Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (23 page)
Read Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. Online
Authors: Gabbar Singh,Anuj Gosalia,Sakshi Nanda,Rohit Gore
“What’s wrong?” enquired her father. “Ma’s certificate,” she mumbled.
“We need to do something,” he said. “She won’t get an Aadhar card with-
out it.” A shadow of worry added to his already anxious countenance.
Lately, he had started to look increasingly harassed.
She couldn’t blame him. The last ten years, a living collage of hysterical
words, angered voices, and slammed doors, had exacted their toll on her
father. Feeling choked yet again, Dola had to shake herself forcefully.
Perhaps, this was the stuff that families were made of—fractured bonds,
unspoken hurt, a nameless loyalty, and memories of happier times.
Once in her office, Dola once more forgot about the birth certificate.
She quickly immersed herself in revising sterile excel sheets and scruti-
nizing banal budgetary expenditure. Working under a blinking halogen
bulb, with just terrible coffee for consolation, Dola was only conscious
of the waves of loneliness overwhelming her at intervals. She kept wrap-
ping her shawl tighter around her, as if wanting to never emerge from
it, as if it were a cocoon. Only at lunchtime, did she recall the matter of
the certificate and sent out a fifth mail to the Germans. It was already
January; she had first written to them in November. “It’s no point writing
to the Indian authorities. They know nothing. I was born in Germany,”
Shotorupa had pointedly said, when she had suggested approaching the
Indian authorities first.
She was, of course, not German—only born in Germany to a parent in
the Indian Foreign Services. How did she come to lose her birth certifi-
cate? Dola didn’t know the exact story. But something to the effect that
Shotorupa had faced neglect as a child – since her own mother had re-
mained too unwell to take care of her. A misguided father had placed her
in the care of relatives—they had given Shotorupa a vague education, a
roof to live under, and had lacked concern about her documents, and her.
None of this had made Shotorupa a weak person, on the contrary she
was a woman of steel, and it was easy to tell— by the way she carried her-
self, and in the determined set of her nose and chin. No, you would think
twice before trifling with her. Naturally, Shotorupa could not stop ruing
the fact that she could have had, what she liked to call a ‘sterling career’—
she never tired of reminding her girls that they, too, must have sterling
careers. “Have a sterling career and then marry,” she would intone.
Though the Germans had been prompt in responding, it did nothing to
assuage her mother’s fears. Each day, unfailingly, from her perch on the
comforter, with a palm against her forehead and eyes closed, Shotorupa
would enquire, “Did you write?”
If Dola had forgotten or been busy, which was often, she would mumble,
‘No, there was no time today.”
“I
knew
you would say that,” Shotorupa would say. Sometimes, Shoto-
rupa did not even need to ask. Over the years, they had managed to read
each other’s expressions precisely; words were unnecessary. Displeasure
and even reminders were silently communicated. She would simply gaze
at her; and Dola, quick to take such cues—and if she had followed up
with the Germans, would respond: “Birth certificate? I remember. I have
already written to them.”
until I have my certificate.”
from the German Standsmat.
“Dear Sir, (they had not understood that Dola was a woman). We re
-
ceived your Mail from the general register Hamburg. Before we can send
you the birth certificate of your mother we need a copy of your birth
certificate to proof the alliance. As soon as we get this document we will
send you the certificate with a bill of 12 Euros.”
“Is 12 Euros a lot of money?” Shotorupa asked. Dola quickly said: “No
Ma. It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.” Dola did not care about the money, she
was only thankful that the Germans had managed to locate Shotorupa’s
birth records after all these years. And this was because Shotorupa still
remembered the name of the hospital in Hamburg that she was born in.
She could, even now, recite the exact address of the house she had lived,
in the Netherlands, as a seven-year-old. As for Dola’s own certificate, it
was a firmly creased, yellowing sheet of paper. It should have been in
shreds long ago, but for the hard lamination. Her father had ensured that
she stored all her certificates in a sturdy leather-bound file.
He was a careful man; and an organized one. His cupboard was neat as
a pin and his room—airy and spartan. He was also remarkably creative,
with his eclectic taste in music and books, and intuitive insight about her
work. But these sensitive and finer qualities were becoming less and less
visible. Nowadays, she often saw him doze off, in the middle of the day,
with a troubled furrow on his head. This greatly alarmed her- she wished
she had the money to send him to the African jungles or a vast pretty
beach, where he could rediscover his element and cheer.
***
One cold February day, the Germans wrote to her, “Dear Sir. We send
the certificate on 21
st
January 2014.”
That evening when Shotorupa opened the door, Dola did not enter the
house. Shivering at the doorstep, she first relayed the news and, only
then, stepped in. “
Kobe, kobe
?” demanded Shotorupa.
An unusually long winter had fed into March. Dola felt robbed of spring
and Shotorupa could not stop fretting about the birth certificate. “Does
it really take so long? Write to them again? Ask for a courier,” she said to
her daughter.
“We have still not received the certificate. Could you please tell me if
you sent it by post or courier? Kindly clarify. By when can we expect to
receive it?”
The response was worrying: “Dear Sir. We send the certificate by post.
I don´t know why don´t receive the document yet. We will send you
the certificate once again.”
Dola sent them mail after mail: “Please send us an update on the status
of the birth certificate. My mother is getting quite worried. Regular post
in India is very unreliable and is unlikely to reach us. You may need to
send it through registered post or speed post in order for it to reach us.”
and email it. We have still not received the certificate by post. ”
“Could you give us an update please? We have been waiting pretty long.
Would appreciate if you could tell us the status of the birth certificate.”
Yet the Germans faded off the trail. Shotorupa grew restless: “I know
I’m not getting my certificate. They’re a bunch of frauds!”
***
“Give me their address. I will send them a hand-written letter,” Shoto
-
rupa announced one rainy morning in April. Summer had been given
a miss, and it felt like monsoon. Dola decided to be thorough. She not
only jotted down the address, but also printed out the entire email trail
and summed it up in a single document. Shotorupa still maintained a
steady stream of hand-written correspondence with some friends and
relatives. Dola was used to seeing her mother’s large determined scrawl
in Bengali cover several sheets of paper. When her friends urged her to
send emails, Shotorupa obstinately refused to learn. When one handwritten letter brought neither response nor certificate from Germany,
Shotorupa decided to write another in July. But she had misplaced the
document summarizing Dola’s communication with the Germans. Dola
had assumed it would not be needed, and had deleted it, only to wonder
immediately after if she had made a mistake. She greeted the news of
the misplaced document with exasperation- a silent exasperation. Shoto-
rupa, no stranger either to silent cues, defended herself: “People can lose
things. Get me the document tomorrow.”
The months sped by and barring the odd terse statement from the Ger
-
mans that they had sent the birth certificate, and there was nothing more
they could do. The heat of the summer had fully descended and Dola
soon got tired of the exercise. Her mother, however, did not tire of re-
minding her. Each time her mother raised her eyebrows at her, she knew
what her mother was thinking about. She began ignoring the cues— she
had done all that she could possibly have, and now she only felt a sense
of irritation. The silence between the two women burgeoned through the
monsoon. Before Dola knew it, another November was looming large.
Her father began to look perpetually haunted. He was of course aware
that the certificate had not arrived. But he trusted Dola’s ability to get
the job done. As for Dola—she was forcing herself to feel nothing—she
padded herself with only thick shields of indifference and numbness.
One day her phone rang at her work. She heard her mother scream on
the other end. Dola panicked. What bad tidings did she have now? For
a second or two, Shotorupa was incoherent. Upon careful hearing, Dola
managed to discern the words ‘birth certificate’, ‘today’, and ‘Embassy
courier’. Shotorupa had not sounded this happy in a long time. Dola’s
mouth curved in her first real smile in many months. She couldn’t wait to
get home and share her mother’s excitement. She finished work early, for
the first time with a smile, and reached home in time for dinner. “Did you
tell Papa and Didi? What fun! You have your certificate now,” she asked
Shotorupa, who had already eaten and was sipping her customary cup of
hot water post dinner.
plied, “They got the year wrong.”
23.
One A Penny
Krshna Prashant
It was Gupta uncle’s gift to Gaurav on his birthday. “You are a big boy
now, you must start saving money,” he said, as the scrawny boy reached
for the clay piggy bank. There was a coin in it already. It made a loud
clinking noise when he shook it. “Take this,” Papa said, handing him
another coin. He dropped it in gently and shook it again. This time it
was louder.
Gaurav soon grew obsessed with his piggy bank. He would ask for his
weekly pocket money in nothing but coins. He would pick up the loose
change on the bookshelf, the bottom of drawers, on Ma’s dressing table,
anywhere. He stopped buying panipuri at the stall outside school. He
couldn’t wait to get back home and drop each coin in, slowly, one at
a time, before he resumed his search around the house again. It kept
him occupied in the evenings. When the other boys played gully crick-
et, he would sit on the sidelines, watching them cheer, yell and curse as
wickets fell and boundaries were made. He would never get picked on a
team. “Too slow, too weak,” they would say.
Every night before he went to bed, he would hold his piggy bank to his
ear and shake it. And every night, it would be a little heavier. The sound
getting softer, albeit more powerful. One day, his coins didn’t slip in. He
shook it, hoping that would make some space. But it was full.
It was time to break it. He watched as countless coins scattered across
the floor. More than he had ever imagined. ‘At least 100 rupees in loose
change!’ Gaurav estimated, feeling a sense of pride that he hadn’t felt in
months. He picked them up and handed them over to Ma. He had no use
for them. He had scored his century.
“Nihal has failed the math assignment. Please make sure he does his
homework.”
Third note this month. Aai had had enough. “I will not sign it, you
show it to Baba”.
“Please Aai, last time! It won’t happen again,” Nihal begged, following
her into the kitchen. She ignored him, making her way to the kitchen
counter to peel the potatoes for dinner. Nihal needed to act fast. Baba
would be here soon. He tugged at her saree.”I’ve heard this too many
times Nihal,” Aai finally spoke, giving him some hope. “I just want one
last chance Aai! Please! I promise!”
She looked down at her son, his tear stained cheeks, red eyes, sniffing
softly between his words. She felt a strong burst of affection for him. She
wanted to pick him up and smother him with kisses, but she fought it.
into his eyes with as stern a look as she could muster.
That evening, Nihal called Prakash. “I’ll need your help tomorrow,” he
whispered.
“5 rupees per question you copy.”
That morning before the assignment, Nihal handed him all the money
in his wallet. He kept his eyes on the ground on his way home, trying
his best to ignore the smell of samosa chaat, the growing mob at the
panipuri stall and the rhythmic chant of the sugarcane juice uncle. It was
going to be a hard week. He pictured the look on Aai’s face when she sees
the marks from this week’s assignment, and suddenly, it was all worth it.
Suddenly, the chaat seemed less tasty, the sugarcane juice less sweet.
Prakash held his sister’s hand on the way to the Mela that evening. He
looked around, enamoured. Horse rides, merry go rounds, cotton candy,
toys, fortune-tellers. His eyes darted across the place, teenage girls buying
bindis, aunties bargaining, teenage boys sheepishly picking bangles for
their girlfriends. One day, he would open a stall at the Mela, he told her.
“
Birds for sale,
” said a board in one corner. His eyes widened as he went
closer. Love birds, talking parrots, doves everywhere. In different colours,
shapes and sizes. It was beautiful. “How much?” He said, pointing to a
white dove. “130.”
He counted the money in his wallet. He had only 120. “You can have
this one for 120,” she said, pointing to a similar dove with a black spot
on its wing.
When he turned around to show it to Anu, she wasn’t there. He panicked.
“Have you seen my sister? She is 4, this tall?” he asked the lady at the
shop. She shook her head. He scanned the growing crowd at the Mela, his
heart beating so hard it hurt. He walked fast, but he didn’t know where to
go. “Someone must’ve taken her,” he thought, his eyes welling up.