Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (24 page)

Just then, “Dada! You bought a bird!” came a squeaky voice from the
bangle stall. “Anu!” He screamed, bursting into tears, anger and relief
overwhelming him. He picked her up and left without another word,
glaring suspiciously at anyone who gave her a second look on the way
home.

That evening, Prakash went up to his terrace and set the bird free. It
flew away instantly, soaring into the sky without looking back. It
seemed to know exactly where it was going. Prakash stayed back
on the terrace a while longer, watching it disappear. He felt lighter.
He made his way to his room to see Anu sleeping. He threw his arm
around her as he drifted into sleep, hoping the dove found its brother.

“Here, take this. Don’t loiter around,” Ma said, handing him 100 rupees
and a grocery list. Sameer trotted through the gully, lost in thought. He
walked past the panipuri guy, the sugarcane juice uncle, even
Fun Time
Toyshop
without a second thought. When he was about to cross the road
at
Lakshmi Theatres
, something caught his eye. Madhuri Dixit.

Her eyes, her smile, her hair, her hips. He stood there, staring at the
poster of
Beta
on the wall, caught in her spell. He looked down at the
crisp hundred-rupee note in his hand. He didn’t need to think twice. He
walked up to the counter, and said “One ticket, uncle.” The bespectacled
man wondered where the voice came from; he looked over the counter to
see a little boy standing on his toes expectantly looking back at him.

She tugged at his heartstrings with every move, tear and smile. He watched
her, speechless, oblivious to the couple kissing in the row ahead of him,
the loud aunties who predicted what would happen after every scene,
and the several wolf-whistles that resounded through the small, rundown
theatre. He walked back home slowly, humming the songs, the sound of
her laughter ringing loud in his head.

“Where the hell have you been? And where is my stuff,” Ma yelled, grab
-
bing his ear when he rang the doorbell. He winced, trying to break free.
“Wait till your father comes back, no pocket money for you this week!”
She gave him a tight slap across his face. Tears stung his eyes, as he made
his way to the room. The poster of Madhuri on his wall greeted him. He
looked at her, accusingly at first, until her smile melted his heart, again.

That night, the boys fell asleep with the strange sense of satisfaction you
get from having everything you could ever want, despite an empty pocket
afterward.

It was called Poets Café. The hottest new destination for the city’s literati,
where Keats met Angelou and Gibran adorned the walls. Lalita adjusted
the pallu of her sari as she surveyed the place from her couch, her eyes
flitting from table to table as she inhaled the aroma of coffee in the
air. These people, huddled together, cocooned in conversations… That
elderly gentleman in a crumpled kurta, immersed in his book, his table
littered with the many cups of tea he had sipped absently; his tobaccostained fingers caressing the pages of his book. As she took another sip
of her cappuccino, Lalita gave the woman seated next to her a grateful
smile. It had been almost six months since she had met Mahi at a com-
mon friend’s painting exhibition and they had hit it off instantly. Mahi,
as bold as she was sexy, her opinions loud and laughter louder, was a
contrast to the demure, soft-spoken Lalita. Tonight, Mahi was dressed to
hunt and kill – her rich-cream coloured short-skirt hugging her tiny waist,
showcasing her gorgeous, tanned legs, the cobalt blue silk top with its ex-
tra button left carelessly open, more than hinting at her ample cleavage.

“Mahi, I know, this is far from your idea of a happening Friday evening
but this is just the kind of place I have been craving for. And aren’t you
glad to get a respite from the likes of Vicky, Shicky and Sonu trying to
impress us with their branded watches, bulging biceps, and their daddy’s
cars and depress us with their pea-sized brains? Gosh, I can’t remem-
ber the last time I had a remotely intelligent conversation with a decent
looking guy. And if you do happen to meet one who doesn’t make you
wince with his lack of manners, grammar and depth, he’s either hitched
or prefers guys!”

The two were chortling when Lalita’s ears caught a deep baritone that
was balm to her aching soul. She caught his back – uncompromisingly
erect; his shirt unmistakably Fab India, and his head – a mass of jumbled
curls.

It was as if Lalita had willed his pen to drop noisily on the floor, when he
turned around to pick it up but ended up looking into her kohl-rimmed
eyes, the woman in the red ikkat, her glistening tresses partially hiding her
full mouth.

At that moment, Lalita experienced what she had only read about and
fantasized. Looking at someone and feeling as if you’ve known him for-
ever, falling together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, only to feel whole
again. When he smiled, it lit up Lalita’s eyes with unseen hopes lurking
in the horizon.

“Hi, I am Sivan,” his hands felt so warm and soft that Lalita felt like hold
-
ing on to them forever. Mahi knew her friend was hopelessly lost when
she asked Sivan to join them at their table. He ordered another round of
coffee with scones for the pair before settling in with his cup of Darjeel-
ing Tea, his long legs crossed over one another.

It had been nearly 17 hours since Munna had last slept. His eyelids felt
like lead. As he swerved to avoid that gaping pothole on the road, he
caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His bloodshot eyes, jutting
out like raw wounds from his gaunt face ravaged by the sun, looked back
menacingly at him.
Just two more hours and I’ll be done
. He burped and the
putrid smell of alcohol and keema-kaleji he’d had at Prince Dhaba made
him wince. Their quality had definitely deteriorated. The last time he had
had kaleji at Prince, he got welts and the hakim inspecting his crotch was
convinced he’d got it from one of the brothels. He scratched his balls at
the memory. God, it felt so good. His reverie was broken by the sounds
of feeble crying coming from the back of his tempo.
Damn, I’d better hurry
or she’ll get me in trouble!
He pressed the accelerator hard, honking furiously
at the red car in front of him. He could make out the outline of a woman
sitting on the backseat talking on the phone.

The applause was deafening as Sarla Maheshwari finished her address.
Her face was flushed as she scanned the audience – thousands of young
women had gathered to hear her speak.

It had started with the life-sized hoardings of the new Mangola ad. Hunny
Leone, Bollywood’s hottest new export plastered all over town, holding
an over-ripe mango, its juice trickling down her twins that were popping
out of her miniscule dress. It had sent the mercury soaring and the sales
of the drink zooming to an all-time high. Nobody minded its artificial
flavour and sickening sweetness as long as it was endorsed by Hunny,
their favourite wet dream. A few weeks ago, a young girl on her way back
from work was accosted by a group of inebriated men. She was alone,
they were bored, and she was now in the hospital fighting for her life.
The reaction was typical – people blamed the apathy of the police force,
the police in turn blamed her, the public got outraged, ministers gave
long-winded lectures on deteriorating morals and the Vanar Sena, the
self-appointed guardian of women’s morals, went on a rampage, bringing
down hoardings of the Mangola ad, blaming Hunny for all that’s wrong
with society. They were now demanding a ban on all her movies.

Hunny was smarter than she looked. The next day she was at Vanar Se
-
na’s chief’s residence dressed in salwar kameez to seek his blessings for
her next movie – Sai kee beti. The photographers of the Press went mad
as she waved coyly at them, clutching her dupatta close to her bosom.
What she didn’t anticipate was the uproar she had triggered. Unwillingly,
Hunny the seductress had become the new face for women’s fight for
dignity.

Hunny Leone was just what Sarla Maheshwari needed to fuel her move
-
ment for safety of women. Three years ago, when Sarla first appeared on
a TV debate on how unsafe the city had become for working women, her
friends and family from Jamshedpur could not believe that this was the
same woman who had left for the city two decades back, to seek a better
life for her only daughter.

Poor Sarla
– she’d heard this so many times that it felt like part of her
name. From the time her father died when she was only seven, to the
time she had to start working while still in school to make ends meet;
when her mother had to marry her off to a man old enough to be her
father because he was the only one willing to marry her without dowry –
she was burdened with people’s sympathy. Feeling hopelessly trapped in
a loveless marriage, she didn’t feel like poor Sarla anymore when he died
a few years later. She had finally found happiness in her daughter.

The pay was a good six thousand more plus they were offering her ac
-
commodation. Sarla didn’t think twice before accepting the offer. That
evening as she boarded the train for the city with her 5-year old daughter,
she didn’t look back even once at her mother crying alone on the plat-
form.
***

They were now chanting,
“Whatever we wear, wherever we go, yes means yes and no means no.”

As she swiftly strode down the stairs, Sarla was immediately accosted by
a group of TV reporters as they thrust their mikes in front of her face.
“Mrs Maheshwari, do you think your campaign against the Vanar Sena
that has been hounding Ms Hunny Leone for indecent exposure in the
Mangola ad is sending the right kind of message to the youth across the
country?” Sarla took a deep breath before she gazed directly into those
questioning eyes. “If Vanar Sena is so disgusted with Hunny’s hoardings
all over the city, they should ask themselves, whether it is her skimpy
clothing that disgusts them or their own depraved reaction to it! We have
had enough of being made to feel ashamed of our bodies, and enough
of having to blame our clothing choices. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have
a family to get back to.”

Gyaneshwar, her driver of ten years, quickly opened the door of the car
as soon as he saw Madam approaching. He could make out from her fur-
rowed eyebrows that she was no longer in the mood to talk to the swarm
of reporters following her. As the car snaked its way down the highway,
Sarla made a phone call.

Mahi couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Lalita so happy. Sivan
was just her type. They were having an animated discussion about Sylvia
Plath. Frankly, she found Plath’s poetry too morbid for her taste. So de-
pressing that she had to kill herself! Mahi stifled a yawn as she stretched
herself like a cat and immediately noticed a dozen pair of eyes looking
hungrily at her legs. She smiled lazily when she heard her phone ring.
When Mahi saw the number, she started moving towards the restrooms
to take the call. Lalita didn’t notice Mahi leave until she returned looking
quite sombre. “I have to leave now,” she said as she picked up her hand-
bag. “I will call you tomorrow?”

How time flies when you want to savour every moment of it. The two
didn’t notice how late it was until they heard the loud clangs of nearby
stores shutting down. “Can I take you out on a long drive before I drop
you home, my lady?”

They walked out holding each other’s hands.
Art Garfunkel was crooning
My love must be a kind of blind love
I can’t see anyone but you.
Are the stars out tonight?
I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright
I Only Have Eyes For You, Dear.
The ballad faded away into the distance as they sped off.

Lalita’s heart felt as if it would explode but she knew she couldn’t stop.
She felt something warm running down her neck and knew it was blood.
The dry twigs were hurting her feet but she didn’t care. All she knew was
she had to run faster than her legs could carry her even though they were
blistered and bled. She could hear the heavy thuds of his feet getting
closer.
I can’t let that monster get to me
. That’s when she stumbled and fell,
her sari unravelling behind her like a trail of blood.

He turned her around like a limp doll. Lalita looked into his bloodshot
eyes and started screaming, but it caught in her throat as she woke up
with a start.

The nurse was gently dabbing her forehead as she murmured, “Shhh!
Calm down. Everything’s okay, you are safe. Sister Rachita has called your
parents. They’ll be with you any minute now.”

The car was cruising on the highway. There was barely any traffic. Nights
were when Gyaneshwar loved driving the most, with no other predatory
drivers trying to claim the lanes as their own, mouthing profanities, trying
to show him his place if he dared overtake them. Madam had just fin-
ished talking to her daughter. Ten minutes on the phone and all Madamjee had done was rebuke her. Gyaneshwar couldn’t remember the last
time Sarla madam was nice to her daughter. It must be all the netagiri she
does that had made her so harsh to her own. The tempo behind him had
been honking non-stop. Uncouth villagers, he fumed and changed the
gears and sped ahead.
No, I’m not giving way to you. At least, not this time.

She came out of nowhere, that girl with the long hair and a red sari lash
-
ing against the wind. All he could see was her terrified eyes as he tried
to swing the car away – screeching brakes, a dull thud. Sarla Maheshwari
saw the girl crumple and fall, and barked to her driver, “Keep moving.
The last thing I want is trouble with the police at this time of the night.
Dammit, she fumed, girls these days, so irresponsible! What the hell was
she thinking, running on the middle of the road, so late at night!”