by Gabbar Singh
Don’t worry, it’s just a cup of coffee , he assured her, smiling at her stricken face that must have looked like the calm before a storm. What was she, a loyal daughter and dutiful wife, getting into? With a stranger, someone who could be much younger than her. Debauchery. The word reverberated in her ears.
She tried to ignore the ringing moral refrain. She needn’t have worried. The warmth that he exuded engulfed her, much like the rain used to, with its promises of foison and companionship. She could talk to him and he listened. And for now, that was all that mattered to her.
His name was Sandeep. He was new to the US as well. He was a student who had come here to pursue his Masters. Like coffee, he was an acquired taste. No matter how bad the both of them were, one for the health and the other for her marriage they offered relief. In many ways, talking to him was like going home. She soon discovered that he shared her love for books. They vied with each other to quote from Shakespeare, Dickens, the Bronte sisters, Sidney Sheldon, J.K. Rowling and R.K. Narayan. His favorite author, he said, was Jhumpa Lahiri, whom she had just started to read and abandoned on a whim. He compared her to Gauri from The Lowland. She went back and finished it and treasured the comparison..
They started meeting regularly. She learned the little things about him. Of how he liked to dress in black, for the familiarity of it gave him com- fort. Of how he liked his coffee the same colour as hers, strong with no sugar that it was almost bitter. She noticed how he would drink it piping hot that it must scald his tongue. He shared his secret of dreaming to be a writer someday, someone whose words would herald a revolution. It was always in those tiny coffee shops, just like in the movies, where they would lay their hearts on the table and seek each other out As it turned out, he was twenty-four, just a year younger than her.
What brought them closer was their shared adoration for South Indian food. One time, he happened to mention how much he missed the masa- la dosas and vadas that his mother made back home. The next day, she made it her mission to churn out food with undiscovered relish. When it came to feeding her husband, the food was barely noticed. As if it were an extension of her. Plain and bland, yet necessary.
She cooked to please and the result was worth the effort. The potatoes inside the dosas were neither too soggy nor were they undercooked. They were crunchy and just right, he certified. The vadas were a golden brown and so crispy that they would have put to shame, even the most popular vadas from Ambiswamy’s back home.
Magic fingers, that’s what Sandeep called her as he licked the plate clean. She blushed and tried to brush him off, but was secretly delighted. She could not help but compare him to her husband. Arjun never both - ered to notice the new recipes that she had painstakingly made upon her arrival, merely to please him. In the secret hope of winning over the new husband. But whoever had said that the way to a man’s heart was through his stomach had apparently forgotten to exclude workaholic husbands who hardly cared to notice what he ate as long as it was edible.
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 washaving 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, shedecided 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 wak
e 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. Dop
yaza’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.
And Mr. Dopyaza would be lying if he said that he never waited for a letter from the city, or a call at the neighbour’s house. And that rock, which anchored him, had blown away like dust, lost in the smog of the city. The first blizzard, and he disappeared. Floating through life like a detached observer, he stacked victories like burnt out matches. Empty. Useless.
And then another breeze brought her in the sticky heat of the summer. She was the colour of honey, eyes like the sky at dusk. She had worn a simple blue sari, though a rich trader’s ring crested her finger. Though pain was splattered across her face, her spine was straight and rigid.
Her little daughter stood by her, eyes downcast. The heavy shackles of black beads she wore around her neck came off. The blue and black re- minders on her skin evaporated like the summers. Days crept by and he felt the chill in his chambers disappear as he held her daughter in his lap as his own. Laughing with the beauty in front of him. Two empty cups of tea where the files should be. And he wished to relive old dreams.
One day, the tea turned cold. Addition of another migrant family to the overcrowded cities could break those left behind. And he hadn’t known what to expect anymore. Even now, he didn’t expect anything.
But the boy that he wanted to call his own came to mind. Dark like burnt raisins, his emaciated body had called out to him. Waiting tables at the dhaba, the boy was an orphan. Slipping bits of rotisand biscuits to him, Mr. Dopyaza ate there only so he could watch the boy’s joy. One day, he had slipped a few notes to the boy for school.