Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction.

by Gabbar Singh

  One afternoon the following week, when Ameena was unable to find work at the construction site nearby, she found Rafique idling on her charpoy. He had a job offer as a house-help in the high-rise apartments. Reluctantly, she sat beside him. Pointing towards two women, he said, “Two years ago, they came with me. Now they live like locals.” As he spoke, he leaned towards her and the whiff of tobacco from his mouth nauseated her.

  “ Inshallah,if you behave, I’ll get you an election card.” Rafique then moved closer to give her a new sari and a pack of bindis he had bought for her.

  “Achcha, if your madam asks you about your native place, say you are from Malda. Or Midnapore. And that your name is Meena.” “Why?”

  “You want work?” Ameena nodded but kept quiet, trying to work through the implications of what he was saying. That night, after Rafique had her, she looked at him leaving, the blankness of her eyes not revealing the pain that was tormenting her body, ready to erupt in a tearful rage. Once she had a job, she would run away from him, she thought.

  *** As Ameena approached the elevator, she could hear her heart pounding. What if the door didn’t open? What if it fell down with a big thud?It was safer to climb. On the fifth floor, she summoned enough courage to press the doorbell. It rang in a series of fading squeals. Clad in shorts and a white shirt, Isha opened the door to find a woman with a bright red bindi adorning her forehead, gazing nervously at her. The dusky complexion was unblemished, barring a few abrasions on her neck - a reminder of her violation the previous night. Isha introduced Ameena to her husband. “Akhil, her name is Meena. What do you say?”

  Akhil remained glued to the television. “Don’t trust her with the baby. Let’s continue with the crèche for some time.”

  The young woman facing Isha spoke in innocent Bengali and a smatter- ing of some English words such as baby, kitchen and lift. That was all. “You don’t have lice, do you?” “No.” “Can you cook?” “I’ll learn.”

  *** Large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the busy highway character - ized the main living area. A giant but slim television hung on the wall. The apartment was tiled with white stone shining so brightly that she was able to see the bright red dot on her forehead. A fancy looking glass lamp stood in the corner with crystals hanging like dew drops, and beneath it were three sets of telephones. “This black one is an intercom. It is for calls within the complex. The other two are landline phones,” Isha ex- plained. “I will call you from my office on this white one. Is that clear?”

  Ameena was to sleep on the bedding, in the small utility area provided near the kitchen. “I’ll get new clothes for you this Sunday, okay?” Isha said as she headed towards the bedroom with the baby in her arms. “And for God’s sake, take a bath before you begin work.”

  The house was quiet, except for the intermittent cries of the baby and the buzz of the air-conditioner. Ameena was trying to come to terms with the grandeur, the cleanliness, so unlike her dwelling. Finding it difficult to sleep, she gazed at the various gadgets in the kitchen. The following morning before leaving for the day, Isha issued a list of do’s and don’ts to be followed in her absence. While Akhil carried the baby towards the elevator, with a bag of diapers and briefcase in hand, Isha told her that she was not supposed to touch any electronic gadgets, venture out of the gated community, or open the door for strangers.

  After finishing her chores inside the house, Ameena would nurse the plants in the balcony. Several cars would emerge from the parking lot and disappear in the weightless veil of the morning fog. The guard would keep track, jotting the vehicle numbers in a hand-held notebook. When Ameena grew restless she would go back to the kitchen and clean the cupboards with the help of a stepladder, painstakingly tending to the expensive crockery.

  At home Isha and Akhil hardly spoke. On days when both returned later than usual, they ordered something in a cardboard box and ate in their bedroom. Ameena observed Isha’s short skirts, fancy under-garments and the strapless tops each time she was asked to spread them on the clothes- line. Out of curiosity, she stepped into Isha’s stilettos, only to sprain her ankle. The ritual of applying a face pack especially amused her when Isha resembled the clown she had once seen in a circus back home.

  In order to keep the conversations private the couple spoke in English. “Leave the stupid job and stay at home. This crèche is useless. Look at the baby. She has lost weight,” Akhil said.

  “Why don’t you leave your job and stay at home?” Isha snapped. “I can’t, and you know that!” “Don’t shout” hushed Isha. “The maid is in the kitchen.”

  “I can’t shout in my own house because you have this dumb maid,and she is more important to you than your own husband.” Within a fortnight, Ameena was trusted with the baby and allowed to venture out within the gated complex. The baby took to her naturally. In the mornings when the couple left for work, she would stand in the balcony with the baby. The warmth of the eight-month-old felt so good, so right. Stroking her soft hair and cradling her in the nook of her arms, Ameena dreamt of watching the baby grow.

  Soon, Ameena stopped squatting on the floor. Switching on the televi - sion or the microwave was no big deal either. Her hair smelt good and her hands felt clean. Her vacuous eyes appeared less sedate and more animated.

  With his impish smile and crinkly eyes, the Nepali security guard helped familiarize Ameena with the elevator and her heart no longer pounded each time she was alone in the enclosed space. He held the door of the elevator open for her, careful to give her enough room to move without having to brush past him. On her way out, she often paused to chat with him, “Do they treat you nicely?” he’d ask, concerned. “I know how it feels like to be an outsider, away from home.”

  Her home! Would her mother be worried? What about her sisters ? Initially, her mother was not in agreement, but eventually decided to dispatch Ameena with the potbellied stranger for a few hundred rupees. Rafique had prom- ised, “Delhi is bigger than Dhaka. She will earn more.” People in big cities, unable to clean floors and wash utensils, need help, he had said. Had she stayed back, her mother would have negotiated with the bald widower who had had his eyes on Ameena. But Rafique’s offer promised hope, even if it meant crossing the border with a stranger.

  Standing in the balcony, leaning against it, Ameena was idling that af - ternoon. The baby was asleep and her chores were over and done with. She watched the assembled pigeons waddling in the grass, nodding their heads for no reason, pecking and shuffling their iridescent wings. The guard below looked up at her and smiled. That is when she spotted a familiar patch of baldpate on a rotund figure, approaching the block. She ducked. The guard noticed her abrupt move.

  Why was he here? Panic and uncertainty warring within, she hid behind the shelter of the potted plants and strained to listen. Her heart was beating like that of a scared animal. “Is there a new girl in 501?”

  “No. Just the regulars.” “Long hair, dusky complexion?” the man asked.

  “There is no live-in maid here. All are part-timers. They come in the morning, go back by the afternoon.” After loitering for a while, Rafique left. She gave a shy smile of gratitude to the guard. He returned it, reassuring her. At same time, Akhil appeared in the balcony to fetch his towel and caught her smiling at the guard.

  That day onwards Ameena felt uncomfortable in Akhil’s presence. When Isha was around he hardly noticed her, but in her absence his watchful eyes would stalk her. Every now and then he would glance at her while she rolled chappatis, washed dishes or mopped the floor. At times, he bore his eyes into hers and the intensity of his scrutiny made her strangely conscious.

  That evening Isha was late from work. Akhil returned early to find Amee - na in the bedroom, cooing and swaddling the baby to sleep. A sharp smell of liquor wafted from him as he walked unsteadily towards his closet.

  “Baby is asleep. I’m in the kitchen, if you need anything press the bell,” she said as she left the room.

  “I have a headache. Ge
t me a cup of coffee,” Akhil muttered. “Strong.” A few minutes later, when she appeared with a cup of coffee, a barechested Akhil lay in bed wearing his checkered boxers. As Ameena passed on the coffee cup, he lunged forward, brushing against her breasts and smiled as if about to reveal a delicious secret. She promptly turned to leave the room when Akhil said, “So, your real name is not Meena? And you are not from Calcutta?” Akhil continued to look quizzically at her.

  Smiling at her ashen face he added, “Don’t worry I won’t tell Isha. Come, sit here,” he said, patting the bed next to him. Ameena pulled back. But Akhil stood up, and edged closer to cup her face with his hands. Just then the phone came alive. Ameena wrenched the door open and darted across the living room to take the call. It was Isha. “How’s the baby?”

  “Theek hoi, madam.” “Did she eat anything? Isha sounded concerned, “I will be late today. Mash a banana and feed her when she wakes up. Will you?” “Yes.” “Who is it?” yelled Akhil from the bedroom. “Meena, is someone at home?” Isha asked. “No. It’s the television.” “Reduce the volume. The baby is sleeping.”

  *** “Akhil,” said Isha. “She eloped!” “Who?”

  “That Meena,” Isha lamented on the phone. “Imagine, we trusted her with our baby!” “Is anything missing?”Akhil asked. “Nothing.” “Thank God!”

  “You won’t believe Aki. According to the police, Meena was not even her real name,” said Isha . “Liar.”

  “Really? Bloody migrants. Just can’t trust them.” Akhil said angrily. “Any news about the guy she eloped with?”

  “It was the Nepali guard,” said Isha sounding appalled. “Aki, I’m sure I overheard a man yesterday, when I was on the phone with her. She was definitely with someone!.” “Could be him,” Akhil sounded unsure. “Forget it. Look for another. And for God’s sake, find someone with character.”

  ***

  14. Vaman

  Rohit Gore

  ***** And the fifth avatar of Lord Vishnu was Vaman, the dwarf, who could trample the three worlds.

  *** I always knew there were intelligent beings in the universe. I am not an - other conspiracy theory nut or someone who believed that aliens built the pyramids in Egypt or that some sentient beings taught us how to light a fire. However, I somehow always believed in the possibility of beings that were far superior to us. Now I have concrete proof.

  But I am jumping ahead in the story. The story begins when I was born. The first reaction of the doctor was that I was the smallest baby he had delivered. My mother did not ‘deliver’ me in the truest sense. I kind of fell out of her. Everyone was surprised that she could hold me in for nine months. It was no wonder that I had caused so much ruckus inside her – a lot of empty space for me for nine months. My features were indistinguishable. I grew up in a large joint family and no one, not even my father, could make out my nose from my mouth, or my eyes from my nose. They were all mixed up. It took them five years to find an accept- able form on my tiny face. The whispers began immediately after people, including my father, saw me. ‘Heis not human’, ‘has the face of the devil’, ‘God hasn’t given him a face. God did not like him.’ Everyone said that except my mother. She died a few years ago. She lived a hard life, but always smiled and told me wonderful stories of the Gods, of Rama and Krishna and how they destroyed the evil in the world.

  So, it was 1978 and I watched ‘Back to the future’ for the first time. The theatre was old and dilapidated and just five weeks ago there had been a fire that had killed ten people. My cousins (sixteen of them) told me that ‘Back to the future’ should not be missed due to any reason, including the threat of another fire. So there were just the seventeen of us in the theatre. We were watching the scene where Michael J Fox drives the car through the time portal when it happened for the first time. Suddenly there was pitch darkness in the theatre. The movie screen went blank. The screen, the chairs with insects deeply buried in the cushions, my boisterous cousins, and the half-burnt theatre had dissolved into a thick blackness. Just as I thought that this must be the blackest darkness I had ever seen, the screen came back to life in full glare. But I still could not see the chairs, the theater walls or my cousins. Michael J Fox was on the screen. There was nothing else. I wondered if there was a screen really. It was as if the screen was the size of Michael J Fox and had taken the shape of the man himself and his movements.

  “Hello Vaman,” he said.

  I could disbelieve what was happening if I were in a dream or a night- mare. But it was as real as the colour of the red T-Shirt I wore that day. “Don’t worry. All of this is normal. It will take some time getting used to. But we are expecting it would be less, in your case. You are the closest we have come to the production version,” he said.

  I had absolutely no clue about what he was saying. It was a science fiction movie and anything could happen in a science fiction movie. Although, I thought, this time they had gone a bit too far

  “Are you still in the movie?” I asked. I did not know what else to ask. “Yes. You can say that. But this movie is meant just for you,” he said.

  “Okay,” I felt a little stupid for asking that question. Of course it had to be for me alone. Otherwise my female cousins, all seven of them would have started shouting by now to get Michael J Fox’s attention.

  “You are slowly getting ready, Vaman. We will be watching you. Don’t get involved in anything that can harm you. A lot rides on you, okay?” he said with a wry smile. Perhaps he found it difficult to believe that anything could ride on me.

  “Okay,” I said.

  Then, he disappeared and everything else reappeared. The movie, the theatre walls, chairs, and my cousins. Michael J Fox was in the past, in the forties, struggling to make sense of it all. I don’t know for sure, but he winked at me. Just once. He was delivering a dialogue and mid-sentence he turned towards me, winked, and resumed his dialogue. Nobody must have seen it since my cousins did not mention it later. I did not like the movie. I stopped watching science fiction movies after that. Especially the sequels to Back to the Future.

  I did not grow beyond three feet and four inches. I was the shortest kid everywhere. In kindergarten, where my teachers always made me stand in the front row during the school prayer. At school, where I always had to sit on the first bench for I could not see the teacher even from the sec- ond. I was always at the forefront but strangely, always invisible. Nobody seemed to notice me.

  My father, too, thought that I was invisible. I had four siblings. Two older, two younger. Anything my father got for his kids he got it in fours. I thought he was always surprised that I existed when my mother told him that he had forgotten to bring the fifth. His surprise, more often than not turned into rage. And then there were words. Words so hideous and acerbic that my mother’s tears dried up even before I was two years old. My father refused to believe that he had fathered me. These moments of my mother’s humiliation were the only bright spots in the lives of my many aunts and grandmother.

  I was ten years old and just five days before the ‘Back to the Future’ in - cident, I had participated in the selections for the track and field events of the school. The selection committee started and ended with the sixty four-year old P.T. teacher who always had a red whistle between his lips. He never removed it and so a faint whistle accompanied everything he said.

  “What the hell do you want?” he asked me. Some people were annoyed that they noticed me. “I want to participate in the trials sir,” I said.

  He waited for me to say something more as though I was going to deliver the punch line of a joke. And then he laughed. So did the whistle. Slowly the laughter dissipated and after a few moments, the entire school was laughing to the tune of the P.T. teacher’s whistle.

  “And what do you want to trial for?” he asked, chewing the end of his whistle as though it were a cigar. “Triple jump, sir,” I said. The laughter increased. I stood there for a rather long moment and then walked away, the faint whistling laughter still in my ears.


  I loved triple jump. I was terrible at every sport, but I could triple jump

  – The precision. The rhythm. The timing. Perhaps the best in the entire school. They never noticed me practicing on my own after everyone had left the school grounds. I thought I had become so good at it that I could jump across the school ground. I looked up one night at the sky lit with stars and asked, “Can I really jump across the school ground?” I did not get any answer.

  Eleven years later I was twenty-one years old, fresh out of my computer science degree course and struggling to ingrain myself into the family business of selling saris. My father and his brothers sold saris. My grand- father and his brothers sold saris. My grandfather’s father and his broth- ers sold saris. Beyond that, I don’t know. Bright and colourful saris. Just like my mother’s stories. I could not sell saris. The customers ignored me. One night there was an attempted robbery in our biggest shop. Nothing was stolen. The burglars ran away after the alarm went off. My father and his brothers counted each and every sari, just to be sure. I remember there were three hundred twenty eight thousand six hundred and forty seven saris. My father insisted that someone sleep in the shop every night. Everyone was scared to do so. My father saw me then. Perhaps for the fifth time in my life.

  “Vaman, you will have to sleep in the shop,” he said to me. He actually looked at me when he said that. I was so giddy that I nodded my assent. I was scared and desperately trying to sleep that night when the shop disappeared. The blackest darkness returned. I thought I saw some- one walking towards me. It turned out to be a woman and she was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen. She was wearing the saris from our shop. Incredibly, I thought she was wearing all three hundred twenty eight thousand six hundred and forty seven saris. They were like little stamps joined together to make one most colourful and beautiful sari.

  “Hello Vaman,” she said. “Are you trying to steal the saris?” I croaked. She laughed. The most beautiful and crinkling laughter I had ever heard.