Koko appears to talk football

Two weeks had almost gone by. I was in a great mood. Maybe because I saw Jose Mourinho like the petulant kid he is after his much-vaunted Manchester United team were put to the sword by Burnley. Now any team that plays Mourinho’s team, I support them. Like I did with Southampton when ol’ Jose was back to crying to the world. And then, of course, Christmas came and went and with it the traditional family lunch – Indianised, it must be said before I’m accused of being an ‘anti-national’. 

It made my mood dark. Even though it was a lunch, I was still able to make it after buying the main ingredient in Pune – although there are some parts of even this progressive state where it must be done furtively as if you’re committing a crime. Of course, it’s much worse in other places: in Rajasthan, Madhya Pradesh and Uttar Pradesh for instance, on the way back from the market I would have been branded a ‘cattle thief’ and lynched. Or beaten with iron rods or whatever.

And then what would have happened to my friend, Javed Anand’s recipe for Turki Kebab that I cooked for Christmas lunch? In fact, I laugh when I think of him changing his name – which happened way before he learnt to cook – and him, laughing and telling me how people reacted to his name. “Javed? Ah, you are Muslim. But ‘Anand’, that is Hindu, no?” 

It puzzled people, still does. In the days when it was not written enough perhaps, that the two communities could come together and need to come together in perfect harmony, Javed was prescient. A lot more of us should have followed him and changed our names. Atmaram Sheikh de Souza would have had a nice ring to it.

That dish simmering on the stove, the aromas percolating through the layers inside the dish, ought to have been a thing of joy for the guy cooking it for others to sit at the table and eat. In this day and age, when you can be put to death for what you cook and eat, I was not a happy old man. 

The only saving grace was the fact that all things being equal, the Turki Kebab would have brought Koko to life or whatever. I thought of Monsieur Bernard Koko a lot as the Christmas season approached – one important reason, of course, was to know whether or not I was losing it as the wife and kids were saying and that I had to get real. Get out of the house, get myself a life. Etc. What would they say if they knew their equally beloved Koko was paying me nocturnal visits?

The Turki Kebab was a conscious decision to figure out if he really came to life. With that on the stove, Koko would go ballistic and salivate all over the kitchen floor in the quest, the hope, that he would get the first serving. Would you blame him? 

Take some finely sliced tenderloin – marinate it through the night with a generous dose of olive oil, a rich paste of tender ginger and a huge handful of garlic that’s been pounded, and salt and pepper. Rub it well, then layer it in a casserole as neatly as you can. In the morning, pat it down so that whatever liquid forms spreads evenly. And over the tenderloin now add a neat circle or two of potato rounds, and on top of that, another circle or two of tomato rounds. Then you fixed yourself a drink, put on some nice music and waited for the liquid in the casserole to go below the meat, forming a nice thick gravy, the last quarter of an inch or so, while Koko did the calypso around the kitchen.  

I missed Koko even more because I changed the recipe quite significantly with one more ingredient. Secular cooking allows you that luxury. Javed’s recipe implied that you served Turki Kebab with lovely soft, thick, fluffy tandoor rotis, maybe a nice dal cooked with vegetable, and an ‘Indian Salad’ – raw onion, radish and mint soaked in lemon juice and chaat masala.  

Watching Koko taste my variation to Javed’s recipe, his eyes crinkling in pleasure, Koko’s mouth savouring the juiciness, would have told me whether my ‘twist’ worked before the extended family set up upon it and wiped the casserole clean.

Yeah, I missed Koko…

*********

Before the end of the year, I was pretty convinced that Koko not appearing to the aromas of Turki Kebab shredded the possibility that he came to life. His talking football with me was a figment of my imagination. Of more importance was the time I took to open my phone and get to read my son’s text. 

“Old man,” he texted, “found this great place for you, with your own room. It’s like a suite, bed with a Dunlopillo mattress for weak bones, nice view, fabulous gardens, great food for geriatrics, every night rummy sessions for everyone who can count up to fifteen. Message me, I’ll do the rest…”

I needed a routine to discipline myself. Increase the walking I reckoned. Show them evidence that I was not over the hill just yet, although I was getting there. From two kilometres, almost a year back, I had steadily brought it up to seven kilometres. They would see the results and leave me with the plants, the old books, the TV, the walking and the cooking…  

So three-and-a-half kilometres one way, break at a tapri for chai and cigarette, then three-and-a-half kilometres back home and getting things ready to start cooking dinner for the wife. That was the routine, the break a half-way point where I ruminated on the vicissitudes of life…for twenty minutes…like doing the 5 BX when I was younger and saw a Penguin book on it, in a second-hand bookshop and because I was terrified of getting a paunch…

That day, Christmas over, the new year on its way, I reached the tapri and got my tea. Apart from the surly tea-stall owner who has never smiled at me since he opened the stall eight months ago, there was Ram Gopal who sold cigarettes and made paan. The three of us were companions every evening with a large golden Labrador who goes by the name ‘Tommy’ and whose owners live in one of the houses close by. By the time I leave for my culinary duties at home, Tommy trots to his evening meal at home – that’s his routine, willingly accepting several biscuits from men who come to grab a quick chai. Is he overweight? A bit…

It was Tommy who alerted me that something was wrong. One moment he was passed out in biscuit bliss, just short of snoring. The next moment, he was on his feet, his fur standing on his back like strong bits of coir, and with attendant barks, snarls and growls was biting the air close enough to my leg for me to feel the vibrations of his rage. 

Above this demented Labrador called Tommy, was a voice I knew very well indeed, and an accent that today was even more pronounced. I looked at the tapri owner and Ram Gopal. They seemed to find Tommy’s behaviour hilarious. I saw the tapri owner actually laugh.

“Hey dude,” I hear Koko yell near my leg, “tell this overweight, pedigree to take a ride man, he’s irritating me and I’m just gonna have to…” Tommy looked shocked out of his wits, as he whined in pain and ran all the way home. The two men laughed uproariously. 

“I just nipped him on the butt,” Koko said, “a tiny nip and check out how much of bottom he has, he’ll never manage football…”

“Man you can’t talk to me here,” I tell him. The tapri owner and Ram Gopal look at me strangely.

“Why?” asks Koko innocently.

“They can’t see you…but they can see me…”

“No, they can’t see me…isn’t that funny?”

“It will look like I am talking to myself,” I tell him. “What will that make me look like?”

“Like a grouchy old man with problems in life, which is true. People will accept it coming from you…” 

I tried my best to ignore both the voice and the fact that I could see Koko even when the Sun had yet to sink and the streetlights switched on. The tapri owner and Ram Gopal just looked at each other, shrugged their shoulders, looked away, joining the family in condemning me to the derelict heap.

Koko was in seventh heaven, tail wagging furiously. Never mind what people thought of me talking to an entity that wasn’t there. This dog would not get the better of me…

*********

He disarmed me in his inimitable way. “So what was the ingredient you put into your friend’s recipe? I can’t imagine Turki Kebab tasting better…”

“It was sun-dried celery leaves,” I said with pride, “adds a tingle that’s different. I served this with tomato rice, a stew of peppers and beans, and a sexy salad with all sorts of interesting things…”

“Nice,” he replied, approvingly. 

“So now, are you planning to tell me that Nigeria is going to win Moscow 2018?” I asked him haughtily. He laughed in my face.

“That’s a given man, we’ve known this for years. 2018 is the year of Africa and it is time to reclaim our history. Football will lead the way, but Nigeria will win the cup!”

“That’s nonsense!”

“Yeah? You heard of George Weah?”

“No…” What’s he getting at I wondered?

“You know why fans from the Celtic club in Glasgow waved Palestinian flags?”

“You know why Africa is going to cover itself with glory in Moscow?,” he asked.  

“They’re not!”

“It’s our destiny man! You need to get real man, cotton on that I’m back in your life to save you. You still think I don’t exist man? You feel stupid talking to me when no one can see me?” The tapri owner and Ram Gopal were both looking at me, muttering to each other. 

“We’ve got the new year to educate you man, lot of time. Now come with me, let’ s walk a bit, I want to show you this really cool chick I’ve met…”

Next Week: Koko elaborates his politics…