Pizza Delivery

The wind felt cool against Neel's hands, as he weaved through traffic on his motorcycle. It was nine o' clock at night. Another hour of pizza delivery and he'd be home in time for dinner with his mother. After his father's death, this job had given him stability. Well, relatively anyway; a job involving riding a motorcycle fast to make in-time deliveries only provided so much stability. At the end of the day, bringing bread to the dining table mattered more.

He put these thoughts away, and tried to concentrate on the task at hand, a double delivery. Neel had suggested this particular idea to the management. Clubbing two simultaneous orders together whose destinations had close proximity would reduce significant effort and free up more time. The management didn't think it would work for their location. Neel made it work. Hopefully, he was moving up the proverbial ladder. He accelerated past a car and glared at the driver who was taking up two lanes. Three more kilometers and he would be in the suburbs. The swank slowly faded away and was replaced with service and working class motifs. The city was a work of art and the more you explored it, the more you recognised its patterns. A giant machine made of shiny as well as dirty parts, working as a whole, supporting lives.

His past rounds through this particular neighbourhood had taught him to be careful. Crime was rampant in the city and this is where it liked to hide.

He went up to the first apartment on the delivery schedule and rang the doorbell. A young man opened the door. Inspector Rao, who helped him get away with traffic rule violations, had taught him to glance over a room and make mental notes. It was a commonplace hall without any furniture except the sofa and a small table. On the sofa sat a pretty lady, with an expensive looking briefcase open in front of her. Neel caught a glimpse of a canvas frame as she hastily closed the briefcase. Looking back at the guy, Neel noticed that he was drunk.

"Sir, your pizza," said Neel.

"Oh, hi! Here, let me take that. I'm very happy today. Are you happy today, my man?" asked the guy.

"Yes sir, sure. That will be four hundred and thirty bucks."

"Hmm... Here, take this," said the guy, and handed Neel a thousand rupee note. "You have any more deliveries after this?"

"Yeah, I've got one more around here."

"Alright, don't take money for that one. And if anything's left, you pocket it. How does that sound?"

Neel gave him a puzzled look. The next order was worth three hundred something. This would turn out to be a very healthy tip. It would be even healthier if he charged the next customer, but he knew he wouldn't be able to do that. "That sounds really good," he managed to say.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked the lady, raising her voice with every word.

The guy turned around and said, "Just paying it forward."

"Thank a lot, sir. Now I'll be on my way. Good night," said Neel.

"Oh, don't thank me, thank Mr. Dutta," said the guy.

"Will you shut up?" called out the lady as the guy shut the door.

That was weird as hell. Even with his share of deliveries, this one registered as one of the strangest ones yet. Nevertheless, he wouldn't look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially when he stood to win a heavy tip. The next stop was an apartment two streets down. He revved the bike and cut through the darkness.

He walked up a flight of stairs and rang the doorbell to the apartment mentioned in the address. He couldn't hear anything inside. The bell must be broken, he thought; and knocked on the door. A middle-aged woman answered it. The room was a small one, with a dining table to one side. A bottle of wine sat on top of it, which was in contrast to the old and dingy apartment.

"Yes?" asked the woman.

"Here's your pizza, ma'am," said Neel.

"Ahh, you got here in time! Wait, let me get my purse," said the woman.

"Umm... There's no need for that, ma'am. Actually, our last customer paid for your pizza. So, you don't have to pay me."

"Who on earth does that?? Well, my husband and I are celebrating our wedding anniversary tonight. The day just keeps getting better and better."

"Congratulations, ma'am! Wish you all the best for your future. I'll be off now."

"Wait, let me give you something," said the woman, as she turned and went back into the apartment. She came back with a plum cake and handed it over to Neel. "We run a small bakery. This is for being honest, and in time. Good night." said the woman, as she smiled at Neel.

"Thanks a lot, ma'am! You were right, the day keeps getting better and better. Good night!" exclaimed Neel, as he turned on his heels and jogged down the stairs.

Neel got on his bike and switched on the ignition. The bike hummed to life. This was one day he wouldn't be forgetting soon. He made his way to the pizza joint. There wouldn't be any more deliveries, hopefully. He could almost taste the chicken curry his mother would have prepared. Once he got to the store, though, his hopes were dashed. There were a couple more calls. Some of the delivery boys had already left for home. The store manager asked him to do these and promised him they would be the last ones he did today. He agreed reluctantly.

Looking at the two orders, he worked out the locations mentally. They were situated in the finer parts of the city. Delivering them both in one shot was doable. Also, the second order was from one of his regulars, Inspector Rao. He wouldn't mind going to the Inspector's home. The first customer was a Mr. Dutta. Why did that name ring a bell? Oh, right, the drunk philanthropist had asked him to thank Mr. Dutta for the tip he received.

He made his way to the upscale end of the city, where the rich and powerful had their dens. Mr. Dutta was affluent, apparently. He parked his bike at the gates of the apartment, and took the lift up to the ninth floor. The apartment door was already open. He looked in. The hall was artistically decorated. One wall was lined with vertical lighting. The other wall was covered with framed paintings, both large and small, but symmetrically arranged. There was a wooden bookshelf full of books and journals, a plush sofa with a wooden coffee table further in front of it. On each side of the coffee table was an easy chair, one of which was occupied by a middle-aged man, with his back to the door.

"Hi sir, here's your pizza," called out Neel. No reaction. The man didn't even move a muscle. Neel called out again, "Excuse me, Mr. Dutta?"

The man jerked into motion and turned his head. He got up and walked towards Neel. His face was pale and his glances furtive. "Sorry, I didn't hear you there. Hello! How much is it?" he asked. There was a hint of nervousness in his voice.

"Five hundred and sixty bucks, sir. You have a lovely apartment."

"Thank you. Working in a gallery does have its learning opportunities. Keep the change," said the man, as he handed Neel the cash.

"Thanks, sir. Good night!"

And now, on to the last delivery of the day. Inspector Rao. Neel had known the Inspector since he was a kid. He was a friend of Neel's father. The Inspector always thought of Neel as a clever kid. There were still a couple of kilometers to the Inspector's house, as he kept thinking about these last few deliveries. Something was forming in his head, but it was still fuzzy and foggy. He came up to the Inspector's door, half of his mind still on the events of the night. He rang the doorbell.

Inspector Rao answered the door but he had a phone to his ear. He was talking to someone. He signaled for Neel to come in. "When did this happen? ... Uh huh, so you are sure it's a fake? ... Ok. ... Yes, I'll look into it, and meanwhile, don't let anybody know about this. ... No, not even the curator. Yes, and call me if anything new comes up. See if you can get the footage up. ... It has been erased? Alright. Talk to you later."

"New case?" enquired Neel.

"Yes, there's been a theft in the gallery. That was the assistant curator on the phone. He was exhibiting the gallery's collection to some private guests, when they pointed out that one of the paintings seemed like a reproduction of the original. On closer inspection he'd found out that it was indeed fake and the painting had a faint oily smell. The painting must have been replaced quite recently. I'll have a look at it in the morning. So, how are you?"

The wheels began to turn and his thoughts started to take shape. The hasty closing of the briefcase, the generosity of the guy, the mention of the name Dutta, Mr. Dutta's apartment, the frames on the wall. Something was vaguely familiar about them. Had he seen one before? But he had never set foot in a gallery. Yes!!! The frame in the briefcase. "You said that the guy you were talking to was the assistant curator. Do you know who the curator is?"

"Oh yes, a Mr. Dutta."

...

On the way home, Neel kept thinking about all the coincidences that had to fall in place for the whole thing to take a form it had taken over the past two hours. Once the Inspector had heard of the other deliveries, he had left his home in a rush. If anything materialized, he would hear from the Inspector in the morning. And he had a feeling, this time it would be more than just a healthy tip.

"Hi mom! Sorry, I got late while working on the last couple of deliveries. Did you have dinner?"

"No, I was waiting for you. Let's eat."

They never went to bed immediately after dinner, so they sat down in front of the television.

"You know, I am having a real craving for dessert." said his mother.

Neel had all but forgotten about the plum cake. He took it out of his bag and handed it to her.

"Who gave you that?"

"The god-damned universe!" answered Neel, with a wry smile.