Chapter 7: Staple Food

Ring! Ring!

I was in a deep sleep when the sound of the room intercom pulled me from my dreams and back to reality.

I opened my eyes, but the room was still dark.

Feeling around beside my bed, I picked up the intercom and held it to my ear.

A familiar voice came from the other side.

[Sir, it’s time to wake up.]

It was the polite voice of the hotel manager.

“Yaaawn… Yes… thank you.”

[You’re welcome.]

After thanking him, I forced myself out of bed despite my sleepiness.

Feeling my way along the dark wall, I headed toward the bathroom.

As I walked, pain shot through my arms and legs.

Several days of hard labor had made my entire body scream in protest.

I had never done physical work like this in my life.

The heaviest things I had ever lifted before were beakers, droppers, and cutlery sets.

But carrying sacks of flour and boxes of potatoes for the last few days had nearly killed me.

Still, getting up today felt a little easier than yesterday.

Today was the first day I would learn cooking at Maheshvara, Arjun’s restaurant.

Maheshvara was a word made from Maha, meaning “great,” and Ishvar, meaning “god.”

***

Creak.

Whoooosh.

I turned the shower lever, and warm water poured down.

As the heat relaxed my sore muscles, drowsiness slowly crept back over me.

Smack!

To wake myself up, I slapped both cheeks.

The sharp sound cleared my head a little.

Cold water would have been nice, but because India was constantly over 40°C, even the “cold” water in hotels came out warm.

When I first arrived, I had spent ages turning the faucet back and forth looking for actual cold water.

After showering in water that was only cold in name, I got dressed.

The clothes I wore weren’t the ones I had brought from France.

Instead, they were cheap shorts and T-shirts I bought near the spice market.

Five pairs of shorts had cost only ten euros, and the shirts were about the same price.

After dressing, I packed an extra T-shirt and pair of shorts into a small bag.

India’s daytime heat was brutal.

And when you spent all day in a kitchen full of fire and steam, you ended up drenched in sweat.

Oil and food scraps also splashed everywhere while washing dishes.

Expensive clothes weren’t an option.

Spare clothes were a necessity.

Though today I wasn’t supposed to be washing dishes.

***

When I reached the hotel lobby, an employee greeted me with a smile.

“Namaste. You’re leaving early again today.”

“Namaste. Yes, I am. Has the taxi arrived?”

“Yes, Mr. Seodam.”

“Thank you. Have a good day.”

After leaving my room key at the desk, I stepped outside.

The heat hit me immediately.

Even before sunrise, it felt well above thirty degrees.

Looking up, I saw stars glittering in the sky.

The weather was as clear and hot as ever.

Combined with the heat of the kitchen, today was going to be rough.

“Wow… this won’t be easy.”

I walked toward the road with a worried expression and reached for the taxi door out of habit.

But my hand grabbed nothing.

Lowering my gaze from the sky, I looked around.

The taxi the manager said had arrived was nowhere to be seen.

“Huh? Where’s the taxi? Did it leave? Wait… what’s that?”

As I looked around, I spotted a familiar motorcycle parked in the darkness.

Then Shambu stepped out from behind a large pillar near the entrance.

“I sent the taxi away, Ishaan.”

His voice was low.

His expression was stiff.

The moment I saw him, one thought crossed my mind.

This bastard isn’t planning to attack me, is he?

After all, I had started learning cooking before him.

According to what he had told me yesterday, employees were normally required to wash dishes for a year and serve customers for another year before earning the right to learn cooking.

Shambu had already spent about a year washing dishes and was about to move on to serving customers when I showed up.

Now I was learning cooking before him.

I briefly wondered whether civilians in India could own guns.

Then I pulled out my secret weapon.

It had worked pretty well on troublemakers back in France.

“Shambu, in case you’ve forgotten, I’m Korean.”

“…?”

He tilted his head.

Apparently he didn’t understand.

In France, that statement alone usually worked.

But Shambu, a guy from the back alleys of India, probably didn’t know that Korea was the birthplace of Taekwondo.

“For your information, Korea is the homeland of Taekwondo. And I’ve learned Taekwondo.”

Silence.

Maybe he’s intimidated?

Just as I thought that my strategy worked everywhere, Shambu nodded.

“Okay.”

My heart sank.

Did he think he could take me anyway?

Without realizing it, I slipped into the clumsy Taekwondo stance I had learned in kindergarten.

Then Shambu scratched his head.

“Sorry about sending the taxi away. But I had a favor to ask.”

“A favor?”

Apparently this wasn’t an ambush after all.

I relaxed slightly.

Then Shambu continued.

“It’s about the phone I sold. Dukandar-ji told me it was worth around ninety thousand rupees…”

“Huh? Yeah, about that much.”

That was roughly 1.5 million Korean won.

The number sounded right.

As I nodded, Shambu’s face darkened.

Pressing his palms together, he pleaded desperately.

“Dukandar-ji said he’ll give you three months of my salary as compensation. But if that happens, I won’t be able to send money home. I’ll take you to Maheshvara every day instead of a taxi, and I’ll bring you back to the hotel after work. Could you please talk to him for me?”

So that was why he had come.

Not to attack me.

To save his salary.

Apparently Arjun had told him exactly how much my phone had been worth.

Shambu had sold it for about 500,000 won.

That meant he still owed me another million.

Since his monthly salary was only around 300,000 won, three months’ wages had already been seized.

Considering taxi costs, he would probably have to drive me for six months to make up the difference.

I still didn’t fully trust him.

But showing a little generosity as a senior employee didn’t sound bad.

“I understand, Shambu. As your superior, I’ll show some generosity.”

Yesterday he would have looked like he’d bitten into rotten food.

Now his face lit up.

“Th-thank you! Thank you so much! Ishaan is a good senior!”

“It’s nothing. We’ll be late, so let’s just go.”

“Alright! I even prepared a sidecar!”

“A sidecar?”

I looked to the other side of the motorcycle.

Sure enough, there was a sidecar attached.

He really had prepared thoroughly.

Honestly, riding in a sidecar sounded better than hanging onto his waist.

So I climbed in.

“Shall we go?”

As soon as I sat down, Shambu handed me a helmet.

“Put this on.”

“It’s hot. Can’t I skip it?”

“If the police catch you, they’ll hit you with a stick!”

“R-Really?”

I didn’t want to wear it.

But getting caned sounded worse.

So I reluctantly put the helmet on.

Apparently minor offenses were handled with sticks around here.

The motorcycle slowly started moving.

Vroooooom!

Then I suddenly felt my legs scraping the road.

Startled, I pulled them up and looked down.

The pavement was rushing beneath me.

My eyes widened.

“Shambu! There’s no floor in this thing!”

“Oh, that’s because I got it from a junkyard. Just keep your feet up.”

“What?!”

Well, it wasn’t like Shambu could afford a fancy sidecar.

Still, if I was going to ride this regularly, I should probably ask him to install somewhere to rest my feet.

Then I remembered something I wanted to ask.

“Hey, Shambu.”

“What?”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Ask away.”

“What’s ‘Dukandar-ji’? Why do you call Grandpa Arjun that?”

“Oh, that? Dukandar means shop owner in Hindi. Ji is an honorific. In English, it’d be something like ‘Mr. Shop Owner.'”

“Ah…”

So that was why he called Arjun Dukandar-ji.

As I nodded in understanding, Shambu shouted over the wind.

“By the way, Ishaan.”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve got a question too.”

“What is it?”

“Why did you suddenly tell me you learned Taekwondo earlier?”

“…No reason.”

“Hmm. Alright.”

I had a feeling I’d be kicking my blanket in embarrassment tonight.

While I was thinking that, the motorcycle sped through the early morning darkness and arrived at Maheshvara.

***

As soon as we arrived, we began preparing ingredients just like yesterday.

Peeling potatoes.

Washing spinach.

Putting meat that Arjun had prepared into a refrigerator that looked like it barely still worked.

After all the preparation was finished, Arjun called me over.

“Ishaan. Come here.”

I hurried over and replied using the title I had learned from Shambu.

“Yes, Arjun… I mean, Dukandar-ji.”

“Oh? Looks like you’ve learned some Hindi.”

“A little.”

I scratched my head awkwardly.

Arjun smiled.

“I promised to teach you cooking starting today, didn’t I?”

“Yes!”

“You’re full of energy. Good. Shall we begin?”

“Should I bring the spices?”

The moment I asked, Arjun burst into laughter.

“Hohoho! You can’t even crawl yet, and you’re already trying to run.”

“Huh?”

“What you’ll learn today isn’t that.”

He pointed toward a pile of beige-colored powder.

My face immediately fell.

I already knew what it was for.

“I’m learning to make naan?”

Arjun gave me an amused look.

“See? You don’t even know what it’s used for, yet you’re already dreaming about touching spices. Don’t tell me you thought you’d learn masala on the first day.”

“Ahem… of course not. So it isn’t naan?”

Honestly, I had imagined learning masala.

But after all the dishwashing, I knew that was unlikely.

At best, I had expected some simple spice-based dish.

Trying to change the subject, I pointed out that I thought it was naan.

Arjun explained.

“No. What you’ve been eating these past few days isn’t naan. It’s roti. Naan originated as a luxurious bread eaten by nobles. Roti is the true staple food of India.”

“Roti…”

I had been eating it for days without even knowing its name.

That was slightly embarrassing.

Then Arjun asked:

“What is the staple food of Koreans?”

“Rice, of course.”

“Exactly. If you were learning Korean cooking, the first thing you’d learn would be how to cook rice. That’s why I’m teaching you roti first.”

“Ah.”

I was a little disappointed.

But it made sense.

Thinking I’d immediately learn spice cooking despite knowing nothing had been ridiculous.

I decided I’d learn roti properly.

Just then, Arjun motioned for me to follow him outside.

“I think you need to taste proper roti first. Shambu, watch the restaurant for a while.”

“Yes, Dukandar-ji.”

Outside, the spice market was already bustling with life.

The stalls were displaying colorful spices.

Arjun led me to a street vendor at the edge of the market.

The vendor sold something called Kathi Rolls.

According to Arjun, it was a popular street food made by wrapping fillings such as Indian cheese, beans, and vegetables inside freshly cooked roti.

“It’s one of the most beloved street foods in India. Namaste.”

Apparently he knew the vendor.

After greeting her, he placed an order.

The elderly woman took some dough and began rolling it flat.

Normally, vendors cooked roti in advance and kept it ready.

But here, everything was made fresh to order.

It felt much more traditional.

“Watch carefully. That’s authentic Indian roti. You place a pan called a tawa on top of a traditional clay stove called a chulha, then cook the thin dough on it.”

Treating it like a lesson, I watched carefully.

The woman browned both sides of the dough on the slightly curved pan.

It didn’t seem very difficult.

But when the roti was almost finished, she suddenly removed the pan.

Then she placed the roti directly over the open flame coming from the chulha.

The bread puffed up like a balloon.

“What do you think? That’s traditional Indian roti.”

Arjun looked extremely proud.

I, however, stared in horror.

Because the fuel burning inside the chulha was dried cow dung.

“Oh my God…”

Just as I finished processing that shocking fact, the completed Kathi Roll was placed in front of me.