arm firmly, not enough to hurt but enough to keep me from moving. I froze, unsure what to do. I looked up at Avi, who was watching intently through the kitchen window.
When I turned to look, her sweet old lady face looked back at me.
“Am’māyi,” she said. “Sit with me.”
She gestured to the opposite bench.
It was the first time she had addressed me since the incident with my mother. My heart leaped into my chest as I stood there frozen, staring at her.
“Sit, please,” she restated. “I promise I won’t bite.”
A sheepish smile spread across her face.
I heard a loud clatter from the kitchen. I looked up to see Uncle Samir pushing an armful of pots and pans into Avi’s arms, beckoning him away from the window as I took my seat across from her.
I sat in silence as she emptied two plates of tikka masala before tucking into a third plate overflowing with goat curry. I loved my father’s goat curry recipe, but after watching her pour it down her gullet by the gallon these past weeks, the sight of it turned my stomach.
She picked up a piece of naan, ripping it with her hands as she finally spoke to me.
“I am your guest here,” she said as she dredged the curry in search of tender pieces of meat. “Do you agree, am’māyi?”
I nodded.
She stuffed the goat curry ladened naan into her mouth. A rivulet of sauce poured from the side of her mouth, landing in her crusted lap. My stomach churned, but I didn’t look away.
When she finished chewing, she spoke. “There is a saying in the old country - ‘Atithi devo bhava.’ Are you familiar?”
I shook my head.
“I expected as much from your behavior. It is a Sanskrit phrase. It means, ‘the guest is God.’ What do you think that means?”
I cleared my throat before speaking. “It means to honor your guests and treat them with reverence and respect. As if welcoming God into your home.”
“Good, good!” She said, clapping her hands. Her fingers were stained orange. “You are learning, am’māyi. I was invited here as a guest of your family. Your parents, your uncle, even your cousins welcomed me with their attentive service and courtesy. You did not.”
She pointed to the host station, where I used to do my homework. “You sat there, head buried in your books, barely acknowledging me when I arrived. And on top of that, you disrespected me with your words.”
“I did not know-”
I jumped back as she pounded her fist on the table. “Ignorance is no excuse for insolence! That was the first lesson, am’māyi. Do I need to teach you again?”
I shook my head. “No, please no.”
She made a massive rice ball in the palm of her hand, using it to scoop another hefty mouthful of curry to her face. The skin in the corners of her mouth ripped as she spread her jaws wider to fit it all in. It sounded like denim jeans tearing. She swallowed with a loud gulp, dabbing the bloody corners of her mouth.
“Atithi devo bhava. It is important to keep these traditions alive, even in this country.”
“Yes,” I said. I felt queasy at the sight of her torn mouth, but I dared not look away. “Thank you for this lesson, guruvu.”
She chuckled. “Teacher? I’m not your guruvu, am’māyi.”
“Apologies, but… I don’t know what to call you. You haven’t given me your name.”
“Nor have you asked for it, am’māyi. It is polite to introduce yourself to your guests.” She gestured to me with her sticky orange fingers. “Go on. Introduce yourself properly.”
Was this her game now, to teach me about the old country? Was I taking etiquette lessons from a demon? I played along, not that I had any choice in the matter.
“Yes, of course. Forgive me.” I put my hands together and bowed. “Namaste, my name is Siya.”
She put her hands together and returned a bow to me. “Namaste, Siya. You may call me Shirin.”
She smiled at me, but it was different from how she had smiled before. She appeared genuinely pleased with me.
“Shirin,” I repeated with another bow. I decided to lay it on thick. “It is my honor and pleasure to make your acquaintance.”
“Now that we have met one another properly, I have a question for you, Siya.”
She leaned forward, lacing her fingers together as she placed her elbows on the table. “Would you like me to leave?”
I wanted to say yes. Yes, please and thank you. Kindly do us the honor and pleasure of getting right the fuck out of town, you blue-horned devil bitch. Leave and never come back, and may every door hit you in the ass on the way out. But I knew it was a trap. Her smile turned more mischievous as she watched the wheels spin in my mind, contemplating the proper answer to her question.
I chose to play along. I bowed a second time.
“You are our guest, Shirin,” I replied. “It is our pleasure, no, our honor, to serve you. Atithi devo bhava.”
“Atithi devo bhava,” she repeated.
She smiled as she mopped her plate with a piece of naan, scouring the edges for every last drop of sauce before popping it into her mouth. The plate was as spotless as it was when it first came out of the dishwasher.
“Shall I get you some more clean plates?” I asked, looking for my opportunity to end our discussion.
She slid the pile of plates towards me. “Thank you, Siya. I think we understand one another now.”
My knees shook as I stood from the table, giving her another bow as I left. I took the plate into the kitchen, depositing it into the dirty dish bin on the counter next to the dishwasher, where Avi was rinsing. I leaned against the wall, taking a moment of calming breaths to wash the fear away as I resettled myself.
“What was that about?” Avi asked as he offered me a glass of water.
“Atithi devo bhava,” I replied.
Uncle Samir looked up from slicing naan as I said the phrase. He nodded, tossing the naan into a buffet tray.
“You did well, Siya,” he said. It was the first time he had addressed me since my mother’s accident. “This proves what I’ve been saying. If we honor our guest, she will leave on her own. That is all she wants.”
Uncle Samir disappeared through the swinging kitchen door with the tray of naan and a couple of clean plates. I heard the two of them chatting cordially as he tended to the buffet, prepping for the day's first customers. They prattled on like old friends.
“What did she tell you to call her?” Avi asked.
“Shirin,” I replied. “Why?”
“She told me to address her as Mahesh,” Avi said. “For Sanjay, it was Chandra.”
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Father said the names are from different incarnations. Perhaps that is why she favors us differently, depending on the lives she lived under those names. She is cold to you, indifferent to me.”
“And Sanjay?”
Avi let out a nervous laugh. “Sanjay’s her favorite. She brags to father about him all the time, saying he’s built like a true Telugu warrior, and I don’t think she means the cricket team. She says he’s going to break so many hearts.”
I hated admitting it, but perhaps my uncle was correct. At this point, how we got into this mess didn’t matter; what mattered was getting out of it. Surviving.
I could play the game, give Shirin/Mahesh/Chandra/whatever the fuck it’s called the dog-and-pony show. Bow and curtsey to the demon, all the while putting on a smiling, friendly face while she shoveled copious amounts of food into her gaping maw.
Bow. Namaste. Smile. “Can I clear your place setting, Shirin?”
Bow. Namaste. Smile. “Would you like a fresh glass of water?”
Bow. Namaste. Smile.
It would become my mantra.
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