I slump down on the chair next to his. ‘What can you see?’
‘The way it’s going to look after a renovation. We’ll get new tables and chairs, and we’ll have a big, fancy sign up on that wall’ – he nods to where he’s looking – ‘that’ll say the restaurant’s new name. Nobody’ll even know what this place used to be, and we can have a relaunch to celebrate the new place.’
‘You’re going to rename it?’ I ask. I’m fully onboard with all of Deen’s renovation plans, I always have been, but the restaurant’s name is something that Baba picked out: Ekushey. If you translate it literally, it just means twenty-first, but in reality, it means the day we honour the martyrs of the Bengali language movement: the twenty-first of February. After our victory day, it’s probably the most celebrated occasion for Bengali people. Baba lost one of his uncles on that day; he had more reason than many towant to commemorate it and so he had, in the form of this place. His dreams; for his uncle and for his people.
‘I know the name meant a lot to Baba …’ Deen says slowly, carefully. ‘But people don’t know what it means unless they’re Bengali. I thought something more catchy would help attract people, you know? Maybe something like Calcutta Kitchen.’
‘We’re from Bangladesh, not West Bengal,’ I point out drily.
‘You know what I mean,’ Deen says. ‘Besides, Indian restaurants do better than Bengali restaurants. Maybe that’s what the rebrand needs to be.’
‘Hm,’ is all I say, because while I get what Deen is trying to do, I don’t know if I want him to do those things. It feels like he’s stomping all over Baba’s dreams.
Deen finally turns to me with a frown. ‘Hm? What is that supposed to mean?’
‘Just hm,’ I say.
‘Since when do you reserve your opinion from me?’
‘I’m not reserving my opinion, I’m just … thinking about it.’
Deen clearly doesn’t believe that I’m taking my time to think about it, but he still humours me, talking me through his vision for the restaurant. How he would redecorate, what the new menu would look like, the dishes that he would have on it.
‘Is this really what you want?’ I ask finally, once he’s done.
‘Yeah, obviously. Aren’t you the one who talked me into it?’
‘I talked you into doing something with the restaurant, notthisspecifically. It’s just that this is your chance to make this place whatyouwant it to be. Not what Baba dreamtof, or what Ma wants to maintain it as. But, also, not what other people want, or what you think they want,’ I say. ‘Your food is good, Deen. Some of the best food ever, you know that. So make this place your vision. Not someone else’s. And if that includes changing the name and calling it an Indian restaurant, then OK, I’ll support you. But if that’s not what you want, don’t throw away this opportunity.’
I feel better after saying my piece.
Deen sighs and sits back on his chair. ‘Yeah, you’re right. I don’t know. I was doing all of this research into the restaurant business, and I feel like I got caught up in this idea of wanting this place to be a success. I mean, Idowant this place to be success, but maybe … that doesn’t mean I have to take away from what makes it special.’
‘I agree.’ I give him an encouraging pat on the shoulder. ‘Instead, think about all of the things we’ve talked about in the past. All of the wild ideas we’ve had for this place.’
‘Right, they never involved changing the name or advertising ourselves as not being Bangladeshi. Just being … more,’ Deen says. He has a faraway look in his eyes and I know that he’s already envisioning something – the dreams that he’s told me about for the past few years. I can see them too, unfolding in front of me in this restaurant. I want to have hope for my brother that this place will be successful soon, that it will be brimming with customers. But even if that doesn’t happen, I’ll still be proud of him for giving his dream his best shot, and not compromising.
‘I might need to dip into my savings to do everything that needs to be done,’ Deen says after a moment. He’s always been scrupulous with his money, something that I would never have expected from him. But after Baba passed away, Deen was stuck with the responsibility for what feltlike everything, and it made him more careful. Far from the kid in school who got detention every other day and almost got suspended on more than a few occasions.
‘It’ll be worth it,’ I say encouragingly. ‘And whatever happens, I’ll be here with you. Just tell me what I need to do and I’ll do it.’
Deen gives me a smile. ‘So, how are things going with the team?’
I groan. That’s the last thing I want to talk about.
‘Another loss, huh?’ Deen asks.
‘We got closer this time,’ I say. ‘I’m proud of them, but I just wish they could magically become superstar footballers overnight.’
‘They’ll get there eventually.’ And I know Deen is right, I just worry that eventually might be too late for the match against Westbrook – which will send a whole slew of disappointment through everyone on the team. There’s less than two weeks left until the match, and we still have a long way to go until we’re ready to beat them.
‘You had that catering job Aisha got you this week, right? How did that go?’
‘It was fine.’ I shrug. I haven’t told Deen about the fundraiser, running into Maya there and what transpired between us. Because I know that he will read more into it than he should, give me hope about something that I don’t even want to think about.
‘Just fine?’ he probes.
‘It was a job. I was a server. That was it.’
