chutneys filling the fridge are the only civilised things left about me.
Dad will dress up to visit in one of his 3 silk shirts and come and see me in my part of town because he thinks it’s buzzy (he describes it as a ‘carnival atmosphere’) and filled with beautiful women. He’s always disappointed to learn that the crowd is rarely, if ever, middle-aged single Indian women looking to be wined and dined, only thin boys and girls not bothered by our presence in the slightest. Still, he pays. And it’s near my house, so I’m happy.
Dad, when first looking for a new girlfriend, set himself some rules and parameters. He laminated them on a card to stick in his wallet as an aide memoire. They were: she must be younger than me; healthier than me; Gujarati Indian but, not too traditional or religious; able to dance; tell jokes; know how to cook (and he goes on to reel off a list of my mum’s signature dishes). I repeatedly told him in the last year that he’s not going to find a replacement for Mum, not least because his parameters are too defined. He thinks, why mess with perfection?
‘How is your book doing?’ he asks me, placing his hands together in prayer formation, to show me he’s listening.
‘Okay,’ I say, not looking up from the table, as if enthusiasm would indicate failure. ‘Sales are slow, but you know, at least it’s out.’
‘But what is your marketing strategy?’
‘I let the publisher deal with it.’
‘How can you trust them to market you? You need to determine your market and sell the book to them.’
‘Sure,’ I say, to shut him up.
‘You better be writing a bestseller. One with police detectives in the countryside. One with murders and car chases. Something you can buy in an airport and a supermarket.’ He pauses. ‘And don’t talk about the past this time. No one wants to hear about the past. Talk about now, kiddo.’
‘That’s not my thing, Dad.’
‘You should though. Don’t think you have another inheritance coming to you. I’m spending it all now on enjoying myself. So, write a bestseller.’
‘Okay, Dad.’
‘In fact, you better not be spending Mum’s inheritance. You better be earning, kiddo.’
‘Yes, Dad,’ I lie. ‘I’ve been doing great. Really great.’ He doesn’t need to know about my job interview. Not until I have news. News that ultimately proves he’s right.
When he first signed up to Facebook, as a way of keeping tabs on all the women he fancied in his life, he didn’t understand how to phrase sarcasm nor that if he left a comment on my status update, everyone could see it. He used to sign off with ‘lots of love, your dad’ thinking that each comment was like a letter or email. Then he decided to use my self-promotion on Facebook to remind me that ultimately I had to make money from writing.
Kitab: ‘Hey guys, if any of you are in the Luton area, I’m reading from my book tomorrow.’
Kitab’s dad: ‘Son, I hope they r paying yr travel because this is an expensive ticket. R U getting paid? I saw yr bk is £2.46 on Amazon. What % r u making frm this? Lots of love, your dad.’
When I put up a link to my novel on my status, my Facebook friends would ‘like’ it or maybe even say ‘congratulations’ and ‘can’t wait’. He’d troll me by saying, ‘Can I buy this in Tesco? Tesco is the only bookshop worth its salt.’ Then when my book came out, he said, ‘You should make something that can be adapted into a film. Maybe I will read it then.’
A couple of years ago, when the film version of The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo came out, he left me a comment on my wall saying, ‘I read this Girl with A Dragon Tattoo book in 3 days. I still have not read your book. What does that tell you, son?’
His Facebook comments get 70% more likes than mine ever do. People prefer him to me. When Dad first joined what he calls ‘the Face Book’, it was all he talked about: its politics, its new language, its potential for stalking, and it bothered me how much he wanted to converse with me about its intricacies. I hate talking about social networking in conversations.
‘Kitab-san,’ Dad says, playing with his new smartphone. ‘While you were in the toilet, I just liked this photo of a girl on Facebook. She’s in a bikini. I cannot unlike it. She looks too porky. I don’t want to give her wrong impression.’
‘Dad, do we have to talk about Facebook?’
‘Come on, Kitab-san. I joined the Face Book because it’s the only time I see you.’
‘Do we have to talk about Facebook though? My father is the one person I hope I’m free from that rubbish. You didn’t add me. So, I added her. Are you following me back? What’s on your mind? What are you thinking? LOL. ROFL. “Like”. These words mean nothing anymore.’
‘What is a ROFL? I have not come across this.’
‘Dad, don’t you worry our language is changing? That we’re as concerned with how to socialise with people digitally as much as physically? That language is dying? That everyone is using these bullshit words to mean new things they don’t?’
My dad looks at me, chewing.
‘It means rolling on the floor laughing.’
He swallows, nodding to himself. ‘This would have to be a very funny thing. To laugh out loud, we have all done this. But to be rolling on the floor. I am happy that at least it means you now speak the same language as your Indian cousins. You don’t have to pretend you know Gujarati anymore.’
I watch him funnel shard after shard of poppadom, slathered in chutney and onion, into his mouth, chew loudly and talk slowly at the same time. He keeps his nails long, and years of turmeric abuse have turned them yellow. He starts telling me an anecdote about his Friday night. The anecdote boils down to, I went to this bar and it was full of people half my age and the beer was expensive and I couldn’t hear anyone talk – but the way he tells it, I get the s-l-o-w version. I stop him mid-story so I can check my phone, which has chimed with a Facebook message. It’s from the other Kitab. Kitab 2. It says ‘Did you see my add request dude? What’s taking so long, same-name-buddies!’
Why is he messaging me, the weirdo? I stare at it trying to think of an appropriate response. I don’t know what to say. Can I just ignore it? Dad berates me for ignoring him.
‘What is on that phone all the time?’
‘Nothing – just messages from the world, telling me they love me.’
‘I got a new phone. A Samsung. You should try it. Better than this iPhone crap. Cheaper too.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘So, tell me about you, Kitab-san.’ Dad once worked for a Japanese company. He now calls me and all his male counterparts ‘name’-san. Unless he’s giving me advice, in which case, I’m ‘kiddo’.
‘Oh, you know … I have this book reading this week where I …’
‘You know, I found this restaurant to go to with one of my lady friends. It’s called Strada. Heard of it?’
‘It’s a pizza chain.’
‘Any good?’
‘It’s a chain. They’re all of an equal standard.’
‘No, this is Strada of Knightsbridge.’
‘Yeah, Dad, it’s a chain.’
‘Well, I’m going to take Roshi there for dinner.’
Our food arrives. I Instagram the curries in their steel dishes and upload the photo, adding the caption, ‘Dinner with my dad. He pays for the food. I pay for my lack of achievement. We both pay for the over-indulgence in the morning.’ Dad hesitates and then dives