“Is that real?” he asked.
“Yeh, I guess. Real silver.”
“No, I mean this,” —he swept his large palm across my
tight belly— “Anita had this cotton-ball-dumpling-like…”
Later, at the breakfast table, the red box showed up again. Please God, let it be the solitaire ring.
“Go on, open it,” Vikram said.
I opened it cautiously. A black thread with an evil-eye-
charm strung through it nestled in a groove inside the velvet-
lined box. Really? “It’s the charm your mother gave to Mrs. Patel; the one she got from Fatehpur Sikri. I am the luckie—” I tried to infuse incredulous wonder in my voice but it was as though a silencer clamped shut my vocal chords mid-sentence. The words that did come out were barely audible croaks. Chop, chop, cry Tana, this calls for tears—you took three years of drama classes for crying out loud! I poked my memory commanding it to think of sad things. Gotta be easy-peasy considering I’d gone through my fair share during my challenging childhood. However, I had brain freeze. ‘IDIOT,’ I thought to myself, ‘DO IT.’ Job done: A baby tear leaked out my face’s eye. And then the leaking eye locked with the evil one in the box.
I am not beaten. It’s just a bit longer before that solitaire sparkles on my beautiful hand. Not that I am a materialistic girl. It’s only that it is kind of inevitable now, only a matter of time. Don’t speak any more, Tana. Just smile. That’ll do for now. Trust me, don’t say a word. You’ll ruin things. I put the silly talisman in my purse and smiled gratefully, my heart tied in a thousand knots at the thought of being Mrs. Patel in the near future. Soon, very soon, five little monkeys will be happy and jumping on a bed.
Once alone, I boxed my temples, feeling inordinately angry with my temporal lobe. Take it stupid lobe. This is for the delay, you worthless piece of flesh. Soon, I’m going to quit drugs. Good luck with that, someone’s jeering at me—my conscience? Anyway, the point is drugs are what make me do these nasty things; like hitting myself. Now that I’m in a relationship and most probably soon to be married, I should act responsibly and clean up my act. Literally.
Always grateful,
Tana Sharma
Fourteen
OLD MACDONALD HAD A FARM
DEAR DIARY
IT IS HALF past eleven, February 19, 2018, and I’m ensconced in ivory satin sheets as the new bride and mistress of 39-Lutyens Bungalow. Hope you had fun at the Reception today. I did sort of, despite Mummy’s sermons, the black-widow’s stings, and the waiter who insisted I try yeasty shoots.
At the party, Mummy eyed my hair with visible dissatisfaction, “Who did your hair?”
“Frank D’Souza. Apparently, he’s famous.”
“What went wrong?”
“He did this tight thing making my face look longer than usual. So, I pulled some of the updo apart. There was a bit of a struggle.”
“Poor guy.”
“Agreed, I brought him to tears but I wasn’t dry-eyed either.”
“At least, your skin’s fine. Poor Mrs. Patel’s creams, I guess. Crazily priced, you told me. Eh? How much? Tell.”
That’s the Mummy I know.
“Dial down your voice, Mummy.” I fidgeted with the pearl
clip in my updo. “These aren’t your apartment neighbours.
They are Lutyens folks, for God’s sake, not the goat herders
from Daryaganj, Purani Dilli.”
“What’s in a name? A rose by any other name would smell
as sweet,” Mummy quoted Shakespeare. As if that isn’t
enough my unstoppable mataji went on to recite poetry of her own: “All are plain folks, Lutyens’ or Daryaganj’s—all made of flesh and bones if truth be told, none made of gold. And what’s wrong with us decent, hardworking Daryaganj housewives?” she raised her voice. “Last I checked none of us have horns on our heads.”
“Well, check again,” I muttered sourly though I had no intention of inspecting the heads of skanky folk who populate Daryaganj’s slummy buildings.
My throat felt parched. A waiter offered me a strange looking appetizer served in a leaf bowl.
“What in the name of God is it? Is it edible,” I stared at the
blobby mess.
“You have to try, Ma’am.”
“Really? How about offering water before I die of thirst? I have been asking for water since this damn party began … only been waiting an hour. The bride can get it herself if it’s too much trouble for you … SIR.”
“No, no, Ma’am. I’ll get it.” He looks down at the tray,
“these are fermented bamboo shoots … must try.”
“And why do I have to do that? Is this some sort of an agnipariksha the bride has to go through—an acid test?”
“Er… Ma’am…” the waiter shuffled from one foot to the other.
“WATER,” I growled.
“No need to be rude,” Mummy told me. Lowering her voice, she added, “Take Papa’s advice. Join that anger management class Urmila Aunty suggested.”
I looked daggers at my delightful mother.
Unable to take a hint, Mummy continued her monologue. “What? I agree with them—they can do you good. Priyanka told me how you went all ape on your armchair.”
I shut my eyes trying to calm down.
“Look Tana, Shobha Didi told me she’s banking on you to take over the reins of the household.” She turned to look at Priyanka. “Not that Tana knows a thing about running a house. She can’t even run a bath properly.”
“What can I say, Auntie? She’s pig-headed where her
patients are concerned or for that matter in everything. Her
choices leave much to be desired. I didn’t get an invite for the
wedding ceremony at the bungalow, and I cannot imagine
why,” she cawed harshly. I wonder why we are best friends. She’s so rude.
“Tana?” Mummy asked me unhappily.
C’mon Pri, really? Hardly the relevant context to mention
This … wonder how long you’ve been waiting to bring that up?
“Good one … I’m getting tea!” She flounced away rather
haughtily.
“Anyway, Tana, you could do well with—”
“No, no, no.” I squirmed uneasily.
“How do you know what I’m going to say?”
“Long and painful experience.”
“I suggest—”
“I said I’m good.”
“That you most certainly are not. I know what’s—”
She can’t stop. “I know that you know everything.”
“—best. Maturity comes with age.”
“After sixty, you mean?” I batted my false eyelashes,
exaggeratedly. My mother’s fifty-something, by the way.
“Huh? Take my advice and I can say with conviction that
you’ll thank me later. Don’t let Shobha Didi down,” she
whispered.
“Bite me,” I whispered back.
“They don’t know what they are getting themselves into. I know you. You have a skewed perspective—you see things
differently. Try to be good.”
What the what? Is that supposed to help me? The sourness in my mouth permeated my veins, making my blood turn. In that moment what I really wanted more than anything else was to punch holes in her, and spit-roast the chads in a rotisserie but instead I simply said, “Sure Mummy.” I am not like my outspoken parents who try to sanitize all dirty bullying with ‘we like to say things as they are’.
“We will be grateful if you could show empathy. They will
be too, I’m sure.”
Irritated, I smouldered under my unruffled-bridal-face, “Who’s we and who’s they?”
“I don’t understand.”
“You’re in good company.”
“Sadguru says, ‘Forget self and spread happiness selflessly’.
Now, you simply need to follow that
simple rule.”
I grimaced. And you Mummy can mind your own business
and so can Sadguru.
“Also, make him quit smoking. Don’t make me say it again
but my overriding concern—”
“Mummy, in case it has escaped your notice” —I pointed at
the gathering— “that there is my Reception party. So, even
though you know best, can your pearls of wisdom wait? Can
we pick it up from here another day?”
“You can count on that.”
Foaming at the mouth I started to say something when along came a spider.
The pretty lady in black came crawling alongside Shobha Didi. “She wants to welcome you to Lutyens,” smiled Didi.
“Rather nice of you.” I offered my hand.
Leaving my hand stranded, the lady said, “It’s a neighbourly thing to do. I am Lutyens, born and raised. Um …
Tanushree, is it?”
Who does she think she’s fooling? Somehow, she had
always reminded me of assassin spiders, now proving not be
an entirely inappropriate comparison.
“Tanushree’s a South Indian name, right?” she continued.
Shobha Didi squirmed. “Er … she’s Sister Tana. She’s won
a ‘nurse of the year’ award.”
“Can’t believe you’ve forgotten my name,” I told the hoity-toity spider, trying my best not to scowl.
“Nurse of the year? You could feature on the cover of India
Today as the ‘Entrepreneur of the Year’, snapping up the richest widower in the country before he had a decent chance at snapping out of his grief,” she said, her mood suggesting that she certainly wasn’t going to bother with common courtesies or civilized behaviour. Quite the Neanderthal cavewoman in my opinion. “Didn’t waste any time,” she added.
“Who did you say this charming creature is, Shobha Didi? Though I do vaguely remember seeing her ballooning in MY bungalow.” I’m no shrinking violet either. Two can play at a game.
Right behind her Priyanka swooped into our tight clique
followed by a waiter holding a tea-tray. “It’s the real thing.
With cardamoms—not the tea-bag kind,” she announced
jubilantly before adding artificial sweetener to Mummy’s cup.
The creature snapped her claws at the waiter. “Perrier. No
ice.”
“Er … she’s Mrs. Mallika Verma,” said Shobha Didi.
The web-spinning-spider bores holes through my dark-skinned friend, and asked, “Sisters? You two Madrasis? And
your name … you didn’t say.”
Die! Double die, flaky-fakey! “The name’s Patel, Mrs. Tana Patel,” I smiled ear-to-ear at the la-di-da arachnid. “Punjabi. And yes, we are sisters.” I put an arm around Pri’s shoulders. Could anyone ever mistake me for a Madrasi—me with my snow-white skin?
The woman turned toward Shobha Didi. “She’s a psycho
nurse somewhere, isn’t she?” And then she too bared almost
all of her jack-knife fangs in a sorry smile.
I pictured the two of us in a catfight with me pulling out one
of her fangs with a pair of pliers.
“She can speak for herself.” I impaled her head with my
gaze though I could just as happily have impaled it on a pike,
“An award-winning psychiatric Nurse at MedMac.”
“Caviar?” She pushed her plate in my face. “People like you
wouldn’t know what that is. I don’t blame—”
Shobha Didi cleared her throat several times.
What is this? High-School? “Who did you say you are, um … Mrs. Ballika. You’re good, I mean really good friends with my husband, did you say?”
“I didn’t say anything of the sort.” She gnashed her fangs.
“Your husband, he’s here too?”
Shobha Didi coughed apologetically and wiped the sweat
off her brow. “Mrs. Verma lost him last year. Um, Mrs.
Verma, I think you would love to meet … er … somebody.” As unobtrusively as she could, she placed her hand under the
black widow’s elbow, nudging her while pointing to the salad
station. “You must try the grenouille. Should we … er …?”
“Not the worst of ideas,” I remarked. “For a spider to
chomp on frog’s legs,” I added, losing my temper. Such
disgraceful behaviour.
I beckoned the Manager. “Perhaps you could bring a monkey’s heart or two for Mrs. Spider or maybe that cleaner can sweep her under the carpet.”
“Witty bride, I must say,” he laughed before skedaddling away.
The arachnid kept her claws dug firmly into the ground as if to say, Bring it on. Her face, however, turned splotchy pink.
“Are you having a stroke, Mrs. Ballika?” I asked, straight-
faced.
In the background, I heard a gaggle of giggling ladies, “Selfie with the man of the hour.”
The claws unhooked themselves in a jiffy. “I’ll be back,” The invertebrate announced like she was the Terminator before wading her way through the sea of people to join the coven before anyone could say Jack Robinson. “Wait, wait for me,” she said breathlessly as though she was about to miss the last spot in an air-ambulance. “Can I take your spot?” she asked another woman, “my left profile’s more flattering.”
Still, like I wrote earlier, I had fun. After all, I am the new
Mrs. Patel and the first thing I am doing tomorrow is to splurge on new shoes with all this shagun money. It’s close to five lac rupees—more than my annual salary. A handsome amount. Isn’t it? Can you believe it Diary how the rich gift? Bloody peanuts for them. At least for most of them. Of course, I found a few empty envelopes. People expecting us to believe the money went missing but I know better. I work in the field of psychiatry, don’t I? I can sniff out shams. Hard to fool me.
I better sign off. Vikram’s moving. He might want to make another booty call. Small price to pay for this biggest payday of my career. Not really a price to pay if I avoid kissing. I really, really like him. I’ll snort to that. Only one joint, I promise.
Bang!
Die! Double die, whoever it is! Such a rude knock. For the love of God, it’s our wedding night. Leave us alone, Shobha Didi or Phoolvati. Sorry, Shobha Didi if it’s you, but I’m in the middle of grazing in this weedy garden, in old MacDonald’s comfy farm.
Yours truly,
Tana Sharma
Fifteen
LADYBUG LADYBUG
DEAR DIARY
IT IS A quarter past eleven, on a Wednesday night in March, and I write from my bedroom in Lutyens bungalow.
It’s been a terrible day, and therefore my hardest-to-write diary entry. Guess who dropped by unannounced at the hospital this morning? Mummy! No one drops by these days—one needs to make plans days in advance, take an appointment, cancel a couple of times, and then meet. She practically sprung an ambush on me. Is that Mummy? I asked myself as I helped Mr. Kumar into the green hospital shirt.
I don’t need this today, or ever, and specially not now
when my stupid, unsatisfactory marriage bugged me to no
end. A girl can only endure so much. Diary, you do know that despite just a four-week-old-marriage I have begun to work on getting out of it with my dignity intact. It’s not a sweet family, like I had imagined.
I have a long-term plan—the strategies spread out over a year or so. The prenup clearly stated I wouldn’t get a dime of his wealth if we divorced, and would get half of it if heaven forbid, he died before me. And I do not hold it against him for drawing such an agreement. Who wouldn’t in his position? My plan is to somehow override the above stipulations with a clean breakup and come out with an unblemished reputation and
some money for a comfortable living without anyone being in
harm’s way. The children had seen enoug
h misery in their short lives.
For the sake of this plan, since a few weeks, I have, in subtle ways, introduced my blackouts—the integral part of my life since my first brush with drugs when I was barely a teenager—to a few folks in my life; Priyanka, Rosy, Dr. Varun. Nothing short of a wonder I could keep this skeleton in my closet undiscovered for so long, until the moment I chose to spring it out and dangle in front of unsuspecting muppets.
Mummy’s guttural laugh interrupted the train of my thoughts. Oh God. Maybe I’ll just slink off and then come back in when she’s gone, I thought. I wrapped my head around the slightly ajar connecting door, and saw her listening intently to Rosy, the gibbering idiot. Though the girl has a short attention span, she does have a long tongue; that’s for certain. And a fondness for fishing expeditions.
“…some Sikh names end with -deep. And -der too. By the
way, we haven’t met since your er… husband passed away.
I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Sharma. What happened exactly
if I may ask. Tana gets all choked up and cannot talk about it,”
she probed.
“Hope she doesn’t mind me popping by. Sorry, what were
you asking? Yeah, my husband. That hobby of his took his life.
Gardening and flowers. It was hemlock I suppose,” said
Mummy. “Caused respiratory failure.”
“That’s a pity.” Rosy nodded several times. “How on earth
did he ingest it?”
Hastily, I pulled back my head. A vice attached itself to my throat, threatening to asphyxiate me. Hard as I tried to pry off
the coiled snake from around my neck, I couldn’t. The reptile
moved spasmodically drawing tight like a blood-pressure-cuff.
Oh my God, I need an emergency tracheotomy. Medics, please
drill a hole into my windpipe.
How did their inane tête-à-tête about Sikh names get to
hemlock—the one plant I had planned not to see, speak, or hear about for the rest of my life on earth? Please, please, moronic people, do not talk about this wretched plant. Just don’t!
ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune Page 9