Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction.

by Gabbar Singh

  Published by RUMOUR BOOKS INDIA 2014 ISBN 978-81-929532-1-2

  Copyright © Harsh Snehanshu, 2014

  Harsh Snehanshu has asserted his right under the copyright, design and photographs to be identified as the author of this book.

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used

  fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  businesses, companies, events, or locates is entirely coincidental.

  First published Worldwide 2014 by Rumour Books India

  www.rumourbooks.com Cover Design by Saurav Das Typesetting by Rumour Books India Printed and bound in India by Rumour Books India

  Dedicated to Ramya Maddali, for teaching me what good writing means.

  Acknowledgments

  Much like all good things in life, Mango Chutneyjust happened to me. When Rumour Books Indiaapproached me in May 2014 to compile an anthology, I sat up and thought why not. I was free for three months, had been writing stories for quite a while, and keenly followed some outstanding, yet unpublished, writers on social media. In less than two months, we managed to put together 27 extremely fine stories – some descriptive, some light-hearted, creating a potpourri of diverse writing styles and subjects, encompassing all genres from crime, romance, hor- ror, satire, children’s fiction, young adult, to travel. In an unprecedented move, we even transgressed to the domain of translation and unearthed a delicious tale, Prem ki Chashniby Sudhanshu Shekhar Pathak, translated from Hindi for the readers of Mango Chutney.

  So great is the quality of writing that I was witness to that I realized that the prudent thing to do would be to refrain from including any of my stories in Mango Chutney. From twitter celebrities Abhishek Asthana (@ gabbbarsingh) and Shruti Vajpayee (@Oinkoo), published authors Ro- hit Gore and Deepti Menon, award-winning bloggers Purba Ray, Alka Gurha, Giribala Joshi and Sakshi Nanda, to the journalist Urvashi Sarkar: our contributors are stalwarts in their fields. For the first time, we have Anuj Gosalia, the founder of the popular social media brand Terribly Tiny Tales, writing for an anthology. Under the pseudonym Shikhandi, we have one of the country’s acclaimed poets writing a lyrical story for us. Be- sides, through online submissions, we discovered a 14-year-old prodigy from Odisha, Harsha Pattnaik, whose story stands shoulder to shoulder with the older writers amongst us.

  During our search, we discovered an assortment of inimitable talents: Aathira Jim, Abhilasha Kumar, Arjun Bhatia, Ashwini Ashokkumar, Krishnaroop Dey, Krshna Prashant, Ramya Maddali, Riti Kaunteya, Ru- chika Goel, Sidhharth, Sayan Haldar, Shubham Kapur, Shweta Mukesh, Pavithra Srinivasan, hailing from diverse backgrounds – students, manag- ers, engineers, MBAs, media professionals, accountants, housewives, and one, a post-graduate at Oxford. Their ideas and thinking come together to create the requisite sweetness and tang, making Mango Chutney delectable and memorable. I’m extremely grateful to all the contributors for their camaraderie and cooperation, at times tolerating my cruel critiques, at other times, my annoying requests to redraft.

  This book wouldn’t have been possible without the kind editorial help of Smruthi Bala, Shweta Mukesh and Urvashi Sarkar, who helped shortlist and polish the drafts. Special thanks to Pratik Dasgupta, Abhishek Ast- hana and Vibhor Saxena for their helping hands in the marketing domain. The book as much owes to my family, my parents and sister Saumya, for tolerating a geek hunched over on his laptop all day, everyday. Without their support, it would have been impossible to work full-time on this project. I’m pleasantly surprised at the editorial independence and 24x7 cooperation offered by Rumour Books Indiato me for this book. Thank you Reekrit, Radhika and the rest of the team.

  My most important thanks goes to Ramya Maddali, the ghost editor-inchief of this book, who coined the name Mango Chutney, patiently went through each of the drafts, and ultimately, dealt with my perpetual growl- ing with a kind, ‘Shut up!’ Nothing else could have calmed me as much as those two words of her. If there’s a flavor to this refreshing anthology, you know whom to credit.

  Harsh Snehanshu 11th August, 2014 New Delhi

  Contents

  1. Miracleby Sayan Haldar 5

  2. The Creation of Love by Deepti Menon 11

  3. Wintersong by Anuj Gosalia 17

  4. My Grandfather Shirt by Shikhandi 19

  5. Benched by Abhilasha Kumar 24

  6. The 37th Milestone by Abhishek Asthana 36

  7. Valentine Lost by Sidhharth 43

  8. Tainted Red by Aathira Jim 51

  9. The Birthday Boy by Harsha Pattnaik 57

  10. The Girl Who Owned Castles by Giribala Joshi 66

  11. The Perfectly Poached Egg by Ramya Maddali 77

  12. Sawai by Arjun Bhatia 83

  13. Someone with Character by Alka Gurha 93

  14. Vamanby Rohit Gore 107

  15. Not Understanding Schnapsens by Shweta Mukesh 115

  16. The Lost Cause by Krishnaroop Dey 124

  17. End of a Weekend by Ruchika Goel 131

  18. Friendzoned by Shruti Vajpayee 140

  19. Hamsanādam by Pavithra Srinivasan 146

  20. The Life Changing Present by Ashwini Ashokkumar 154

  21. The Rejection Ceremony by Shubham Kapur 157

  22. The Proof of Birth by Urvashi Sarkar 171

  23. One a Penny by Krshna Prashant 177

  24. Angels and Demons by Purba Ray 181

  25. On the Other Side by Sakshi Nanda 188

  26. Prem ki Chashni by Sudhanshu Shekhar Pathak 195 (translated by Harsh Snehanshu)

  27. The Postman by Riti Kaunteya 208 Contributors’ Details 213

  1. Miracle

  Sayan Haldar

  “God, I promise, just let me see my kids once and I’ll ask for nothing else.” Suddenly the bells started to ring, the gates were thrown open and a five-year-old screaming “Mom” collided with her, and she turned.

  “Honey, will you shut that thing, I’m trying to help Ron with his home- work,” my wife screamed from the other room. I groaned and turned it off and walked across to the other room. “Did you hear the TV? God! How does anyone buy these?” I hated those soaps, probably more than she did, too, but there wasn’t anything to do that evening.

  “Yes, honey, I think there are a couple of people three blocks away who didn’t hear it.”

  I shrugged. “Imagine if God heard your prayers instantly like that, hah, God.”

  “You’re doing it all wrong,” she said, “place the decimal point in line.” I went into the drawing room, stared at a painting on the wall, lifted my arms and pointed them straight towards the frame and said, “God let it fall.” The painting slid smoothly off the hook as if somebody had or- dered it to and crashed to the floor. Katie rushed out, with a scared face, glanced once at the shattered pieces of glass on the floor and once at me. She puffed up her face, looking as if her eyes would pop out, turned back and slammed the door shut.

  Next day at work, the files kept coming. I couldn’t open a single one. Jose looked over from his desk and mouthed a “What?” I shook my head slowly and turned my attention to the pencil in my hand. It was the only company I had had since last nig
ht. The hardest part was to not make anyone else believe what I had witnessed; it was to make myself believe it. It must have been the wind, I thought, only I knew full well, the windows were closed.

  One p.m. Lunchtime. I walked out and tried to think about something that would make me forget last night. “Those Joe’s sandwiches,” I said dreamily. But they were on the other side of town and somehow I didn’t feel like driving fifteen miles. I looked up and muttered, “If you’re listening then send me one of those sandwiches, will you?” I looked both ways and the only recognizable face was Jose’s. He was staring at me as if he thought I had completely lost it. He came up to me and said, “You look sick, man. I got something that should cheer you right up.” He took out his lunch and gave me a sandwich wrapped up nicely. “My wife got these from Joe’s this morning. You’ve never tasted any of these before. They’re grand.”

  I snatched it from his hand and rushed to my car. I must have driven at ninety miles per hour, ‘cause I was back home in a flash.

  “Honey, open up,” I yelled, banging on the door. “You remember that painting yesterday,” I began, as she looked at me with disinterest, convinced that it was just another one of those ridicu- lous stories I often told Ron.

  “And look.” I handed her what was left of the sandwich – only the nap - kin – but it had Joe’s written over it. I stood awaiting a gasp; after all, the evidence was here.

  “You got me a napkin to make up for that painting, pathetic!” I grabbed her wrist as she walked away. “You don’t believe me, do you?” I could feel her getting angrier by the second. “Wait, watch this.” I lifted my arms again and pointed them this time to a beautiful blue vase on the mantel. With the confidence of Hitler I shouted,” God, break it!” Nothing hap - pened. I tried again. Nothing. I looked at her hoping she had a better explanation. She said quietly,” I’m not amused”. One more night on the couch then. But why hadn’t it worked?

  “Once every day and tell nobody,” I could hear these words clearly as Ron picked up the telephone in the corner. I stared at him, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was talking to one of his friends, maybe. Was I really talking to God through my son? “That’s right,” blurted Ron once again. The contract was there. Okay then, I thought, I play by your rules.

  Next day at work, I was multitasking. Finishing off yesterday’s work as well as thinking about what I would wish for today. The first few thoughts: social service, charity, food for the poor. Later, I thought. There was plenty of time for social reform. What did I want most? I should be care- ful not to offend him. After all, that was the message behind yesterday’s instruction – not to be greedy. I wasn’t a selfish man. I didn’t want a red Ferrari F-40. Maybe I did, but that wasn’t the point. Nothing irrational was my conclusion. By lunchtime I had settled the matter in my head. A promotion and a new car.

  I worked in a small private firm whose exact motives were unknown to me. Business wasn’t all that good, promotions were rare and all of this was due to a rival company that had sprung up recently. From what I had heard, they were set to completely destroy us and take over the business. Many of my friends had resigned and joined the enemy. I hadn’t, simply because I was unsure of whether they would take me or not. As I looked outside I saw my tiny blue car parked neatly near an area where wooden crates were being unloaded tucks on to forklifts. As I watched, one of the forklifts veered off course completely. I had started to rise when it gathered speed and headed in the direction of my car. I scrambled to open the window, but either I was too slow or it was too fast. Steel forks smashed into the side of my car and the momentum pushed it sideways into the wall. I watched helplessly as people started to gather around the site. I rushed downstairs and found my car helplessly stuck between the forklift and the wall, crushed to half its original width. The crates had slid off and onto the roof of my car, which had no choice but to succumb, no longer fit to be driven, ever again.

  Jose gave me a lift home that day. I wasn’t in the mood to talk to anybody. Had I asked for too much? I didn’t think so. Granted, I was not one of the best workers around but I did the best I could. A promotion would have been a welcome change and I was even planning on a new car. The telephone rang as I groaned. I let it ring until my wife came in from the kitchen and answered it.

  “It’s for you.”

  “Who is it?” I snapped. “Some legal advisor from ATKOM.”

  I remembered. ATKOM was the rival firm that wanted to make us job- less. “Hello.” “Am I speaking to Mr. Anderson?” I replied he was.

  “Mr. Anderson, this is Mr. Delahunt. I am the legal advisor for ATKOM. We just heard of the terrible accident you were involved in this morning. Obviously you must know that we are all very sor…”

  “What do you want?” A silence ensued. However, very soon the voice boomed back but this time it meant business.

  “Mr. Anderson, we are asking that you sue your company for compensa- tion since this was obviously due to carelessness on their part.” I sat up a little straighter. For the first time in over two days I was actually thinking.

  “What’s it in for you?” I asked quietly, unsure of the kind of response I would get. Delahunt laughed softly but replied, “I won’t hide it from you Mr. An - derson. If you do file this case and the case does go to court we hope to dole out a lot of negative publicity for your firm, which means a lot of positive publicity for ours. If you do win, so much the better for you, you get the money and a job at our firm; if you lose you still are guaranteed a job at our firm. To put it simply you end up with a better job after this is over and you might also have a lot of extra money. Now can I put it any plainer?”

  I said I would think about it. He gave me his number and said he would be expecting my call. After I hung up I was even more confused than I had been before. I wasn’t doubting God. Not now, at least, but what was I supposed to do?

  I went to work the next day and had barely touched my chair when the head of our firm, Mr. Andrews summoned me. “Mr. Anderson, I am terribly sorry for what happened the other day, but that is not the reason I have called you here. You see, ATKOM doesn’t want to miss any opportunity, and if this news reaches them they will definitely try to drag us to court through you. All I am asking is for you to remain faithful to the company that you have served for so many years and in return for your faith, we would be glad to offer you a promotion and, of course, an absolutely new car of your choice.”

  I lapped up the offer and the only question in my mind when I left his office was which car I would choose. I never heard from the ATKOM legal advisor again.

  Three days later I had won a lottery for a hundred thousand dollars, my son had reached the finals of an International Mathematics Olympiad (the youngest ever to do so) and Katie and I were choosing between a trip to France, Greece or Italy, with all expenses paid, of course. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t thought about charity, it was just that the time wasn’t right. I didn’t feel guilty for under-utilizing this power. World peace, food for the poor, I was getting there. I just wanted to enjoy a little before I moved on to bigger things, as I liked to call them. There was lot of time, I knew, after all God wasn’t going to let me get away with just pleasures, he expected me to do something and I knew it. I was just waiting for the right time.

  Next morning, on my way to the office, I was still unsure of what I would ask God for that day. Since I wanted nothing presently I should probably wait till I felt the need for it. At the corner of Elf Street, this guy was selling hotdogs. I had had breakfast but I didn’t know why I felt hungry. So I got one and stood at the corner and as I stuffed it into my mouth I thought of the millions of other people who walked about their everyday lives and how anyone would be ready to kill for the sort of power I pos- sessed. I could do anything, absolutely anything. If I wanted to, I could make that building collapse or maybe an earthquake happen and then everybody would get to know. I had no intention of doing anything like that but it sure felt good to know that I could if I wanted to. The
hotdog was now half over when a small kid, hardly seven or eight years old, with beautiful golden hair and wearing a bright blue T-shirt, stole from his mother and ran right into the center of the road chasing his red balloon. Standing exactly at the center he got hold of the escaped balloon and it was only when he raised his head did he realize where he was. His mother was plainly the lady who was screaming her lungs out, pleading for the cars to stop or for somebody to help. I forgot the hot- dog and wanted exactly what the woman standing across the street did. I screamed and said, “God make those cars stop…” Nobody took any no- tice of what I was saying. All eyes were fixed on that small angel. I cried again, “Stop, make them stop! God, please let them stop now, stop… now.” I snapped my fingers, raised my arms and begged and pleaded. I remembered clearly that my quota for the day wasn’t over. The black Mercedes speeding at 70 miles per hour aimed directly at the boy.

  “God now brake it. Stop it, there’s a kid down there! Please.” I real - ized that people weren’t listening to me because they were saying the same thing, but only my voice mattered and I screamed again, “Stop that black one, God, stop that black one! Now! Stop…brake that one…stop now…”

  The Mercedes braked only a fraction too late. The balloon flew away and there was silence, silence like there hadn’t been in the last fifteen seconds. People rushed as cars skid to a standstill but I knew nobody could have survived that crash, let alone a seven-year-old. I saw his arm from under the car and I saw blood. They were all screaming, no, all silent, it didn’t matter now. Did it?

  Seven days later I emerged from my room. I had spoken to no one since and had eaten nothing. I was surprised that I was alive. Katie had been with doctors and psychologists the entire week. I slowly walked to the drawing room and saw that there was no one there. I didn’t know why I was doing it or what would happen if it worked but I had to do it. I raised my arms, and looking at the crystal vase on the mantel said, shatter.”