chapter three

“What can I get for you today, Baba?” Mr. Singh asked. He leaned over his counter, his orange turban perched on his head like a flying saucer. Tandoori Palace was the busiest counter at the food court. Some people came all the way from downtown for Mr. Singh’s homemade chai tea and creamy butter chicken. It was only 11:30AM, but customers were already snacking on samosas or using their nan bread to scoop up Mr. Singh’s famous chicken.

“The usual, please. An order of butter chicken with basmati rice on the side.”

Mr. Singh dipped his ladle into one of the copper vats on the stove behind him. “That will be four ninety-five,” he called out when he turned back toward me. His words came out like a song, his voice starting off high, and then dropping down a note at a time.

Mr. Singh pointed to a stool near his cash register. “Why not keep me company, Baba?” Baba, he’d explained to me, was Indian for dear.

Mr. Singh poured himself a cup of chai tea. It smelled of cinnamon and cloves. “Did I mention my great-niece Sapna arrives this weekend?” he asked after he took his first sip.

I took a bite of butter chicken. “From India?”

Mr. Singh nodded. “She’s coming to help out at Tandoori Palace. It’s hard for an old man like me to manage on my own. I told Sapna’s mother I needed an extra pair of hands, and she told me Sapna’s were available.”

“Well, that’s good news.”

“You’ll like Sapna. She’s your age.”

After Mr. Singh finished serving the next customer, he poured me a cup of chai tea. “My treat,” he said. “Drink up.”

Mr. Singh watched as I tasted his tea. “It’s good. For tea.”

Someone tapped their fingers on the counter. “I need three orders of vegetable curry to go. With rice and nan bread.”

It was Mr. Morgan, the general manager of Realco. Whenever he came by Four Feet and Feathers, he had this way of acting like he owned it—running his fingers along the shelves to check for dust and commenting if service was slow.

He was our landlord, so I had to be polite. I put down my fork and said hello. Mr. Morgan was wearing a suit and tie and his silver hair was so perfectly blow-dried it looked like a helmet. Even his fingernails were buffed and polished. If he were a dog, he’d have just come from the groomer.

Mr. Morgan nodded. You could tell he didn’t think I was important enough to remember.

Mr. Singh was quiet as he packed the order in a paper bag and stapled it across the top. “Thank you, sir,” he said when Mr. Morgan paid his bill.

After Mr. Morgan left, Mr. Singh turned to stir one of his pots. “That man enjoys Indian food,” I heard him say under his breath. “Almost as much as he enjoys collecting rent.”

Mr. Singh’s next customers were a couple dressed in matching leather jackets, each carrying a motorcycle helmet. “Hey, you’re the kid from the pet store, right?” the guy asked me. His hair, which was dyed green and yellow, reminded me of a parrot.

“Yup.”

He put his helmet on the counter and looked me up and down. “I need a guard dog to watch my Harley.”

“You better talk to my dad,” I said. “He likes to interview everyone who buys a dog from Four Feet and Feathers.”

“He interviews everyone who buys a dog? There’s gotta be something wrong with the dude.” When the guy laughed, it came out like a snort.

I took a deep breath. “There’s n-nothing wrong with my dad.” I hoped he didn’t notice how I’d stammered. “He cares about animals is all. He wants to make sure they go to good homes.”

“Don’t give the kid a hard time,” the guy’s girlfriend said, smacking him on the butt.

The guy snorted again.

The girlfriend’s eyebrows were pierced. “How’d your dad get into the pet business, anyhow?” she asked. I couldn’t tell if she was being nice or if she was really interested.

The guy took the trays Mr. Singh handed him. It looked like they were planning to sit at the counter too.

I relaxed a little on my stool. The girl was still watching me, which made me think she really was interested in hearing about the store. Besides, if there was one story I liked telling, this was it.

“When my dad was a kid,” I said, “he hung out at this pet store near his house. It was the kind of pet store they had in those days. The cages were cramped, the animals didn’t get much exercise, and people would poke at the dogs and cats through the bars of their cages.”

“That’s disgusting,” the girl said.

“Well, my dad dreamt of opening a different kind of pet store. So when he finished university, he used all his savings to buy that old pet store and turn it into the first Four Feet and Feathers.”

Mr. Singh whistled.

The guy wiped the side of his mouth with a napkin. “That’s pretty cool!” he said.

Mr. Singh added some sugar to his tea. What he said next took me by surprise. I expected it to be something about my father, but it wasn’t. It was about me.

“It’s delightful,” Mr. Singh said as he sipped at his tea, “to meet a young man who truly admires his father.”