The Curry Mile: Book 1: The Curry Mile Trilogy, #1

By Zahid Hussain

Broken-hearted Sorayah Butt never thought she'd go back home.

Ajmal Butt is thrilled his estranged daughter is coming back. The Press call him the "Curry King" because of his restaurant empire but his flagship restaurant on the Curry Mile totters on the brink of bankruptcy.

Ajmal's joy turns to rage when he learns his daughter has returned to attend a wedding. Not just any wedding, but the wedding of his rival's daughter.

Sorayah's arrival opens a pandora's box. Her past was neatly locked away, but now long-kept secrets are unearthed, and she discovers truths about herself she wishes had stayed buried.

Ajmal faces his own demons as he searches in vain for an heir to the business, but he's made too many mistakes and he lurches closer and closer to catastrophe.

Flickering from the scorching streets of Punjab to the neon-lit landscape of Manchester's curry district The Curry Mile evokes the cut-throat restaurant trade to reveal what lies beneath the bright lights and deftly explores how families are made (or unmade) in the crossfire.

• Language: English
• Publisher: SYZ Books
• Release date: Jun 1, 2022
• ISBN: 9781913259020

Book preview

Chapter 1

But He Loves Me.

Sorayah Butt straightened in the cramped coach seat and rubbed her stiff neck. The coach roared past a motorway sign.

MANCHESTER 26

Her throat tightened.

I should have stayed in London.

She’d smudged lipstick on the window in her sleep. She pulled out a tissue and wiped away the smear. Haunted eyes stared back.

Her mobile phone beeped. A text message from a private number. It could only be him.

Rav, cheating Rav.

She shoved the phone into her handbag and crossed her arms. Tears clawed at her eyes.

I won’t cry. I won’t cry.

An Asian lad turned to stare at her, the light sparkling off a fake diamond earring. Did he think that was a seductive 007 smile? She scowled. He jerked his head as though she’d lobbed a phone at him.

Pulling on the headphones, the fusion synthetic sounds of a Rishi Rich remix walled the coach off. She pressed her head against the thrumming glass and her fine hair fanned across her face. She wanted to be as empty as the road skimming beneath the coach, but she couldn’t help it. His prowling spirit first whispered and then roared like a tornado.

She was back in Bombay Rouge, a favourite with Asian Londoners. Nazia had just made a silly remark, she never remembered what and giggling she flickered her gaze and saw him.

He towered over his friends, seemingly oblivious to his movie star looks. He looked across. The motion slowed in time to the beat of her heart. De-dum de-doom. Their eyes locked. She felt a frisson, a sizzle race from the small of her back to the nape of her neck.

Oh. My. Days.

She was new to the capital, trying to forget Manchester and never remembered how they got talking, but two months later she’d moved in with him.

An ache bloomed in her belly and she instinctively wound her arms around her stomach, but the hollowness remained.

Ravinder flirted terribly with every passing stray, but he always smoothed it over.

"I love you Sorayah. Hey, I was just having a laugh. Come on, stop sulking." He smiled that blistering smile and her resistance vanished in an instant like stars outshone by the sun.

Why do I always fall for the same idiot?

As their love blossomed her visits home dwindled. When the university holidays swung around she lied to family that she had to study. At the end of the first year, she claimed she’d got a job. She had nothing of the sort, she wanted to be with Ravinder.

Her father shocked her by saying, But you can work for me. Come on my Sweet.

He hadn’t called her that for years and as far as she knew he didn’t want her anywhere near the Business.

Abbu! I already told you, I want to do something with my degree.

Are you sure, my Sweet? I can come down and visit you in London and-

No! I’ve got a job. Don’t you get it? I’m not into restaurants.

Guilt marinated in her heart but she’d made up her mind; Ravinder was the future.

She told her family she had no landline in the flat. A complete lie. She just didn’t want Ravinder answering the phone. He was under strict instructions to never pick it up but he was a dolt at the best of times. Besides family could call her on the mobile phone.

Her worst fear was family dropping in. But she’d prepared for it, believing she’d have ample time to squirrel away Ravinder’s Manchester United tops and other paraphernalia that patterned their shared lives. If they saw a photo of him she had a scripted answer ready: Oh, he’s just a friend from uni. A perfectly believable excuse. The best ones always were.

Her brother was studying Medicine at Royal Free and covered for her whenever her parents asked questions about her.

Am I going to tell Mum and Dad about stuff that doesn’t concern them? Imran said. Nope, little sis, I’ve got better things to do. They’d blame me anyway – everyone shoots the messenger, you know. Bang bang, no thank you ma’am! He made a symbol of revolver with his hand and tapped his finger against his temple and pulled the mock trigger. He jerked his head to one side and rolled his eyes for emphasis. She had to laugh.

The mention of her mother and father was painful but she’d learned to push those thoughts into a far corner of her mind.

She lived a life close to perfect in modern multicultural Bombay-mix Britain. It didn’t matter that Ravinder was a Hindu and she was a Muslim. She daydreamed about the children they’d have. She planned their number, names and their meteoric careers.

Her favourite memory was the three weeks they spent on the Greek island of Lefkus at the end of her second year at North London University. Ravinder nearly chocked to death eating lobster. She laughed all the way to the hospital, winning puzzled glances from the paramedics. Later, she regretted not snapping a picture of him stretched out in the rickety ambulance, looking very tanned, very cute and hilariously sulky. If she was ever feeling down, she simply had to remember that day and it brought on a fit of giggles.

Their relationship matured. They became a live-in loved-up couple and it was bliss, watching TV with Ravinder, shopping with Ravinder, partying with Ravinder, walking holding hands in the local park with Ravinder. He was everywhere. The questions from family petered out. She was never going back home. She was going forward. Never back.

Ravinder and Sorayah planned a trip to the United States to celebrate her graduation, but she unexpectedly landed a job. By then Abbu had stopped depositing money in her account. She’d splashed out on the flat and for the first time in her life she was broke. But it only spurred her on. She set her sights on a life in academia and was saving up for her Masters. She’d never been happier.

But Rav, I can’t go. I’ve only just started working.

He shot to his feet, fists bunched, eyes fired up. God he looked gorgeous. Who you kidding? You never wanted to go in the first place.

She pushed back from the kitchen table where they were having a romantic dinner. She’d hoped it was the right setting to break the news to him. The chicken carbonara à-la-Sorayah would have to wait.

"I didn’t know I couldn’t take any holidays during the probation. I thought it was just a small charity, not some corporate. She offered her hand to him. We’ll go next year. Promise. We won’t lose the deposit if that’s what you’re worried about."

He refused her hand. I’ve planned for this. Saved up for it. Why don’t you throw a sicky like everyone else?

Don’t be ridiculous! How am I going to pretend to be sick for a whole month? They’ll find out and I’ll get fired. What a great way to start a new job two seconds into it. Honestly!

Why do you need to work anyway? Phone your old man and get him to send you some money. He’s rich enough.

Hey! Don’t talk about Abbu like that. Her head was spinning. She steadied herself by placing her palms flat on the table. "I want to earn the money myself. Don’t you get it? I want to do it on my own."

He backed away from the table. If you don’t want to go with me, somebody else will.

"What does that mean?" She wanted to give him a good wallop.

He snarled and rushed out of the flat.

She panicked. Rav! Rav! Shoeless she chased after him but she couldn’t keep up. She heard him clattering down the steps of the flat. Rav! Come back! A door slammed shut.

He wouldn’t answer her calls; he didn’t reply to her text messages. Complete radio silence.

Two weeks later he went to the States with Bobby his best friend.

She seethed with resentment and wept constantly hating him and wanting him back. Then she made her mind up that she didn’t want to see him again and changed the locks.

On his return Ravinder swooped in with dozens of roses, fell on his knees and refused to leave until she forgave him. He lay down outside the flat and refused to budge. She stood for hours with her arms crossed on the other side of the door adamant she’d never let him back in.

She opened the door. He looked up at her like a wounded animal. He stood up stiffly, the roses bent like they were bowing to her. He offered them to her. It melted any final resistance.Without a word she led him into the flat.

They picked up their relationship almost from where they’d left off. Sorayah convinced herself the heady days had turned into something serious despite all the misgivings from friends. She knew Ravinder was the one, and well nothing in life was perfect but this was pretty close.

She started to save up for a holiday, just the two of them enjoying the parts of America he didn’t get to visit with Bobby and at work she was promoted into management. She applied for her Masters and the university offered her a place. Everything was great and inevitably she began planning for the most important day in her life. She got goosebumps just thinking about it.

One summer evening she was enjoying a night in by herself while Ravinder was studying for his finals at the 24-hour uni library. She received a call from Nazia her bestie in London.

Sorayah was humming to herself, wrapped in a humongous cotton towel painting her nails re-watching Friends when the phone rang.

Hi Babe, Sorayah cradled the phone between ear and shoulder. "Doing my nails. Not sure about the colour, I mean, I went with red, but this shade-"

"Rav’s with that cow."

She dropped the phone and spilled the varnish. It took a few seconds to get the phone back up to her ear.

She forced the word out. Who?

Vinny.

Sorayah gasped.

Vinny was a girl from Ravinder’s Business Studies course and Bollywood beautiful. Sorayah loathed being told Vinny looks just like you. She’d seen Vinny at parties and at friends’ places over the years. She hated the way Vinny’s eyes lingered on Ravinder a little too long, a little too hard. But of course, Ravinder had accused her of jealousy.

You still there?

Sorayah sniffed. Maybe - maybe they’re revising. He’s got his finals coming up. His finals for the third time.

Nazia sighed. She imagined her plump friend making exasperated faces. Music was playing in the background. She guessed Nazia was in Rhubarb, a glitzy bar in Covent Garden, famed for its coterie of jet-setting Bollywood stars who rubbed shoulders with British-born Desis before shooting off to exotic filming locations.

I shouldn’t tell you this, but they’re at the Bollywood Brasserie.

But he’s meant to be revising.

Hot tears rolled down her face. She wiped them away angrily.

I told you he wasn’t right when he went on holiday without you. And then the classic Nazia line, There are tonnes of fish out there, why do you need a shark?"

But he loves me.

She had to know if Nazia was telling the truth, witness the betrayal even if it tore her apart. She cut the conversation short and raced to the nearest Tube station. She emerged from King’s Cross and walked woodenly to the Bollywood Brasserie.

She’d once visited the expensive Indian restaurant with Ravinder. She hadn’t been impressed with the gaudy decoration and overdone Karahis, but the chicken tikka was aromatic and tender. She remembered Ravinder saying he detested the place. She froze mid-step. He’d pretended to hate it so she would never go back and discover his secret love nest.

The rat.

She strode with renewed purpose.

The Bollywood Brasserie’s muddy red sign cast an ethereal light over the main window enticing lovers into its glowing interior.

A deep swelling in her stomach told her she was being tossed at sea. Her feet shuffled nearer, magnetically pulled towards the main window. She peered in, casting her gaze as far inside as she could, through the packed restaurant. Agitated, she searched, hoping she wouldn’t have to go inside and then, there, ensconced in a far corner, oblivious to everything around them, kismet brought Ravinder into view. Sitting opposite Vinny.

Sorayah staggered, her hands flying to her mouth to cover the sob.

Ravinder’s eyes shone with warm emotion, and he was smiling as he spoke. In disbelief, Sorayah watched as he leaned forward to - to kiss Vinny.

Her stomach lurched and she bent double as though someone had punched her in the gut. The sounds of approaching people made her straighten. She forced herself to move, to go, to flee.

She should have stormed in and thrown a chair at Ravinder. But she couldn’t. See victory in Vinny’s eyes?

Never!

Sorayah rushed back to Covent Garden. She rudely pushed through a group of Japanese tourists and sped down into the bowels of the earth. On the train she rocked to its rhythms dazed like a survivor of an earthquake.

A part of her wished he’d died in Lefkus so she’d only have happy memories of him, anything but this.

Why had she taken him back when he’d slunk back with flowers?

She was an idiot to have disbelieved her friends who’d told her what he was like from the moment she met him.

He’s a shark that one. He can’t help himself. One sniff, Darling and he’ll be off on the hunt.

She ran out of Holloway Road Tube Station and didn’t stop running until she reached the flat. Her fingers fumbled to get the key in. It refused to fit. She banged the door in helplessness and smacked her forehead against it. The pain steadied her hand.

She threw open the door and froze at the sight of the limp jackets on the pegs, the steam iron toppled on one side on the ironing board and water forming a pool beneath Ravinder’s favourite MUFC top draped on the corner of a chair like a red flag of victory.

She breathed hacked breaths. She’d given up family. For Ravinder. She did it all. For Ravinder. Everything had revolved around Ravinder. She’d built a future. Around a phantom.

She washed her face in the sink and blew her nose. She dried her face. Then she phoned Nazia.

Her voice was a croak. Can I stay with you for a couple of days?

Of course Darling, She sounded as if she was still in Rhubarb, but the music was louder. Did you see Rav and–?

Yes, I saw them. She took a shaky breath. Thanks, Naz. Thanks for – for telling me where they were. I need to pack my stuff and then I’ll call a taxi. It’ll take me a few hours. I’ve got plenty of time - he said he was going to be doing an all-nighter studying… her voice trailed off as the horror of what he’d meant by an all-nighter registered.

How could I be so naive.

Oh Darling! Let me come over and help you pack.

No, don’t. It’ll be faster if I do it by – by myself. The truth was she wanted to be alone. No, she needed to be alone. Please.

As if sensing her mood, Nazia replied, All right. But only if you’re sure, Darling. We’ll be home in about an hour. Come over when you’re ready. If there’s no answer when you ring the bell, then call me on the landline. Nazia chirpily added, Don’t worry Sorayah, there’s plenty more fish in the sea.

A black cavern was growing inside her. This was all that was left of her.

She gathered the photo albums from around the house, the sum of her life with Ravinder, and piled the photos onto the kitchen table; it was the only place big enough.

She found the photos from the unforgettable trip to Lefkus. Snip snip. She found the partying holiday photos taken in Ibiza. Snip snip. She pulled out the snaps from the weekender in Paris. Snip snip. The scissors snipped. Her fingers cramped. She kept snipping.

Her hands were shaking when she took out her most treasured photos from her purse. She’d kept them as good luck charms. Each image formed a part of her soul.

Grimly, she carried on. Snip, snip.

She was left with her favourite photo taken on her twenty-first birthday. She slumped into a chair and stared at the image. It had all been perfect then. They were laughing in the photo. His arm was draped around her, her head tilted up, their eyes locked.

Till death do us part.

A tear dripped onto the photo.

She pressed her lips tight until the blood left them and then savagely she tore the photo in half. She was sobbing as she took up the torn halves. She tore them again. And again. She tore the photo into smaller and smaller pieces until she could no longer hold the pieces with her fingertips. Her body shook as though it was breaking, cracking, falling to bits. As though this act would kill her. And then she looked up at the ceiling and shrieked.

Exhausted, she collapsed onto the floor. She lay there for long minutes, unable to move, tears trailing down her face.

She stirred, rolled painfully onto her side, wiped her eyes and groggily she stood. Her gaze fell on the scissors. She took them to Ravinder’s favourite MUFC top. She left the clumps on the kitchen table.

Then she packed her bags and piled her stuff in the hallway. The sum of her life: three suitcases stuffed with clothes, a cardboard box loaded with textbooks, tattered paperbacks and her favourite DVDs. She clutched her Gucci bag like a talisman and waited for the cab on that stifling June night.

It was a long wait. Her memories of Ravinder came to visit and they left scars.

She stayed two nights at Nazia’s and then moved in with Imran.

I couldn’t have done it without Immy.

She promised to call him as soon as she arrived in Manchester but she knew it was pointless. He was doing double shifts.

When she moved in with him it was meant to be a temporary harbour before she founds digs elsewhere. I just need somewhere to sleep. The sofa will do.

"Nope little sis. I’ll take the sofa - it’s not as if I’m here anyway. Me, I just need a place to lay my humble head. Plus, you need as much space as possible with your fat clothes and your fine collection of fat toe clippers."

She hugged him. Thanks, Immy.

It’s going to be all right, Shoe Girl.

He’d called her that since they were children on account of the numbers of shoes she allegedly had. He said she counted in shoes which meant she was stuck at the two times table. That always got a wallop.

So she reluctantly took his room promising herself it was a stopgap. But the weeks turned into months and the months became a permanent no-man’s-land.

And there it was, the awful truth. She had Ravinderitis. It was a terrible addiction but she’d finally admitted it. She’d been so pagal in love with him that she’d been blind to his blemishes. How could she muster up the courage to tell Imran that?

He left her pretty much alone at the start but soon started to pester her about visiting home.

One morning at breakfast, he said, I don’t get you. Manchester’s just bricks and mortar. How could it possibly bite you? Is Rav going to leap out and cry ‘boo!’?

She’d hadn’t been home in years. She’d made a solemn promise never to return. She wouldn’t go back, Ravinder or no Ravinder.

I’m not listening, Freak. She forced herself to chew the soggy cornflakes.

Imran slurped his coffee standing over the sink. He never ate or drink sitting down. It was so annoying! Or was it his silly sniping that annoyed her? The only reason she didn’t scream at him was because deep down she knew he was looking out for her.

He carried on as though he hadn’t heard her. My mate has a cobra that’ll bite you if you like. I know it’s strange having a pet cobra, especially for a Gas Man, but it keeps him out of trouble. He gave her a sly look. "Anyway, it’s your mate’s wedding, right?"

She furrowed her brow. Imran’s uncanny ability to unearth secrets was so annoying. He worked all hours of the night and day and yet remained up-to-date on everything. But then again was it surprising he knew given his long-standing friendship with Yasmeen’s brother?

Aha! You’re pouting again! You always do that when you know you’re wrong.

She glared at him. He’d been saying that for years too.

She didn’t want to miss Yasmeen’s wedding, but she couldn’t go. The past was dead and buried. But to shut him up she said, I’ll think about it. Maybe.

"Maybe? Where’s the maybe? Of course you’ll think about it. And I am right even when I’m wrong."

It took her a fortnight to work up the courage to make the call. She’d rehearsed several times why she couldn’t go to the wedding.

"Yaz?" She asked tentatively.

Sorayah!

They hadn’t spoken for two years and yet Yasmeen immediately recognised her voice.

The conversation that had worked so well in her head fell apart.

I’m sorry I haven’t been calling. Work. Life. You know. It sounded lame to her own ears. Look. I’ve got no excuses for not calling you. I just…couldn’t, Babe.

And then they were chatting away. The years fell away like autumn leaves.

But eventually, inevitably Yasmeen swung round to the topic she’d dreaded.

"I know you’re busy, Sorayah…it’s just that I’m getting married – Immy told you, right? – and I’m not sure I can do it without you. Please with mithai on top!"

The breath caught in her throat. I can’t. I - I made a promise I wouldn’t.

Who did you make the promise to?

How could she tell Yasmeen she’d made the promise to herself?

The silence stretched.

"Does a girl have to beg her best friend to come to her wedding? It’s a matter of life and death. Besties, right?"

She closed her eyes, ashamed.

Yasmeen still considered her a best friend despite all the time and distance. Nothing ever changed in Yasmeen’s life. So much had changed in hers. Maybe it was time to go back after all.

She had a lump in her throat. I’ll come, she whispered.