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Masalas Express · Chapter 1

The Order from Nowhere

A snow night in Köpenick. A ticket prints itself: cold, no street. Masu knows the mark on it and goes quiet. Biru takes the bag and runs.

Cover: Masalas Express, Chapter 1: The Order from Nowhere. On the left the warm kitchen with Masu at the tandoor, on the right a cold blue city where a road climbs a tower wall. In the middle Biru bursts on all fours out of a circle of liquid glass, the golden delivery bag blazing on his back, snowflakes hanging in a ring.

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Page 1, four panels. A snowy street in Köpenick at night, a small Indian restaurant glowing warm: "Köpenick. A snow night. Almost closing time." In the kitchen Masu polishes a big pot while Biru licks an empty bowl. Masu: "Another day. Another victory." Biru: "Masu… is there anything left?" Masu: "You had three portions." Biru: "That was ten minutes ago!" The ticket printer on the wall switches on by itself, cable hanging loose: RRRRT. "The printer was already off." A ticket curls out, frost spreads. Biru: "An order! This late?" Masu: "Why… is it cold?"

Page 2, four panels. The frozen ticket: 1 × Butter Chicken, 1 × Naan, HOT, Address: dash. Below it in blue an old mark, a thin ring with one small gap. Biru holds it up, beaming: "No street! Genius! So no traffic either!" Masu has seen the mark and freezes, his big spoon falls from his paw: ting… ting… Then he smiles broadly, but his eyes do not. Biru: "Masu? You're so quiet. That's new." Masu: "All good, my friend. Warm up the naan."

Page 3, four panels. The tandoor flame bends sideways and the kitchen light turns cold and blue: WUUUM. A circle of liquid glass floats in the tandoor's round mouth. Biru: "Masu! The tandoor made a round naan! A cold one!" Masu's warm paw touches it and the glass turns to water: TSSSS. Masu: "Warmth can't go through there." Biru's blue paw makes it still and hard, a frost ring grows, a blue spark jumps. Biru: "Oh! Nice and cold!" Masu, very quiet in the background: "Of course. You."

Page 4, four panels. Masu packs butter chicken in a sealed pot with hot naan into the golden bag. Masu: "I can't leave, Biru. If I go, the warmth goes." Three small jars fly into the bag: chili, a spring lid, a tiny ladle. Masu: "Chili. Lid. Ladle. And three flaps. Fall three times and the food is snow." Masu zips Biru into the red puffy jacket and pulls the bobble hat over his eyes. Biru: "But I'm never cold!" Masu: "The jacket is for me." He presses an earpiece into Biru's ear. Masu: "I'm in your ear. Don't stop. If you stop, the winter wins." Biru: "And if I get hungry?" Masu: "BIRU. NO SNACKING." Biru: "Me? Never."

Page 5, two panels. Biru is stuck halfway in the tandoor, back legs kicking, Masu pushing with a huge ladle. Biru: "I'm stuck!" Masu: "Three portions!" Below, a huge tunnel of cold white-blue light with snowflakes hanging in rings. Tiny Biru spins through it, the golden bag the only warm thing: PLOPP. "Cold. Colder. And then…"

Page 6, four panels. A city of giant blue glass towers with gold seams, wheel-less cars floating by, a road climbing a tower wall. Tiny Biru stands sideways on it. "New Haven. Here, 'down' is only a setting." Biru: "Masu? The road goes up." Masu on the radio: "Then run up." Biru runs clumsily on two feet, the bag hits him on the head. Masu: "On all fours, Biru! Like before!" Biru stops, puzzled: "Like before?" Masu in the kitchen bites his spoon: "…Like… in the ad video! Go!"

Page 7, four panels, speed. Biru runs on all fours up the tower road, embers streaming. Biru: Pip! Pip! Masu: "Left!" Biru smacks into a crate: BONK! Biru: Ouch! Masu in shaky letters: "O-o-other left!" A wave of white frost races behind Biru. Masu: "The food's going cold! Don't slow down!" Biru bites open a chili jar, a red flame trail bursts out and the frost falls behind. Biru: Hee hee hee! Masu in huge hero letters: "Chalo, Biru! CHALO!"

Page 8, four panels, the quiet page. On a narrow bridge on a glass tower Biru stops, panting, golden steam curling from the bag. Biru: "Just… one bite. A really small one." He lifts a flap, the butter chicken steams, frost climbs his tail. "The cold does not wait." Masu alone at the stove, eyes closed, quiet on the radio: "Biru. Someone up there is freezing." Biru closes the flap, a tear rolls, his chin stays up. Biru: "…I'm not even hungry." "It was the biggest lie of his life."

Page 9, four panels. A cold narrow street, tired people in thick coats. A small girl points at the glowing mark on Biru's bag: "The mark! Look, the mark!" Biru runs on all fours, people step aside and open a lane, an old man puts a hand on his heart, children run laughing beside him: "The blue one! The blue one is back!" Thought bubble, Biru blushing: Wow. They really love our food. Masu alone in the kitchen, a paw on a closed wooden spice box, soft and sad: "Yes, Biru. The food."

Page 10, four panels. A tiny door high on a thin bridge outside a glass tower, buried in frost, one small amber lamp. Biru arrives out of breath, the bag's glow small, and knocks: Knock. Knock. The door opens, a very small, very old woman in many shawls, frost on her eyebrows, bright eyes. Her thin hands hold a bowl of steaming butter chicken with hot naan, golden light on her face, colour in it for the first time: "Still hot." Frost melts from the door frame outward, the lamp burns brighter, Biru hops with both paws up. Stamp: TEAM MASALAS!

Page 11, four panels. Biru's jacket has slipped off his left shoulder showing the small pale mark, a thin ring with a gap. The old woman smiles, a hand on her heart: "You're late." Biru: "Traffic! A road went up!" She takes a very old folded paper from her shawls and closes his paw around it: "Very late. But you came. Your tip." It is an old child's crayon drawing: a round orange and a small round blue figure holding up a broken bridge over many tiny people, the ring with a gap above. Biru: "They look like us! Only cooler." The old woman raises one finger in a gentle scold, a small smile: "Ask the cook." Biru whispers into his earpiece: "Masu, who are those two?" Masu at the stove, a long silence: "…Fans."

Page 12, four panels. Back in the warm kitchen the tandoor has spat Biru onto the floor, hat crooked, snowflakes around him. He hugs a whole pot and eats from it. Biru: "Done! I was genius, right?" Masu with a huge proud smile: "Yes, Biru. Genius." At night Biru sleeps by the tandoor with an empty pot on his belly while Masu alone unfolds the old drawing in the firelight. He opens the spice box: under the jars lies a thick stack of old drawings and frosted tickets, all with the ring and gap. He lays the new one on top, smiling, one tear running. "Sometimes the heart cries and the face smiles." The printer lights up again: RRRRT. A new ticket curls out, dripping a thick white drop of lassi, the mark on it. Biru opens one eye: "I'm going…" "To be continued: Chapter 2."