Book Excerpt: Romola's adventures in McDonald's from Don't Let Him Know

Editor’s Note: Romola Mitra has followed all the rules and been dutiful wife and mother. Now a widow, she’s given up fish and meat even though noone has asked her to. But on a visit to her son in California she’s sorely tempted by the luscious burger ads on television. And one day while the her son Amit and his wife June are at work she sneaks off to McDonald’s. This excerpt is from the new novel Don’t Let Him Know (Bloomsbury) by Sandip Roy whose day job is senior editor at Firstpost. Romola felt as if she was acting in her own play. For a moment she felt a small surge of confidence. Everything seemed to be in place. The dentist next to the supermarket, the nail salon, the chiropractor and then at the end of the block the McDonald’s. The golden arches looked just as welcoming as they did on TV. The crayon-bright reds and yellows,brightly coloured and cheerful, made her happy. There was a tiny play area outside with a slide. It was empty and dusty but it still made her smile; the plastic blocks looked like something little fairy-tale elves might assemble. She looked at the windows – the burgers were moist and glistening, the lettuce and tomato looked as if they had just been ripped from the fields. 99c, the signs screamed at her. Romola stood on the street clutching her handbag. Then she glanced around her and took a deep breath and pulled at the door. Nothing happened. She stepped back, the first wrinkle of uncertainty clouding her adventure. A young boy, maybe twelve or thirteen, came running up casually behind her, pushed the door and loped inside. She smiled. The sign said quite clearly PUSH. She caught the door before it shut fully and with a movement that was both deliberate and steady, pushed it open. Immediately she felt like she was really, finally, in America. Everything started to spin around her but at the same time it seemed to all be moving extremely slowly. The restaurant rushed at her in a crazy plastic whirl of reds and yellows and then receded into the walls of pale muted pinks and greens. [caption id=“attachment_2074025” align=“alignleft” width=“380”] Book cover for Don’t Let Him Know.[/caption] Rising up on all sides around her, Formica and plastic were bathed in cheerful music as if soaked in sunny syrup. Someone had left their tray on the table and she watched a lonely matchstick of a fry sitting in a smear of ketchup. She heard children yelling and disembodied voices calling out numbers in Mexican accents. Two women unwrapped their burgers in front of her. One had a young girl who carefully ate a fry, dipping its head into a little white container of ketchup, as thick as blood. She could smell it all – a dense low-hangingsmell of deep frying that left her both nauseous and ravenous at the same time. She looked at the confusing array of options on the menu board. Holy trinities of fries, burger and soda beckoned to her. Brahma, Vishnu, Shiva, she thought and chuckled to herself at the blasphemy. $4.89 for a combo. $5.29 for a combo. That was a lot of money, she said to herself. I thought these places were cheap. It took her a while to figure out the difference between the chicken sandwich and the chicken sandwich meal. She hovered at the edges reading everything, squinting at all her options. She wished it explained what a McDouble was. The kitchen was a hum of activity. It moved briskly like a conveyor belt as people picked up their packets or trays of food and walked away. Giant baskets of fries emerged from vats of oil, plump and golden. Women with white gloves slapped dark brown patties on buns and smeared white mayonnaise with a rat-a-tat-tat rhythm as if they had done this all their lives. Red digital numbers fl ickered and changed over, always going up, up and up. For a moment she wished June was there to help her navigate through this. But she knew they would never go there. Neither June nor Amit approved of fast food. Especially now that Amit wanted to be a chef, she thought. They tried to eat everything organic. Romola thought it was a ridiculous waste of money. She had no idea why anyone would pay more for those spindly deformed caulifl owers when they could get those big perfectly round ones for half the money. But she held her peace. She might be the cook but it was not her kitchen. Every time they drove past a McDonald’s, Romola would look longingly at the Golden Arches. They had come to Calcutta she had heard but she had never been to one. To her, they seemed like the entrance to an exotic world. Every time they went out for dinner, Amit would say, ‘What do you want today, Ma? Chinese, Japanese, Thai, Mexican, or good old Indian?’ and Romola would dutifully answer, ‘Whatever you like, dear, I don’t mind.’ But she looked wistfully at the bright neon-lit procession of fast food places, forbidden and alluring, friendly sirens in the dark night – Taco Bell and Burger King and Pizza Hut. But McDonald’s, she knew, was the king of them all. Neel was her only ally in these dinner expeditions. ‘I want burgers, Mom,’ he might say sometimes but he was easily overruled. Romola once thought of adding her vote to his but was afraid she’d be accused of spoiling her grandson with junk food. Once they went to a cafe that served gourmet burgers. Romola wondered what one might taste like. ‘Oh, they are just really bad for you, and anyway it’s beef,’ said Amit as he ordered a skinless chicken sandwich for himself. Romola followed June’s lead and got a spinach salad. She felt like a cow, she thought crossly, when it arrived, a heap of green leaves with little specks of dark-red cranberries and crunchy walnuts. What was this American obsession with chomping leaves? Now she looked nervously into her bag to make sure she still had the money and walked up to the counter. The woman behind the counter could not have been more than eighteen years old. Romola noticed the big hoops in her ears, the perfectly trimmed bangs of her hair, the swatch of blue eye shadow. ‘Can I help you?’ Her bored voice sounded anything but helpful. Romola nodded and then took the plunge. She pointed at a burger on the menu but could not say anything. At the last moment she had thought she would just get some fries or maybe the chicken sandwich. But then she felt that now she was here she had to have a burger. She knew it was beef and it would probably be revolting but she had to have it. It was her only chance. ‘A burger – that one,’ she pointed at the menu. ‘With cheese or without?’ said the girl as if reading from a script. Romola shook her head. The girl looked at her quizzically and then went on to her next line. ‘The meal or just the sandwich?’ ‘Just the sandwich.’ Romola had a little more confidence in her voice now. This might just work, she thought. ‘Will that be all?’ Romola nodded. ‘Forheretogo?’ said the girl. Romola stared at her baffled. This was not a line she knew, there was nothing like that in the script she had carefully rehearsed in her head. ‘Forheretogo?’ said the girl again. Romola suddenly became aware of other people in the restaurant. She craned forward nervously clutching her half-open bag. The girl looked at her, her plucked eyebrow arched in a question mark. Romola felt her confidence starting to drain away. She felt like she had when she had first boarded an international flight by herself. She’d been convinced she had got on the wrong flight and was on her way to Australia instead of America. The questions and fears and worries bubbled in her stomach but dried in her throat. She shook her head and stepped back. The girl was still looking at her. So was the man standing next to her. ‘Yes,’ she said hoping that was the right answer. ‘Forheretogo?’ said the girl again as if demanding a secret password and Romola lost her nerve. Grabbing the handbag to her chest, she suddenly turned around and started walking as fast as she could towards the door. The girl said something else behind her back but she refused to turn around and face that counter again. She walked past the trash can, its flap swinging as someone emptied their tray in it. She walked past the children with their ketchup-stained faces. She waited for someone to grab her and turn her around and frogmarch her back to the counter but no one seemed to even notice that she was there any more. Her little order had sunk without a trace like a stone in the pond and life went on with not even a ripple to show for its brief, flickering existence.