ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune

by NOMITA KHANNA

  “—orry, baby.”

  I kept quiet.

  “You there?” he asked.

  “Mm-hmm,” I humph-ed.

  “Listen, I’m not very good at apologies. If you want, we can

  go out tonight to your favourite Italian,” said Vikram, “Tonino.

  You love that olive pest—”

  “Actually, we cannot.”

  “Work?”

  “Yep! Your Shobha Didi’s always nagging me about the

  laundry room, my sleep habits, the children, the fruits… sending off her synthetic bodysuit wearing goon, Phoolvati to snap at my heels and extract her pound of flesh.” The injustice of it all and the fact that I was voicing it made my heart beat erratically. C’mon Tana, don’t shoot yourself in the foot. Remember tact? How will he react? The man with a good heart?

  A thirty-seconds long stony silence!

  For an ugly, fat buffalo–yes, buffalo–the hag truly held

  him under her spell—made him dance to her tune. I spoke again. “I said your Shobha-Madam—”

  “I know what you said. You are not in the right headspace.

  Shobha Didi means well.”

  Another long silence!

  “I’m not a mind-reader, Tana. What are you thinking?”

  “Trying hard to remember why I married you if you were

  already married to her.”

  “Huh? What did she do to you?”

  “Does that mean you haven’t heard a single word I said?”

  “I have heard enough.”

  “Respectfully, you haven’t.”

  “You don’t know the first thing about respect, do you? Shobha Didi is trying to teach you some.”

  “I’m better off not knowing how to fan the milk, set thick cream, skim it off, churn the butter, use the leftover whey as a starter culture, the leftover peels as a scrub, the leftover rice water as a hair rinse, the leftover vegetables in a stew… She is the Goddess of leftovers for God’s sake.”

  “Tana?” he asked confusedly.

  “You are gonna let her teach me like that?” I couldn’t help

  go on like a vehicle without brakes. “Last I checked we had decided to have brunch at The Pavilion on Sunday. And now

  you go about inviting that mumbo-jumbo speaking Shri Shri

  Mother of India. Just because you can’t say ‘no’ to your Didiji

  and—”

  “She practically raised me.”

  I continued recklessly, “And look how that turned out—a

  namby-pamby fellow completely under the shrew’s thum—”

  “Careful. She’s like a mother to—”

  “That’s the sad part,” I said peevishly.

  “Tana, listen to me—”

  “No, you lis—”

  “I wish you—”

  “She wishes,” I spat. “Look, all I’m saying is it’s time… to … cut … the cord,” I dragged the words as if explaining to a small child. “She is not exactly the angelic woman she makes you believe she is. I’ve come to know her too. It’s not as if she has washed her sins in the Ganges. The other day I overheard her talking to someone on the phone saying that the saree my mother gifted to her is a ‘tacky piece of cloth.’ That’s what she said, ‘a tacky—”

  “Don’t be so touchy, Tana,” he paused, “women like to chat. It doesn’t mean anything. It’s just idle talk.”

  “More like malicious gossip. One day she will swallow

  your house, Lutyens boulevards, gardens, the hay in the barns

  and all,” I no longer knew what I was saying. “Mark my

  words. You’ll come knocking on my termite-infested hostel

  door when she throws you out on the street. I don’t know what

  sort of a cosy relationship you have with her but your Mistress

  will one day be the Mistress of your Lutyens tower.”

  Apparently, the lateral frontal pole prefrontal cortex had ditched me what with the Phenergan kicking in. “The other day I found her sitting on your bed, sniffing your undies,” I lied

  through my perfect teeth. All that talk about underclothes

  probably put this idea into my head leading me to concoct this

  strange story.

  “You are making a big mistake; misreading things. Like I

  said, she raised me and—”

  “I couldn’t care less if she raised your whole family. Are you her bloody solicitor?”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath. “What’s gotten into you?

  Auntie is such a mild-mannered, always afraid kind of lady. Was your father the sarcastic sort? Where is this coming from?” His voice sounded alien.

  “Give the bitch a long enough leash and you will find out,”

  I hissed. That lacked poise. So much for tact and diplomacy.

  A sinister click! Ignoring it I continued with my venomous speech, “For God’s sake, your bank accounts are bursting at the seams. Buy a few pairs of the necessary clothing called undies and socks to cover your ass plus your tootsies and to

  make my life easier.”

  I knew he had hung up before I launched into the diatribe

  against smalls.

  Lovely Mama’s-Boy! The Tetris-playing, toilet-seat-hugging juvenile delinquent was the one with the supposedly good heart and his substitute-mother was the one with a large one. For all I cared, those two could marry each other to create a cardio-heaven. If he, his domesticated farm animal, and Phoolvati, whose breath-cutting-off type clothes by the way make me claustrophobic, thought that they could rearrange my life according to their whims and fancies, well, they could think again. I was certainly not one of their show-pieces or cushions. I’ll show them. I’m making plans. Aren’t I? Mottled veins pulsed wildly in my temples, heralding danger.

  Relax, Tana, I inhaled deeply. My own brain haemorrhage

  certainly wasn’t a part of any plan.

  At the hospital, both Rosy and Priyanka’s necks popped out

  at the sight of my bruised face.

  “I’m fine.” I matched their stares determinedly.

  “Are you insane?” “You’re a broken stem. You’ve lost how

  much? Ten kgs.? What’s he doing to you?” Both girls spoke one over the other. “Go get tested. 0% fat you’ve got, I bet.”

  “I can explain,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah sure, hit us,” —Pri put her hands on her hips— “By

  all means, EXPLAIN.”

  I lowered my gaze.

  “You are sick,” said Pri in a peculiar whisper.

  “Yes, I am. Leave me alone,” I told them, my voice

  unyielding and petulant.

  “We will if you talk to Dr. Varun.”

  After a lot of um-ing and er-ing I gave in. Shedding so

  much weight to make my stories add up had been kind of

  difficult. Though I couldn’t complain too much. Considering the kind of society we live in, one that believes there is a weeping, crawling, begging for mercy and wallowing in self-

  pity girl hidden in every story, my job wasn’t that hard.

  The girls continued to stare at me glacially.

  “Now what? I said I’ll talk to Varun. It’s gonna be okay.”

  “You don’t know that,” shot out Priyanka. “Think it over.

  Did you speak to Auntie? What does she have to say about all

  this?”

  “Mummy hasn’t said a word,” I told her truthfully. She

  might have if she hadn’t been so very dead.

  “You need to grieve and then heal, Tana,” I think Priyanka

  said something to that effect.

  “I do need space to heal. My husband needs to leave me

  alone.” That is what I told her. “I need alone time to decompress.”

  True to my words, I was tucked in the guest room that night, burying my emotions in comfort carbs—Maggi noodles as I was done with raw salads for a while at least—after several rounds of
scrabble with the nice kids, and if I were to guess for many more nights to come. Gauging from Vikram’s stormy face, I could accurately surmise he’d taken my remarks about his mother-like-maid to heart. Nothing that couldn’t be corrected. There hardly seemed to be a way to convince him of her wickedness. He had this big blind spot where she was concerned.

  So, I didn’t mind changing tactics. All I needed for my plan to succeed was for him to be lulled into an illusion of trust so that he would go along with my shenanigans, thus making it easy for me to fabricate evidence. That was all. Until I could do that, it was best to ignore all atrocities, and give Didi the full liberty to keep sharpening her knife to carve me.

  Everybody tells little white lies. I could do it, too. I could

  step up and suck up to them, ‘Didi is like family. Happy family, number 3.’ If need be, I could even include her side-kick second-skin wearing Phoolvati in my charmed circle of

  love. ‘Sweet Phoolvati’. Though I baulked at the thought of

  such sickly-sweet words passing my lips.

  Warm regards,

  Tana Sharma

  STRANGELY, PHOOLVATI IS A REGULAR in my dreams. That night, she rides the night skies in a UFO while Shobha Didi is hot on her heels, a gigantic pair of scissors in the latter’s hand. “Wait, I’ll have to cut you out of your clothes,” she shouts at Phoolvati.

  Right behind them, Vikram chases after a police car towing away the black Merc. “Stop, you can’t do that.”

  “Bank’s orders,” yells the policeman whose face suddenly morphs into that of Suze Orman, a financial consultant on TV.

  “Show me the orders,” shouts Vikram.

  “No, you show me the money or—”

  “Or what?”

  “Or we will be forced to take possession of all your undies too.”

  Nineteen

  GOOSEY GOOSEY GANDER

  DEAR DIARY

  IT IS three o’clock, on a Thursday afternoon in February, and I write from the half-burnt kitchen in 39-Lutyens Bungalow.

  Fire, Feud and Fury

  I believe I read this title in an episode of some drama on

  Amazon Prime Video. Seems appropriate for the afternoon’s um … incident. I do not have the time or the inclination to write. But my condition leaves me with no choice. Already I can feel I am drifting into the blackout zone. In case at some point of time I need to rely on my recollection of what just happened today, you, Diary, will be my source of information. I don’t mean to drag you into this sordid mess my life is but you will have to contend with it.

  Nevertheless, there are always two ways of looking at things. It’s called perspective. Sharing means caring. It’s pretty obvious I look at you as a dear friend—that’s the reason I share my deepest, darkest secrets with you. The two of us know how it feels to have nobody to confide in, nobody to trust. As a child I had no choice but to be strong. Where I come from, the way my parents were, I had to use my imagination and resort to some sort of skulduggery to get through the challenges each day presented. Frankly, I’m amazed I made it this far. Now, I have you. Diary, diary, how come you are silent? I think the word you are looking for here is thank-you.

  So, before I take a bath to cleanse my soul and body, here I

  go:

  Early afternoon today, I pressed a piece of cannabis extract against a hot nail and inhaled the smoke. The dabbing made

  me cough into my inner arm with tears blinding me. I wiped them off, preparing for battle. I am ready.

  I wore my pretty green dress, the one with an interesting

  cut-out at the cleavage area and said to my husband, “I’m so

  happy about our private little candle-lit lunch.”

  “Me too. Anything for you, the love of my life. And I do

  like the ‘no-staff, cook our own meal’ idea. Also, babe, I’ve told the guard not to disturb us unless the heavens fall,” he said with a chuckle, “the nurse’s orders.”

  “Hope you didn’t take my name.” I inhaled sharply. “They

  are still not happy taking orders from me.”

  He smiled. “But I know how to take orders. Followed your

  instructions to the tee, Madam,” —he tugged at his ear— “used the Anne French to lop the hairs off. Used it down there—”

  “Okay, okay, spare me the details please. Babe, there’s one more thing, I’ve planned.” I smiled shyly. “1st anniversary

  stuff. Read it in Cosmopolitan. That’s why I asked you to send

  the kids to Granny’s.”

  “I’m game, my saucy little minx.” He thrust his hand up my dress and grabbed my breast. “Mrs. Patel, someone’s stolen your bra.”

  Giggling, I pulled him into the kitchen before jouncing my

  thumb at the stained-glass window. He caught my signal and

  drew the shades down.

  “You never know which shrub Maali Uncle might pop out of. You know what, he’s seen me naked more times than I care

  to count.”

  “Lucky Maali Uncle.” His eyes glinted. “So, did you two have a romp in the garden?”

  Ew. I patted his nose with a finger. “Under the Peepal tree, on the flower bed. I’ll tell you all about it.” I whipped off my dress, before standing proudly in my black Manolo-Blahnik stilettoes and Victoria’s Secret cranberry Brazilian cheekies. Get on with the times, Diary. That’s what sexy panties that reveal your cheeks are called nowadays. Playfully, I pushed him on to a chair and handcuffed him to it with black-fur-lined metal cuffs I had bought on Amazon.

  “Good, God, did I just wander onto the sets of a blue

  movie?”

  “Don’t be squeamish,” I said.

  What was that, Tana? That isn’t part of any plan. You are

  the one who is supposed to take ecstasy before asking him to

  handcuff you, and then take pictures. That there is the plan. Go

  on. Undo the cuffs, a voice in my head barked at me.

  Completely disregarding it, I went out and put on the MTV

  channel on the telly—mobile-phones off is an unwritten rule for romantic meals. The loud music floated into the kitchen. “Creating the atmosphere,” I came back and told him flirtatiously.

  I knelt down in front of him, my voice soft and beguiling, “You’ve heard of Ecstasy, the love pill, haven’t you?”

  Vikram’s brows furrowed. “I’ve never tried that sweetie. I

  don’t need anything. Not with you. With Anita I used V.”

  “Puh-lease, baby, don’t be priggish … let’s try it, the injectable kind—it’s our anniversary. It amplifies sensations; we will have a blast.” No, no, no, Tana. You are losing the plot. Uncuff him NOW. The ecstasy is for you. Not him. Again, the unwarranted advice fell on deaf ears. It’s the marijuana dabbing that’s making you demented. You are stoned. Snap out of it. Have mercy, begged the voice.

  I tried to explain things to the owner of this voice. ‘The

  Merchant of Venice has to go. Trust me, neither will I cause

  him pain, nor will I make him carry the burden of knowing

  who sent him off on this journey. That’s mercy.’

  “Your Peaches,” —Vikram leered lustily at my peaches—

  “give me a kick, anyway. You could use this pill though ’cause

  I finish early and then you need that toy, my rival, to um… er … finish off. Yeah, Peachoo?”

  “Just this once! I promise I know what I’m doing. I’m a

  nurse, baby.” I rubbed the peaches on his face.

  “Do we really have to do all this?” he asked skittishly.

  “Indulge me, baby.”

  “If it pleases you,” he said, not quite convinced.

  That’s when the stoned me and the voice of the intruder in my brain, whom I named ‘Miss Holier-than-thou’, collusively simpered. “Lovely, baby.” I was happy to note that I had managed to convert Miss Holier-than-thou enough for it to team up with me. It’s under my spell.
<
br />   He grinned boyishly. “I like it when you call me ‘baby.’ Anita called me ‘Vikramji’.”

  A second later though—Poof! The spell broke, and once

  again to my great chagrin, Miss Holier-than-thou rebelled, There’s still time, Tana. DO NOT DO THIS. The original plan is to fake evidence, not hurt anyone. Are you going to hurt him?

  The doped me did not remember. Strangely, just when I needed to be at my lucid best, I was all over the place—totally blanked. It was as though heavy fog had rolled in making me lose my path.

  Untie him right this minute. We are—continued Miss Holier-than-thou obstinately.

  ‘Speak for yourself. I’m not with you. Who is this? Get out

  of my face unless you want to be charged with break, enter, and assault,’ I warned the trespasser.

  You will regret this—Miss Holier-than-thou wouldn’t shut

  up.

  ‘Just SHUT UP bitch,’ I growled inside my confused mind,

  reeling off a choice string of expletives before at long last

  injecting the Propofol into his vein, knocking him out almost immediately.

  What’s possessing you to do this? You’re losing your mind. Still no harm done. STOP, pressed Miss Holier-than-thou. What do you think you are doing?

  ‘Simply recalibrating my strategy,’ I lied. The truth of the matter though was that the sudden change of plans caught me completely off-guard thereby throwing me off my game. I had no clue what to do next.

  “I have a back-up plan,” overwrought and indecisive, I told myself, helplessly wringing my hands. Confronted with this impossible situation, my scrambled brain searched blindly for an answer. Miss Holier-than-thou told me, Looks like you have used that already.

  Still rudderless, I tossed a coin headed as I was down an uncertain path. And then, rock, paper, scissors. Eeny, Meenie, Minie, Mo. My original confidence had given way to concern about the prudence of my actions. ‘C’mon, where’s the tide gonna take me? What if I make the wrong call? Send me a sign, God, if you exist.’ Like iron filings drawn to a magnet, my eyes fastened on to a beam of the sun hitting the porcelain knob of the kitchen cabinet right below the sink. Having escaped from a gap in the blinds, the beam reflected and dispersed hundreds of brilliant spots on the grey walls. That’s a sign if ever there was one.

  Spreading myself as flat as I could, I reached under the