Beamish And Bhaji

Chapter 1

I thought I could multitask. I couldn’t. And now I was late. I was also speeding. Doing 130 kmph on the M1, blasting south towards Dublin airport. Whizzing past cars, weaving in and out of lanes, overtaking at will. I smiled at myself — this car was fun.

Everything was on schedule. I could watch the second half of the match as soon as I get home. Dinner was cooked. Chicken masala curry. Cumin rice. Just like how mom makes it. Chilled beer to wash it down. Then some Bollywood melodrama to round off the Friday night.

“Just landed! Waiting to pick up my bags, will be out in 15 minutes”, Saoirse on the blower.

“Grand. Pick you up at Terminal 2 Arrivals — be there in about 25–30”, I said. Little did I know.

First the throttle went. Then the engine. Then the dashboard lit up. Then I rolled into the hard shoulder, stepped on the brakes and felt the car break down. Bollocks! What happened? Totally dead. No response. Engine not turning over.

“Please charge battery”, the dashboard flashes.

“Okay”, I mutter to myself. “Perfect timing”. Maybe I just need a jumpstart? If only it were that easy. I was in shorts and t-shirt. The perks of cozy, heated leather seats. I wouldn’t last for long on the side of a motorway in mid-February in those.

Bollocks.

Helpfully my phone was charged to a whopping 12%. Great. Flick on “low-power mode”. Google nearest breakdown service. Ring the first one.

“Hi! Is that the breakdown service?”, I ask in my Indian-Irish voice that I reserve for strangers.

“Yeah, what’s the matter?”. Male. Smoker. Gruff. North Dublin accent. Finglas, I reckon.

“Looks like I need a jump-start. I am about 20 minutes north of Dublin Airport on the M1.”

“Ah that’s too far…it’s nearly 5PM.”

I mean, it IS your job isn’t it?

“Yeah, it’s late alright…would you mind dropping down to take a look?”, I ask hopefully. “I have to pick-up my friend from the airport, so it’s really a priority”.

“Okay. It’ll cost you though.”

Course it will.

“Yeah fair enough…I just sent you my exact location on WhatsApp”.

“It’ll be 200 quid.”

Robbery. But I am in no position to negotiate.

“Fine, fine. I don’t have cash though. Revolut okay?”

“Yup, no bother. See you in an hour!”

“An hour? Can’t you come any sooner?”

“It’ll take an hour”, he repeated. Just in case I was deaf. Hung up.

Brilliant.

I arrived as a nubile 18-year old from Bangalore, India to Cork, Ireland a decade and a half ago. Now I am 34, overweight, overworked, overwrought and stranded. Still, could be worse. I could miss the match. I get a few minutes out of my now 11% charged phone. My team was a goal down before the stream buffered. Typical. When it rains, it pours.

“Akarsh! Where are you? I’ve been out for half hour! It’s bloody freezing”, a jet-lagged, screeching Saoirse on the phone.

“Bit of a disaster, am afraid…”, I say sombrely. Give her the play-by-play. Phone dies in my hand before I can catch her verbal assault.

Right. Ice-cold in the car. Windows fogged up. Zero visibility. Cars literally zooming past. My stationary car swaying with every whoosh of metal.

This mechanic better come soon.

He didn’t.

It took him another 45 minutes before he was jump-starting my car. Didn’t stop him grumbling about how far he had to come, how he can barely make enough to cover his fuel costs, how working overtime should come at a premium price. I just nodded. He looks like he was nearly done.

“It ain’t your battery mate”, he said triumphantly. Positively beaming. Prick. My heart sank.

“Well…what is it? The alternator?”

“No clue, have to tow it back to the garage and check it on Monday.”

Course you do.

“Okay — but how much will that cost?”

“Another 200 quid for the tow. And not sure about the actual fixing.”

“Brilliant. At least it’s not a total rip off, eh?”

Nothing. This guy doesn’t do humour. He can’t spare the time between “serious” and “tardy”.

“Okay, so what do I do now?”

“Well, I’ll ring Mick. He’ll tow your car to the garage. I can drop you to the airport if you want. I’ll charge you less than the taxi.”

“Oh yeah, I guess…Do you live close to the airport?”

“Yeah, just a 5-minute drive from it.”

“Then why would you charge me to take me to the airport?”

“Well, I am doing you a favour…”

“But you are going home yourself? Like, I literally paid you 400 quid just now.”

“That’s for my service — I gave you a receipt”.

“I know…but you are going the same way?”

“Yeah, it’s my car. I don’t have to take you! I am. I should be compensated for that.”

Finglas’ own Adam Smith.

“Okay fine. How much?”

“100 quid.”

Didn’t even bat an eyelid. This guy must be loaded.

“Fine. Let’s go.”

Jump into the car, wave goodbye to mine. Hand over my car keys to the free-market enthusiast. Make sure to take the receipt. Start our 20-minute voyage to the airport.

Mr Capitalist rolls down the window and lights up a Marlboro. My olfactory lobes perk up and remind me of when I used to smoke. Can’t stand the stench now. Roll down my window. Take the cue from him and fire up my vape. Inhale deep and let out a puff of cinnamon-tobacco goodness.

“Hey! Don’t be doing that here!”

“What? Vape?”

“Yeah! This isn’t your car, you know!”

“I mean…I rolled down the window. And you are smoking? So, I figured…”

“It’s my car and I can do what I want. Not you. If you want to vape, you need to ask.”

“But…Okay, fine! Can I vape?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“My car, my rules.”

“You shouldn’t smoke either then?”

“Why not?”

“I don’t like the smell.”

“Would you rather go by taxi?”

This prick.

“Whatever. We are nearly there.”

“I’ll have to charge you couple of quid extra for the toll. Unless you want me to take the longer route”

“How do you normally go home?”

“I pay the toll”

“So, why’s it any different now?”

“Because you are the customer. You’ll save time thanks to me. I need to be compensated for my service.”

What a tool.

I had no phone. No idea if Saoirse was still waiting at T2 arrivals. I really should swallow my pride and let this slip. But I did have some self-respect.

“How far are we?”

“Couple of minutes.”

“Just pull over now — I’ll walk the rest. I’ve Revoluted you the money.”

“Suit yourself.”

Jumped out of the car. Left the passenger side door open as I walked towards the airport. Screw him. I could see Terminal 2 in the distance. Jogged the rest of the way. Mostly cause the chilled wind was freezing my nethers. I spotted Saoirse’s Irish red mane from a while away. Even the back of her head looked furious. At least I got here. Better late than never, eh?

“Hiya!”, I said. Mostly apologetically. “Terrible day. How was your flight?”

“Grand. Starving! How will you drop me home now with no car?”

“We’ll just get a taxi?”

“I could’ve done that two hours ago? For god’s sake!”

“Yeah sorry, phone was dead. Couldn’t contact you”

“Whatever”

I flag down the taxi. Pakistani driver. Fellow desi.

“Where to?”, he says. The quintessential subcontinent accent. Like one of my uncles growing up.

“Drogheda please.”

“Sure. Only cash though. No card machine or Revolut.”

“Yup, okay.”

We jump in. Bhangra music blaring in the background. He thoughtfully turns it down.

I finally relax and lie back in the passenger seat. Breathe out a sigh of relief. The taxi has a USB charger that I gratefully plug my phone into. Hit with a million notifications, most of them angry messages from Saoirse. Finglas Adam Smith has texted me to say my car has been picked up by Mick, the tow-guy. The garage will ring me on Monday with the damage. My team got trounced in the match. Ah whatever. At least the day is finally done.

And then it hit me.

I forgot my wallet and house keys in my car.