One Plate Extra
Before the first guest of any wedding sat down, Dinesh Modi put out one extra plate. He had done it for thirty years, and he never said who it was for.
Tonight was a wedding of four hundred guests in a hall in Adajan, Surat. At six o'clock, with the band already tuning up outside, Dinesh filled a steel thali with everything on the menu: dal, kadhi, two sabzis, puri, rice, sweet. He carried it to the last table of the hall and set it in front of the last chair. Then he put down a glass of water.
Chintu, his new helper, watched with his mouth open. He was nineteen and had joined the catering team a week ago.
“Sir, who is that for?”
“Don't ask,” said Dinesh. “My father's rule. One full plate, at the last chair, before anyone sits. Nobody touches it. Nobody moves it.”
“But a plate costs four hundred rupees.”
“Then you can pay for it out of your own pocket, or you can follow the rule.” Dinesh clicked the small silver counter in his hand, the one he used at the gate to count guests. “Go and check the puri.”
Chintu went. He did not like it. In his village, you did not waste food, and this plate would be thrown away at midnight, untouched.