After their first two attempts inexplicably failed, the sisters immediately uninstalled the food delivery app from their phones. I wasn’t around for this, but had been witness to the buildup to the process a couple of days earlier.
“There is a discount for ₹150 when you order the first time,” one of the sisters told me. “On what?” I asked half-distracted. “It’s an application on the phone. Have you heard of it?”
If I could, I would have raised an eyebrow. I left the conversation amused, letting the sisters go back to drawing up elaborate plans for ordering food online.
Many days later I visited a sight of disappointment and despondency. I was informed about the failure to place an order, and the subsequent uninstallation of the app.
“They got very angry and sad... they removed it from the phone,” their mother told me. We were sitting in their kitchen, as she was cooking dinner.
The father looked at me and asked, “Can you do something about this?”
I couldn't understand why something so obviously straightforward would be a matter of such deliberation and concern. Now I was invested in this endeavour.
“Why can’t a damn online order go through?”
“I don't know...”
“Why is all of this a big deal anyway?”
“You figure it out now.”
The elder sister gave me her phone to reinstall it, but she failed to explain why it had failed in the first place.
“I don't know... and we got angry and removed it,” she said, visibly frustrated. The younger sister, usually the mastermind behind all such plans, sat in another room studying for her examinations. Her ears, though, were focussed elsewhere.
“Are you ordering?” she screamed from the other room.
“What? You study!”
“It’s the Gokul restaurant. Five shawarmas for ₹300.”
“Shut up! Study!”
“After ₹150 off, the bill should be ₹150!”
“Shut up!!”
Meanwhile, my mother's voice had begun echoing in the neighbourhood.
“Come for dinner....”
“You start, I will come in a while.”
“You come, dinner is ready.”
Upon installation, there began an extensive discussion on what to order, how much, and for whom. Names of shawarma variants were shouted back and forth. The parents and the grandmother stayed noticeably silent as the sisters deliberated over what was already decided two weeks ago.
I was asked to order one for myself. I refused, and the ensuing conversation took another 10 minutes. Finally, the order was decided (same as originally planned), and the phone notified a delivery time of 30 minutes.
I returned the phone and walked out of the house, through the back door, straight into mine. There waited my parents, marginally annoyed for delaying their dinner. As I explained my activities, my mother asked curiously,
“So they deliver to the house?”
“Yes they do".
“From where? Mumbai?”
“No! Not from Mumbai. We are a city now.”
“That’s what I thought, Mumbai would be far.”
“That’s what I said!”
“Oh, how do they contact them?”
“Online? Phone?”
“Online.”
"This application contacts the restaurant?”
“Yes.”
“How? Phone?”
“Online.”
That dinner-time was spent explaining the workings of the app, as my father continued to eat in silence. I was no longer amused by the entire affair. The sisters’ excitement had caught on. As soon as I finished dinner, I walked over to the other house and rang the bell. The elder sister let me inside the living room, where everyone sat, waiting for the delivery to be made. The atmosphere of anticipation was palpable as the discount was discussed in detail.
“So it’s 150 off for more orders? Or 50% off?”
“It’s 50% off up until 150 bucks.”
“One time only?”
“No five times.”
"So four more orders left. Next time we will order something else. Some other variety.”
“Yes... you should. Wait. What will happen to the dinner that's already cooked?”
“We will see. Four more orders eh? We will try other restaurants as well.”
Our conversation was interrupted by an unknown number flashing on the phone, as the elder sister quickly passed the phone to me. I thrust it back, saying, “Just talk to him!” She answered the call and began explaining circuitous directions to their house.
“It's next to the bank. Yes, behind it. Yes, we are the Pereiras. Oh, no that is our old village. We don't live there. Yes, all the Pereiras live there. But we live in this village. No, we are from that village, but we moved years ago.”
Meanwhile, the father had gone out towards the front gate, waiting to spot the delivery boy. Inside, the grandmother asked, “Is this delivery person one of our people?”
“No. The owner is. Hence he knew the villages. The delivery boy will be someone else.”
“So they will deliver it to our house?”
“Yes.”
“And who pays?”
“We have paid already.”
“But you haven't met him yet...”
The father appeared at the door and reported that no one had come. “Oh, he just left. That would take 10 minutes.” He went back to the gate, and waited.
Soon, we heard a shout from the gate: “He is here!” As the men exchanged pleasantries at the gate, the sisters, the mother and the grandmother peeked out of the house. Questions about this delivery system continued.
When the food was brought in, the anticipation dissipated and the elders sauntered inside the house. Plates were procured from the kitchen and I was asked to take the first bite.
“No! I refuse. I have eaten.”
“Don’t be an idiot.”
“Fine. Just one bite.”
I ended up taking three bites. It was quite good. The way shawarmas tend to be.
The cooked dinner was used for lunch the following day.
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