Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction.

by Gabbar Singh

  And then my phone buzzed. 14% battery remaining. Plug in charger. Gah! ‘Karuuuu, sorry. I was drunk. We’ll remain good friends for life.’ What? Why? Never mind. We kept texting anyway and I never failed to bring up how he had friendzoned me in every conversation we had. I dragged conversations endlessly until I made him feel awful about him- self. He was meeting prospective partners now. I knew I’d be weeping with his wedding card in my hands in another two months with ‘Tujhe yaad na meri aayi’ playing in the background. I sent him more drunk texts until things grew so awkward that I stopped seeing him. I had begun acting like a jilted lover on days I wasn’t drunk. If I were a true Gujjar from Noida, I may have even splashed acid on Karan’s face or shot him at point blank while riding a Bullet with a black helmet on. But I was one of the few decent Noida residents.

  I wept every morning for the next two weeks. Sometimes because of the fear of getting married, sometimes because Karan probably knew how desperate and clingy I was, and sometimes because I just hated work. He had stopped messaging me completely now.

  I felt terrible and then fatigue set in. I started reading a pile of books I had once ordered from Flipkart but never touched. I started living in the world of fiction. One day I was a character out of ‘Jana Bibi’s Excellent Fortunes’, the next day I was an emotional wreck because of ‘And the mountains echoed’, and then I was flying from one city to another in my imagination because of ‘The Pelican Brief’.

  One fine day I magically got tired of weeping. I rose from the ashes like a Phoenix. It felt as if someone had flicked the switch and the tubelight was now shining bright. Everything became clear. I didn’t feel like crying anymore. I was like a fully charged smartphone. I felt the kind of joy I would on receiving a hundred likes on my profile picture. Karan had sud- denly become nicer. He would text me on his own. I stopped replying. I even made a list of ‘10 signs you know you’re friend zoned’ and it became the top story on our news website.

  All of a sudden, work seemed like a blessing on weekends. I would work on weekends to avoid any contact with the real world. I was holding Karan’s wedding card right now without an iota of pain in my heart. A week later I was dressed and looked rather pretty in a yellow suit that hid the extra kilos under the heavy dupattathat I could have draped around my face if I could to escape being seen at a typical Punjabi wedding.

  There was everyone from my previous workplace there. Argh! I put on a fake smile, head straight to hog on the food, and graciously exchanged hellos with everyone without glancing at the stage even once. After the regular stepping on stage, smiling stupidly at the flashing lights, pos- ing endlessly for pictures that will go right away on Facebook, I found Gaurav. He had forwarded me another message on WhatsApp just three hours ago.

  ‘Hey! Long time!’ ‘Yaa…’ I really needed to work on my communication skills. ‘Leaving? Want me to drop you?’ ‘No, no! I’ve called a cab.’ ‘Oh…’

  And then I sped off, on spotting my cab waiting right outside the gate. By the time I reached home Gaurav had texted me again. ‘I wanted to say you were looking really nice today ’

  My thumbs did a little dance on the keypad without coming to a conclu - sion about where they wished to land. I could already visualize how this was going to end. I was going to put him in the zone that no one can get out of – because ‘I haven’t thought about us like that, you know. I hope you understand. Let’s just be really good friends.’

  19. Hamsanādam

  Pavithra Srinivasan

  “Have you been doing your stretching exercises?” Dr. Shankar asked, peering at me over his glasses. “Sort of,” I said, sinking back into the wheelchair, exhausted again. “‘Sort of’ is not good enough, Ria, you know that.”

  I nodded. My legs were still shaking, and I clutched them silently, willing them to stop.

  “One thing at a time, young lady. If you don’t stretch, they won’t stop shaking. Your legs need some strength before you can try the next step.” Time was something I had plenty of. Patience, though, was a different matter; I never was one for waiting, for building up to a moment, when I could tumble into it instead.

  *** I was one of those who would always turn up late to dance class.

  “Thath thai thaiyum thath thām, kitathaka, tha thai thaiyum thath thām tharikita” I remember that day was no exception. The opening sollu, the rhythm of the alārippu, drifted down the stairs. The alārippu is traditionally the first piece presented at a dance recital, and over the years, most of my group had accepted that we must start each class by running though its geomet- ric precision. My Guru was insistent about tradition.

  As I rushed in, she tilted her head slightly and smiled, while her eyes seemed to say, “late again?” “Sorry, Akka,” I whispered, and dropped off my bag. Tying my dupatta into an impromptu saree, I weaved through my friends to begin the series of practiced moves. For the next ten minutes, the hall was filled with the sounds of feet pounding the ground and arms slicing through air.

  Afterwards, as I wiped the sweat off my brow, I sat down before Akka. “Does the alārippu bore you, Ria?” I knew I should have laughed and brushed it off. But I had to ask her.

  “Akka, why do we have to follow the m ārgam always? Why must the alārippu and jatiswaram be followed by a varnam? Why do we have to end with the thillānā?”

  Akka chuckled slightly. “The word “mārgam” – you know what it means, don’t you?” I did. It meant “the way,” the path to a destination.

  “Correct. It is not just the path to the destination. To artists, who do not care very much about where we are headed, it isthe destination itself. And tell me this: can there be mathematicians who do not begin by learn- ing that two comes after one? And would you be able to write without knowing your alphabet?”

  We were quiet for a while, until it was time for the next piece. Akka ran her thattu, a short wooden stick, over the flat-based kazhi. Slowly, quietly, at first, sending a murmur of wood on wood that was a sign to stop chat- ting and put the water bottles away. In the gathering silence and the rustle of re-tied dupattas, a giggle turned into a loud laugh.

  The thattu-kazhi rang out twice, sharply, and it was quickly muffled. Back in our places, we began the jatiswaram. The second piece of a traditional mārgam is a mix of more complex steps, choreographed to music less prosaic than the alārippu. The whole piece feels more joyous than the first, really, but it’s a controlled display of nritta – pure dance – before we get to the emotive aspects.

  “But Akka,” I argued silently, “words use a finite number of letters. They are just ordered differently to signify different meanings. And sentenc- es use a finite number of words ordered differently to mean different things.” I knew I was slackening my pace, but I could not help thinking as I danced. “So would a recital with a jatiswaram at the end change its meaning altogether?”

  “Let me ask you this,” she said, as we sat down to dinner later that night with her family. “Do you think I would say, “you well dance” rather than “you dance well,” just because you can put one thing before the other? The verb has to come before the adverb, because you need to have done something for me to tell you how you’ve done it.”

  We laughed, as Akka continued. “The al ārippu is a gentle beginning, a predictable blend of feet and eyes and hips and neck. The pieces then build up in complexity. The shab- dam is the first piece that lets you use your face to paint your heart. The varnam, then, brings this emotion together with rhythmic steps to reach a crescendo. Then the crescendo softens, and we move to the world of pure heart: jāvalis, padhams – these are gems that let you express com- plex emotions more deeply, less metrically. The pace slows, but the heart swells and swells until it bursts once more into the thillāna, a farewell piece that takes you back to feet, eyes, hips and neck. One short emotive segment past, the final crescendo is reached on the stairway to God.”

  “And is that the destination of the mārgam? To reach God?” I asked. “To some, yes. To many, it i
s a glimpse of a never-reached destination. You heard me – the journey itself is sufficient sometimes.” ***

  “How was your session,” Amma asked, arranging the cushions against my neck as I leaned back.

  “Tiring. Dr. Shankar isn’t happy.”

  She only let the furrows on her brow show for a heartbeat, before wiping them away with a smile. “How did you manage to trouble him now?” “I hate stretching, Ma. It hurts, and it’s pointless. What, am I preparing for a performance or something?” I saw the words cut her deeply.

  “But this is important, Ria. You promised to listen to the doctor and fol- low what he says. It’s...”

  “For the best, yes,” I finished her sentence. “I meant to say that it’s the only way,” she said. “How can you try stand- ing up if you don’t strengthen your muscles? One thing at a time, Ria.” I couldn’t help but laugh. “You sound as if you’ve been speaking to Dr. Shankar! He said the exact same thing. As if I have anywhere to go and anything else to do. As if I’m not trying, as if...what is that?”

  Amma had turned on some music on her laptop, and a forgotten note filled the room.

  “I don’t know, it’s something your brother sent. He said his band tried some fusion – Carnatic and rock. He thought you would like it.” Bantureethi kolu viya vaiyya Rāmā... Of course I did. Amma murmured an apology, and quickly tried to turn it off, but an unfamiliar beat raced through the familiar words of the Thyagaraja composition.

  “Let it be,” I said, sitting back and shutting my eyes. ***

  I had danced to those words so many times. It was a wildly popular song, sung over the ages by stalwarts and children alike. Of course, when I say wildly popular, I do not mean to conjure images of head-banging and screaming crowds: emotional swaying and a quiet chorus of “shabāsh” would be more appropriate. The rāgam, Hamsanādam, seemed to con- tain a throbbing cry to God. My heart would begin to pound when I tried to convey the depth of devotion in its nuances – like water reaching boil- ing heat, but finding itself trapped, for eternity, in that moment between bubbling and overflowing.

  “No, no, Ria, not like that. That is too much, just too much. Don’t throw your arms out so abruptly and beg. Let them unfold, gently, asking for God’s gaze to turn to you. Don’t demand it like that, don’t jump for it. Be still, as you prepare to receive that gaze.”

  It was hard to be still, when the warbling strains reached the familiar cre - scendo, and the singer begged for God’s name to be his sword. But Akka was adamant, and wouldn’t let me perform the piece on stage.

  “That is how my Guru imagined it. You need to learn to be still in order to leap. If you are not ready for it today, keep trying. I know that some- day, you will be.”

  *** The fusion came to an end in a clash of cymbals. As Amma left the room, I knew she was remembering all of those classes as well. Many years ago, I gave up attending Carnatic music lessons, deciding that my brother could be the Semmangudi of the family, and I, the Balasara- swati. I had attempted some lessons, dutifully practising a rāgam taught to all newcomers as the fountainhead of musical notes. Seven swarams, or notes of S-R-G-M-P-D-N, had to be intoned in steady ascension and descension. Several uncontrollable coughing fits later, my teacher could see that I had a severe case of asthma that would come on only in her dusty, veenā-lined room. After that, I was allowed to focus on my Bhara- tanatyam lessons instead.

  But the music never ceased. I danced to it all the time, and took secret pleasure in recognizing names of rāgams that fellow dancers would have to memorize with difficulty. I tried dodging it, but it resonated in every pathway my brother traversed. It echoed in our house when he moved away, and in the letters he wrote describing his newfound home: the col- lege music club. Sometimes, it came back over summer holidays in his audio-cassettes, plastic windows onto a world that fused Carnatic and rock music. It seemed to me that the world was a large, strange place filled with mysterious marriages.

  And it came to me, especially at moments when I found it hard to un - derstand how to wait for a gaze in stillness, when every note seemed to demand abandon. It had come to me again, now, reminding me of halfforgotten emotions and unlearned patience.

  I keyed in “how to learn Hamsanādam,” and one of the first links that came up led to a site called Rāga Surabhi. It contained weekly tutorials on rāgams and looked very professional. Under the rāgam’s name, it read: Ā rohanam: S R2 M2 P N3 S Avarohanam: S N3 P M2 R2 S

  An ārohanam is the ascending scale of a rāgam, and the avarohanam, its descending. Each ragam – and there are thousands – has a signature permutation of the basic swarams represented by these S, R2 and N3 symbols. Each breath of air must be contoured differently to represent each swaram. As each swaram follows the other in a particular order, a rāgam is born: change one swaram around, and the flavour of the whole rāgam changes. And above all, as the singer winds upward in a particular sequence of swarams, so must she travel back down that unique route too.

  I tried to sing S. “Saaa,” to be precise. Or “suuuh,” to attempt to be even more precise, but precision can falter when turning sound into script. “Suuuh” was the easy bit. I remembered this much from my aborted music lessons. What about M2? Why 2? Did that make the “Maa” sound I remembered? Did the 2 indicate something vaster, or something nar- rower? Rāga Surabhi, that beautiful website, also uploaded audio clips of a woman going through the scales. First, she went through them all at once, like a maestro clearing her throat before an audience – an audience that is meant to hear, but not know. And then, more gently, more slowly, like a teacher faced with a coughing student. M2 sounded like it needed to be intoned by barely opening the mouth. My lips, in fact, had to be held just as far apart as I would before a slow kiss. This was its defining note, I read, because it set Hamsanādam apart from rāgams with mere “M”s adorning the centre of the swaram sequence. It amused me, think- ing that if I were to open too wide and prepare to utter a rebuke rather than request a kiss, my Hamsanādam would slip into a different rāgam, a different identity altogether.

  “Muhhh,” I sang, stopping the audio, and drawing it out again in uni - son with the recorded voice. That “2” made it sweeter, more rounded, I thought. I made a note of its peculiar effect, of its ability to turn the “Maa” into a playful, pleading waterfall draping over a mountain and plunging into a valley.

  So M2 held the key to the stillness of the r āgam, I thought. All day, I could not stay straight without feeling the urge to bend and – suddenly – drop. I weaved my head slowly to the drawn-out note, and tried moving my unresponsive body along the swaram’s curve. I thought I could un- derstand the gentle, initial rise of the “Muhhh” and its sudden plummet at its conclusion if I could move my hips and head just so.

  I must have looked a sight, moving my upper body in an arch with no warning as we went out that evening, tasting the sea breeze. When we stopped in front of the ocean, I asked to be left alone before attempting “P”.

  “Paa”. A clear, clarion call. I remembered this from those old classes, it was just the same. The familiar swaram was a friendly signpost that said “well done, this is known territory; you may pass quickly on to the next un- known.”

  “Niii,” sang the recorded voice. I had to hold my head up high, as high and straight as I could, to do justice to the sudden lift in the swaram. The sign of 3 beside the N seemed to pluck the sonorous note off theclothes- line, past the aerial scale of the 2s, and leave it vibrating high above, like a drop of dew suspended on a scale all of its own. The tension in my legs grew, as my body tried to straighten itself out along the line of the “Niii”. I was moving higher and higher, climbing the ladder of the rāgam, while my body could do no more than stretch an arm out pleadingly.

  The final “Saaa” of the ārohanam left me in much the same position, my body taut and my arm stretched in prayer. But when I listened to the avarohanam, the descending cascade of notes, I could sing along easily. All the way back down, the rāgam wound, in t
hat particular order com- posed centuries ago. Slowly, my body relaxed, and I felt the tension leave my legs. My arm dropped, tracing the path back downward. So that was where the stillness in the song lay: in following the quavering crescendo back down to the depths it rose from.

  Through the long, sleepless night, and the days that followed, I repeated the notes. For once, I forced myself to climb up the flight of swarams and follow it back down, rather than tumble into its climax.

  Up and down, my legs stretched and relaxed, waiting, preparing to leap. ***

  “Your legs don’t shake any more, young lady. It’s good that you’re finally listening to instructions. Who knows? We can step up your exercise rou- tine soon,” Dr. Shankar said.

  Amma beamed, running her fingers gently through my hair. I was ready to wait. I was ready to sing a song I may never dance to, and follow a mārgam that may lead nowhere.

  Perhaps, this journey is my destination.

  20. The Life-Changing Present

  Ashwini Ashokkumar

  Diya shut her eyes tight and curled up under the rug, shying away from the blazing light that came in as mama opened the window shutters. The rug cuddled with her tiny form affectionately, re-inducing sleep that ma- ma’s hollers were taking away. Its dim insides made for a soft and cozy sleeping bag. Mama, amidst her own shouting, tugged the rug off her. Diya rolled over to the other side of the bed and got off it, knowing it was the only way to end the yelling.

  Mama looked at her five-year old standing at the edge of the bed in her pink pyjama shorts. Her curls fell on her face, covering her forehead. Her eyes sparkled every time she blinked and her cheeks glowed. She stood there with her brows furrowed, making an evident pout, her way of showing displeasure at the interruption of sleep. It only made her cuter. Mama chuckled at the sight. This was to be Diya’s first day at her new school.