Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (8 page)

So immersed was he in work that he would sometimes even disappear
for long hours over the weekend as well. Was he having an affair? She
was not too naïve to rule out the possibility. She knew that he had very
attractive colleagues; Renuka had met them at the party that was thrown
to welcome the newly married couple. She had noticed him talk to one
of them, who she later learnt was called Olivia, a walking stereotype of
the Other Woman. Fair and outspoken, with her honey-kissed skin and
bouncy curls. Wearing a short, emerald-green dress that accentuated her
curves and holding a drink in her hand, she threw her head back in laugh-
ter over something Arjun told her. He had never spoken to her like that.
Well, she did not look like Olivia. Or dress like her.

Maybe he
was
having an affair with Olivia. Or maybe they were just good
friends and she was reading too much into it. But what was more shock-
ing was the realization that she didn’t care. Renuka, who had always been
brought up to be the ideal daughter before the wedding and the wife
after, wasn’t bothered by the fact that her husband could be having an
affair.

Till the day she met him, her stalker, as she had started referring to him.
One day,
she
decided to take the plunge and ask him what it was that he
noticed about her first-the reason behind the stalking, if you will.

“It was the red in your hair. The fact that you wore your marriage with
such pride. The way you held on to it with so much hope, despite the sad-
ness in your eyes.” With this Sandeep took her hand in his as he leaned
across and tucked away a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her
cheek.

His words, this time, rained on her like a cold shower on a warm day. She
was
married.
No matter how much she was attracted to him, she couldn’t
do this. How much she liked him and how close they were was irrelevant.
She would never be able to take the next step. She could not do that to
him, to Arjun or to herself.

She withdrew her hand from his. This would be the last time. She knew
it. He knew it as well. She pretended not to notice his eyes that pleaded
with her. Kissing him on the forehead, she walked away.

“Renu, don’t do this to yourself. You deserve much better. You deserve
to be loved and happy.”She ignored the words, like she was used to.
This
too, shall pass.

She would miss him. But that was her choice. Like always, she was at a
crossroads and had chosen.

The next day, she went to the hairdresser’s and got her long, black locks
chopped. The hair that she was secretly proud of, for it hung all the way
until her hips, the hair that had helped fetch a prospective groom for a
homely girl. The hair that she had held on to, as if it were a curtain. What
was left of it now lay in chic layers framing her delicate face. She didn’t
stop there. This was no mere gesture. She traded her saree for jeans and
a thick sweater. And the vermilion? It was washed off.

But like a stubborn stain it refused to leave. It lay in between the pages
of the books that she caressed and found solace in. That would be her
strength later on in life.

She did continue her walks. But never saw him again. And her husband?
The only acknowledgement he gave her makeover was a nod of his head
that evening when she served him her signature ghee roast and coconut
chutney. And her? She never took to wearing marriage on her forehead
again.

9.
The Birthday Boy
Harsha Pattnaik
It was a dull shade of ochre. Slightly curving in at the corners, it looked
like it had been bunched up in uncertain hands.

It lay there on the polished rosewood, a yellow leaf on a barren tree. Red
ink splattered across its poker face, a swing, a luscious curve. The sharp
edges were softened with smudges. It came in the morning, probably.
The dew leaving its traces on the blurring red corners.

The kettle shrieked on the stove. The maid quickly took out the only cup
in the cupboard. When she had first come here to work, she had found
it surprising that there were utensils sufficient for just one person. That
if a guest ever arrived, there would be nothing to offer, nothing to offer
it on. She took out a ceramic plate and placed it on the kitchen island.
Her eyes strayed to the letter on the table, her teeth clamping down on
her dried lips.

The door to his chamber creaked softly as she peered into the darkness.

The hiss of batter on the hot
tava
woke Mr. Dopyaza up. Blinking his
misted eyes, he stared at the same ceiling he had seen for the last seventysix years.

No, seventy-seven.

The realization woke him up with a start. Usually, he spent a few minutes
in bed, marvelling at the world outside his window. The faint shadows
of stars receding with the arrival of dawn. The crooked coconut trees
swinging in the morning breeze. The sun blushing from behind the huts
in the distance. He would take in the songs of the jays, the distant wail
of a child.

But today, he got off the warm womb he had sheltered in his entire
life and walked over to the mirror. The magic of youth had faded de-
cades ago, leaving warts and moles in its place. The folds of skin around
his neck, the crinkles around his eyes and mouth seemed to deepen like
thirsty soil every time he looked at himself.

His black-tipped grey hair had started to disappear, like his memories.
Sometimes he felt he would wake up and forget who he was. His eyes
darted away from the saliva stains on the corner of his mouth as he wiped
them away shamefully. The incessant ringing in his ear had increased. He
wondered if he would ever stop hearing the bell of the postman’s cycle
that never came his way, or the laughter of the children he never had.

“Sahib, the food is ready.”

The distant voice of his maid knocked him into consciousness. Collecting
himself, he turned the knob of his door and pulled at it. It didn’t open.
Momentarily paralyzed, he felt trapped and useless. His pulse picked pace.
In a desperate attempt, he pulled the door once, twice...but nothing hap-
pened. Perspiration laced his skin as his heart stammered. Feeling impris-
oned in his own house, he banged on the door. The door shifted slightly,
before opening altogether. He stood there at the threshold, dazed.

For seventy-seven years, he had pushed that door. Today he had pulled
it.

“Sahib” the maid called from the kitchen. Mr. Dopyaza shook away the
morning’s misadventure and stepped into the corridor. Walking along the
narrow hallway, he sought the relief of familiar faces on the walls. But
the barren surfaces seemed to mock him, telling him he had none to call
his own.

The walk through the corridor was oppressive; the walls gloomy and
intimidating as if inching closer, ready to collapse on him. His rubber
slippers dragged across the marble, even his shadow reeked of grief. He
remembered that the bathroom door was to be pulled. Standing in front
of the white-washed door, he pulled it before he remembered that it was
to be pulled from the inside. He gave it a soft push and it eased open.
That day, he spent a little longer than he usually did in the bathroom.

The chair screeched as Mr. Dopyaza dragged it. Settling into it, he
clutched the glass of water his maid had kept for him. Taking a sip, he
reached for the pills on the china plate. Swallowing them, he stared at the
middle-aged woman in the kitchen.
She had worked for him for more years than he could recall. When he
had first seen her, her hair was black. Oiled and tied in two braids, her
raven tresses shone when the sunlight caressed them. She wore a salwar
kameez, with her dupatta knotted on her side. Her skin, the colour of
almonds. Her eyes, clear and dark. And deep. Soulful. She was a girl on
the brink of womanhood. But her vermillion-streaked parting told him
that she had crossed over the threshold.

He’d seen her when her belly was protruding outwards, her dupatta
wrapped around her like a chrysalis. Her movements were less agile and
she couldn’t sweep the floors. He’d seen her little boy sleep on the floor
of the kitchen. His chest heaving fast, as if panting for his newfound
life.

He’d wanted to touch him, but couldn’t find a part of him in that tiny
vessel. Couldn’t find a part of him anywhere. Not in the cries of ‘papa’ in
the parks. Not in the unblinking gaze of infants. Watching, as his tiny feet
would totter, his pudgy arms stretched to grasp him. And the boy would
get tangled in Mr. Dopyaza’a looming shadows, unable to hold onto the
disappearing man. That boy was now a man who touched Mr. Dopyaza’s
feet when he came weeks ago, to bring groceries. He studied in a college
in the town, one of his mother’s many sacrifices while he lifted bricks to
pay his fees.

When their eyes met, Mr. Dopyaza had been the one to look away first.

White tendrils crept out of her bun, indicative of the time that drifted by.
She hung on his walls like a painting. Unnoticed. Whose presence wasn’t
acknowledged, but whose absence hung heavily in the air. A subconscious
habit. He never said her name, just a few grunts and barked orders.

He thought about it today:he didn’t know her name. Never had asked.
Never knew the name of the stream that filled the empty spaces of his
life. The fragrance of freshly baked parathas, stir-fried beans and the tang
of curd tingled his nostrils. The delectable plate clattered on the table.
He took a whiff and wondered how he had never enjoyed food as good
as this.

The clinking of her bangles resounded in the silence.

 

“
Suno,
what is your name?”

His voice cracked around the edges. The lack of decent conversation had
rusted his chords. His voice had changed drastically from his memories
that sagged like his skin. Hollow like his withering body.

Her eyes widened as she took in her employer’s words. “Savita.” she re-
plied with a shy smile, “Savita is my name.”

“The beans are soft and succulent. The parathas are crispy as I like it.
Good job, Savita.” He was taken aback by her smile . He had never seen
her with it around in his house. He looked at his plate, his lips stretching
into what he felt was an oddly familiar curve that he had stopped wear-
ing. He took a sip of water and resumed eating, ignoring the presence of
another human. Savita understood it to mean that she was dismissed. She
walked back to the kitchen, her anklets thrumming.

Mr. Dopyaza finished his food in silence. Leaving the plate on the table,
he washed his hands at the sink. He stuffed a newspaper in the nook of
his elbow and receded into his chamber.

Walking over to the desk that he had spent his days and nights pouring
over cases as a lawyer, he sat in the plush chair. The cupboard behind him
had many leather-bound records, along with presents from clients. Lean-
ing back, he glanced at his table. Amidst the bank receipts, old papers and
books, he found a new addition. A yellow envelope.

“Savita!” he shouted, “Savita!”

 

The sound of shuffling feet answered. Savita appeared, panting as she
leaned against the wall.

 

“Did the postman come?” he asked, eyeing the envelope.

“No, Sahib. I found it when I came in the morning. It was stuffed under
the door. I kept it in your study.” Looking down, Savita tugged at the
ends of her sari, “Sahib, I forgot. I’m very sorry.”

“It’s fine. You may leave.” Sahib huffed out. Picking up the envelope, he
turned it around.

 

Happy Birthday

Mr. Dopyaza’s breath stuttered as his brain processed the words. He had
spent more than fifty years of his life without being wished once. Who
remembered him?
Perhaps
, he thought,
this was for someone else.
Someone
who shared his birthday. That gave him something that resembled heart-
burn. He searched for any stamp, or postage mark, but found none. Hand
delivered.

That stopped him. Someone had cared enough about him to come to his
house and give it to him.

But why in the morning? Why not ring the bell? Why not try to contact
him earlier? Why now? A million possibilities flashed across his mind.
But the lawyer in him caught hold of his ankles, preventing him from
flying any higher.

He walked over to the window and looked over the little town. The hay
cottages peeked shyly from behind the concrete buildings. Each house
had a colour of its own. The smoke rose in the distance, touching the lim-
itless canvas with its wispy fingers. The rolling blues of the hills meshed
with the azure expanse of the sky. The green blurs become more defined
as one traces the path of their eyes back home. The ambassadors still ran
in the streets. Bright rickshaws trembled with anticipation of the next
destination of its travellers, teetering on the rocky roads. The cycle bells
chimed like sweet words of greetings across the street. The shops were
just starting to open for the day.

He recalled the evening he had met a young woman on the same road.
She was as pale as the moon, eyes alight like the evening sky. A few
words, a few glances and the brush of fingers could distract him enough
to forget about his dream of becoming a lawyer, of rising above the hay
stacks that barely sheltered him and his family in the time of rain and
recession.

Peering through the steam of piping hot tea, his eyes gently caressed her
luminous form. Under the glow of the incandescent lamp, she dreamt of
watching over the city skyline through glass windows that stretched from
the floor to the ceiling. Of sipping white wine from flutes. Of sunglasses
so big that she never saw her reflection in Mr. Dopyaza’s eyes. A friend
from the city was all it took for Mr. Dopyaza to revert to sitting alone in
the
chai
stall.

He never met the both of them ever again. Not her. She wouldn’t have
sent it.
Was it Kisan?

Having grown up in each other’s cribs, their hands were always on the
shoulder of the other. The fresh blades of grass were damp, where they
cradled themselves to sleep when Mr. Dopyaza’s widowed father was
eaten up by the city. They had dipped their legs in the pond near Kisan’s
house and savoured spicy samosas. Watching cars tread over the chaste
paths of the town, they had frowned at the smoke tracks. But when Mr.
Dopyaza saw Kisan loading his luggage in of one of the same cars, he
didn’t run to him like he had his entire life.