Page 12 of Even If the Sky is Falling
KEEP CALM AND CURRY ON
FARAH HERON
1
Maya Jafari had lived her entire life as if the sky would fall on her head at any given moment, so it was a huge surprise to her, and to everyone who knew her, that when the sky actually fell a few years ago (as opposed to figuratively falling), she drained her savings and started a small business. Seeing fiery streaks of lord only knows what fill the sky that day solidified to Maya that if she didn’t open Masala Girls now, the South Asian sauce and spice empire she and her father had dreamed of launching for years would never be a reality. She’d be selling mortgages in a call center, and Dad would be driving that Atlanta Airport taxi for the rest of their lives.
But opening a booth in the Verona County Flea Market in the Blue Ridge Mountains didn’t mean Maya had left herglass half emptytendencies behind her.
She leaned against the counter one Friday, scanning the sales for the day. “We’ve sold thirty percent fewer sandwiches than we did by this time last Saturday.”
Maya’s only employee, Radha, who wasn’t quite as pessimistic as Maya, shrugged. “We’ll sell more at lunch. We always do.”
Maya frowned. In the last few weeks, her paneer tikka sandwich had become the booth’s main money-maker, thanks to a well-timed mention in theVerona Market Bulletinemail newsletter, but it seemed the buzz was already wearing off.
“Masala Girls,” a man at the counter said. Maya stood straight and smoothed her turmeric-yellow apron.
“Masalameans spice in many South Asian languages,” she said. “The name is a take on the Spice Girls.”
“I know whatMasalameans,” he snapped. He looked like he’d just walked off the set ofSons of Anarchy. “I’m surprisedyouknow who the Spice Girls are,” he said.
Why, because she was brown? Or because her youthful Pakistani genes made her look closer to nineteen than twenty-nine? “All our spices are sourced from ethical growers from around the world and roasted and ground in small batches. Are you looking for something specific?”
He picked up one of the sealed bags of spice mixes—this one Mughlai biryani. “I’m looking for the tikka sauce. The one from the sandwich. Best damn sandwich I’ve ever had.”
Maya beamed, handing him a bottle of her famous (or hopefully soon-to be-famous) Masala Girls Tikka sauce, the one she used to marinate paneer every Friday for the weekend’s sandwiches. The man studied the bottle’s simple yellow label. Maya was used to this—she may have chosen this flea market because it was more likely to sell Stacey Abrams T-shirts than Trump paraphernalia, but this wasstillrural Georgia, and Maya wasn’t selling grits in flour sacs or southern barbecue rubs. Even here, people were used to their food colonized.
A white woman appeared, shaking her head. “No, Marcus. That ain’t it. The sandwich came from a food truck. What was it called... Curry Junction. They sell their sauce there.”
With barely a glance back at Masala Girls, the couple left the booth, no doubt heading toward Food Truck Alley at the end of the market, where there was apparently a truck crushing Maya’s dreams like elchi in a mortar and pestle. But somehow, she doubted she’d get a warming cup of masala chai after the destruction.
After selling barely any tikka sandwiches at lunch, Maya asked some neighboring vendors about this Curry Junction truck. She learned the following: they were based out of Chattanooga and apparently had a real tandoor oven in the truck, which sounded like a massive fire hazard to Maya. Also? Everyone who had tasted their chicken tikka on naan sandwich had proclaimed it to be the best in the county. Considering Maya’s was the only other tikka sandwich in Verona County, this was troubling. Maya told Radha to watch the booth—it was time to see Curry Junction with her own eyes.
The Verona County Flea Market was made up of three halls. Masala Girls was in Hall A, which mostly sold handmade things like artisan jewelry, prepared foods and wood signs painted with inspirational quotes. In the middle was Hall B, also called the Antique Hall. It was the biggest, and was crammed full of antique furniture, creepy art, old toys and dishes. Maya had never understood the appeal of buying things that once belonged to people who were now dead, but the antiques were the main draw of this flea market. Hall C was at the end of the antique hall, and was like Hall A, except it had Food Truck Alley—a row of seven food trucks. There was a taco truck, a smash burger truck, a barbecue truck, a bao and dumpling truck, a macaroni and cheese truck and two fried chicken trucks. Only now Maya could see that one of the chicken trucks had been replaced by Curry Junction, her new nemesis.
And of course, the truck was painted the same turmeric yellow as her Masala Girls apron. The name Curry Junction was splashed on the side in black Sanskrit-inspired font, along with a logo of a cartoon turban-wearing man holding out a platter of food. Maya frowned as she stepped closer. She was normally arising tides lifts all boatskind of person, and shewantedto be delighted there was another South Asian food business in the market. But this truck was literally stealing her and her father’s dream right out from under them.
On the counter at the window of the truck, she could see a neat line of sauce bottles. Bottles in the same shape and size as her Masala Girls sauces, but these said Curry Junction Tikka Sauce.
Furious, Maya stepped up to the window, intending to tell whoever was in that truck to cease and desist selling their copycat sauce at once.
“Can I help you?” the man at the counter said. And Maya forgot why she was even there...becausehis face.
Smooth brown skin. Wide smile. Large, expressive brown eyes. Square jaw.
It was delicate and strong at the same time. And the worst part, it wasfamiliar.
Tarek Mizra. She hadn’t seen him in years, but she’d never forget that face.
Without saying a word, Maya turned on her heels and rushed away, hoping he hadn’t recognized her.
“Maya? Maya Jafari? Is that you?”
Ugh.
Maya speed walked past the other food trucks, through the antique hall and straight back to Masala Girls.
Radha was behind the counter. “Did that creepy clown doll in the antique hall look at you weird?”
