by Gabbar Singh
Mama carried the little girl to the other room, brushed her teeth and got her ready. Diya recited her morning songs as mama dressed her up in the new uniform – an off-white button-down shirt and a pleated, checked skirt. Mama hurriedly fed the girl some breakfast; she didn’t want her to miss the school bus on the first day of school. Diya was one of those rare cases of kids who didn’t make a fuss about a thing. You just had to feed her, that’s all. It did not involve running around or pleading with a crying kid; just the feeding. Only, she’d continue to sing her songs managing a bite or two in between.
“A sailor went to sea, sea, sea. To see
Diya stood up, still chewing the last bite of her sandwich, still singing. She looked adorable. Mama pinned the school badge on her shirt and she was good to go. Mama had big dreams for her. She was a smart kid, a very compassionate and understanding one, quite surprising for a fiveyear old. Mama could see her, in her mind, growing into a magnanimous lady someday and enlightening people around, befitting of her name. She would bring her girl up, teaching her the beliefs of the Dalai Lama who she revered so deeply. Mama helped Diya put on her backpack and put out her index finger. Diya held on to it tight. She loved to walk the roads with her mama, she felt like a big girl. They walked on the pavement, girl and mother, finger in hand, singing songs, feeling chirpy and cheerful. The neighbor’s furry brown dog, Ruffles passed by. Diya petted him and giggled as he wagged his tail. They got to the bus stop with a lot of time to spare.
“But all that he could see, see, seeeee, was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, seaaa…” Mama noticed something that another parent was holding; it then dawned on her that she had forgotten Diya’s bus pass at home. There was time, she could sprint home and be back before the bus got to their stop. She asked the little girl to stay there, just there at the same spot. Diya nodded obediently. Mama rushed toward home.
“Helen had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell,
When Helen went to heaven, the steamboat went to hell”
A well-dressed man walked across to little Diya.
“What’s your name little girl? You sing very sweetly.”
“Thank you,” she said shyly. “My mama asked me to talk to no one.”
“Oh she’s right. Never talk to strangers. I have a little present for you though. I will give it to you and I will be gone. Does that work little girl?”
“Okay,” Diya smiled eagerly. She loved presents. The man handed over a tiny black device. She held it with both hands. He asked her to press the green button when she was going to start singing. The display would do a countdown and when it ended, the red button would glow. Just then, she had to stop, at the exact point of time. And she could start over again. The device, the man said, would let out really soft beeps to add music to her singing. Diya was delighted. The man smiled and walked away as promised.
Diya pressed the green. She couldn’t hear the beeps yet, she held it close to her ear and she could hear them. They were really really soft and pe- riodical. She sang:
“Ask me for a muffin, I’ll give you some old bread And if you do not like it, just go and soak your head.”
The beeps didn’t sway or amplify to the song she sang, but they were fine. She could make them match. She couldn’t wait for her mother to see this. She could see someone jogging towards the stop, at the end of the road. It must be her mama. She couldn’t stop singing yet, the device said 13. Not 0. There was no red glow. She was thrilled. She sang fast.
“A sailor went to sea, sea, sea To see what he could see, see, see.” The device said 6. She sang faster. “But all that he could see, see, seee Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea” Now 2. She was exhilarated. She’d stop at the perfect moment. “A sailor went to sea – aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhmmmmaaammmaaaaaaaaa…”
There was a lot of red. Larger than the glow she expected. It was hot, burning hot. Singeing pain. And it ended, abruptly.
Mama saw fire. And chaos. There were screams, of which one voice she knew so well.
21. The Rejection Ceremony
Shubham Kapur
The lady on the sofa looked like a huge chandelier. She wore a golden suit with flashy red borders. Her attire was studded with shining beads and the folds of her dupatta tried hard to hide an inch of her cleavage. The heavy diamond rings on her fingers did the rest of the talking. Her dyed hair was neatly tied in a bun and her golden heels perfectly blended with the guise. One could easily count the layers of face powder on her face and notice the double outlining around the red lipstick; cherry on top of vanilla cake.
“Where is your office located?” asked the lady, while Prasanna served Fanta.
Like you don’t know already? People had perfected the art of pretending. The bio data had already been exchanged and she was sure her pictures were zoomed around thrice. De- spite knowing the answers, the questions were repeated.
“Gurgaon, Aunty,” she faked a smile as she served the drink to the boy. He had a round, expressionless face. His hair was parted on the side and if one looked carefully, one could see a bald patch in the centre. His fake Hilfiger shirt and his personality dropped every hint of him being mummy’s little boy.
Reject.
“Can you cook?” the lady asked, breaking the awkward silence. “Yes Aunty,” Prasanna replied.
“What all can you cook?”
Maggi.
“Aunty, rice...rotis...dal...” The lady kept staring at her as though expecting more. Prasanna smiled and blinked twice, indicating the end of list.
“It’s alright Ji! These days, working girls prefer office to kitchen. Haha- haha!” Her scary laughter echoed through the walls of the drawing room. Err...was that a joke? “Alright Ji, Namaste. We will discuss everything else over the phone.”
The lady stood and folded her hands. She left the house with her timid son but left behind false hope. Prasanna knew there would be no discussion in future. She had noticed the lady gazing at her pimples and the consequent look of disgust on her face. The rejection ceremony was over. She locked her room the moment they left and turned to the mirror. She stared at herself for minutes and wondered if she had to live with this face all her life. She moved her hand and slowly rubbed her face. She could feel the roughness on her cheeks and an itch in her heart. No treatment did justice to it. Treatment could only rub the marks but not the scars of embarrassment. Every time a boy’s family rejected her; the disappointment on her parent’s face killed her. She had learnt to accept rejection but she could never learn to meet her parent’s expectations. They were all looking for a Barbie doll and she wasn’t one. Her hard work and qualifications did not count. Her yearning to become a writer was of no importance. Her love for food had clas- sified her as ‘obese’. Her life was all about earning money and carefully weaving a plot to keep her parents happy. Deep within, she wanted more from life. A lot more.
Her mother knocked at her door. “Prasanna?” “Wait! I am changing!” She quickly wiped the tears with her her shirt. “Come in!” Her mother sat next to her.
“Your father seems to be impressed with the boy. He works in Infosys and he is earning well. You think they will accept the proposal?” I hope not. She didn’t have a say in the biggest decision of her life. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all. “I don’t know. I am really tired. I think I should sleep.” “I think they are very rich. Do you think they liked our house?” “I don’t know Mummy! Let’s wait for their response!” “I was just asking...” “Please close the door before leaving.”
The crowd pushed her into the men’s compartment as Prasanna boarded the metro at Rajiv Chowk. She loathed Fridays for it marked the begin- ning of the weekend rejection ceremonies. Metro stations were at their worst on this day; especially Rajiv Chowk where people would kill to get inside. She unbuttoned her tight coat to let her tucked tummy out and commanded the poor Jat chap to
vacate the ‘Ladies Seat’ in the corner. Two men, instead of one, had to vacate to make space for her. The sec- ond one cursed her under his breath.
What? This seat is my birthright.
She sighed, drank a sip of water and fell asleep.
*** By the time the Aroras arrived, Prasanna’s makeup had drained away in sweat. They brought along a round box of biscuits and three large pack- ets of juice.
“Oh Mr. Arora…You didn’t have to bring all this!” her father complained as he escorted them to the drawing room.
Great. Dad doesn’t want it. The box is mine. “Mummy!” she whispered in the kitchen before leaving. “Atleast let me know his name!” “Harshit.” “Full name!” “Harshit Arora”
Prasanna entered the room with five cups of tea. The choice of drink depended on the status of the boy’s family. It was the only decision she was allowed to take. If the family isn’t modern, why waste Coke? The boy sat sandwiched between his proud parents who couldn’t stop talking about their son.
“Harshit is looking for a new job. His boss doesn’t want him to quit. What to do? They are so impressed with his performance. In fact, they are willing to offer him more. Let’s see.”
She sipped her tea and continued. “Ji, our son will be moving to the US next year. We really want him to shift. There is no growth in India. US is so much better than India!” Tell us something we don’t know? If you want to impress the girl’s parents, you talk about the future pros- pects of moving abroad and half the battle is won. “Harshit is also an excellent football player!” his father added. Yeah right.
Harshit blushed every time his parents counted his accolades. He was fair, lean and tall. He had eyes like that of a rat and a small nose that well suited his clean-shaven face. He wore a white shirt with visible creases and dark blue trousers.
But Prasanna’s mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t take her eyes off the pasta. She could taste its white sauce in her mind. Every taste bud on her tongue wanted to feel the twists and curls of the pasta.
Yummm. It was now the butcher’s turn to chop the lamb. “How do you commute to work?” My private jet. “Aunty, Metro.” “Oh...must be tiring?” Hell yeah! “Sometimes,” she faked a smile. “Aunty, why don’t you have something?” She was dying to attack the pasta. “Sure.”
The family left their house promising to respond within a day. Had they stayed one more second, they would have revealed their son’s tenth and twelfth percentages. Prasanna tiptoed to her bedroom carrying the bowl of pasta.
My Precious….
Prasanna’s mind battled between the two sizes, L and XL. While her heart wanted to fit into L, every ‘extra’ on her body denied the possibility. The salesman interrupted Prasanna’s hunt.
“How can I help you Ma’am?”
“Umm...I am looking for a decent kurti. You know? The ones people wear in office?” He handpicked an XL-sized black coloured kurti for her.
“Mam, how is this!?”
Are you kidding me? This is horrible.
“This is nice. But I think it is too big for me... I am looking for Medium or Large sized kurtis” He looked surprised. “Mam...I think…you should try this first!” I know what you mean. “Thank you... I think I can help myself.”
The bright lights and three mirrors of the trial room highlighted every protrusion in her body. Her three-tiered structure was the perfect ex- ample of bad construction.
Am I this fat? The very minute, she pledged to make alterations in her diet. Large-sized pizza was cut to medium and two Gulab Jamuns were reduced to one. That should help. “Prasanna! How long?!” her mother screamed from the other end. Gosh. Parents can be so embarrassing! “Just a second Mummy!” she whispered.
She immediately squeezed herself into the large-sized kurti and opened the door. Her mother scanned the front and the back and made a face. A ‘something-is-wrong’ face. The two lines between her eyebrows dug deeper and she finally declared the results.
“No. Too tight” Prasanna shut the door. She had liked the colour and this was the largest size available. She envied the girl in the trial room opposite to hers, who would slither into every little dress like a snake and still looked dissatisfied while Prasanna’s pig-like body struggled to fit into a kurti.
Pizza size, small. *** Before she turned 25, she would spend her Sundays sleeping, shopping or writing. Many a love story was written on a rainy Sunday. Never in her worst nightmare had she expected to spend this day sitting opposite a stranger who she caught picking his nose a minute ago.
“What are your hobbies?” he asked. When he spoke, she couldn’t help but notice the centimeter-wide space between his incisors. Every word seemed like a challenge. His lizard-like tongue dragged the letter ‘s’ for so long one could take a short nap in that duration.
Hobbies? Meeting future husbands! “I like to write” “Me too,” he grinned. ‘I too.’ Reject. Reject. “It was nice meeting to you.” Oh My God. “Nice to meet you too.”
She thought of Ms. Neelima Sethi, her English teacher from convent school, who would have lowered her spectacles and slapped him twice by now.
The family left without any pretension of being interested in her. Well, same here!
Prasanna wheeled her office chair and returned to her cubical. She sipped her coffee and pushed her hair into the mouth of her clutcher. Piles of files and queries begged her to begin work. She was reluctant to open her mailbox that was violated during the weekend but did it anyway. She shrieked and clicked at one particular mail thrice.
Open Open Open! Dear Prasanna Sharma, After having read the first draft of your book, we are pleased to inform you that our publishing house is willing to edit and publish your work. We look forward to our association. We shall discuss the details with you in the coming days.
Best Regards, Brickwall Publishing House This can’t be. This is a dream. This can’t be true!
Prasanna read the mail over and over again. She jumped and laughed in her cubical and later cried. She had never felt so worthwhile, so complete. She wanted to prove to the world that appearances did not matter, to recite her story to each one of them and make them feel her pain. She wanted to share her happiness with someone but she knew no one would understand what this meant to her. Not even her parents. That evening, she treated herself to a pizza, large and a bottle of Coke.
Her mother was kneading dough when she returned home. Prasanna dumped her lunch box into the sink and hugged her.
“Why are you so happy?”
“Because my book is going to be published very soon and your daughter is going to become an author!”
“Oh. The Khannas are going to visit us the day after. You can tell them about your book! They will be impressed!”
“Yes.”
“And don’t forget about your appointment with Noor Beauty Parlor. You missed it the last time.”
“Ok.” Her excitement was murdered carefully. Most of the conversations moulded themselves and ended up as a discussion of a suitable groom. Last weekend had been a waste of time and tea. None of the families had called back to approve of her. Yet, every week her parents managed to find new proposals.
Half an hour had passed since the unique face pack was rubbed all over her face. The smell of the cold cucumber on her eyes made her feel all the more hungry. The only privilege Prasanna had was listening to the mindless gossip between the aunties in the parlor.
“My sister-in-law, I tell you, she is so kamini! She got the same-to-same suit as mine but in a different colour. And when I asked why did she do so, she frowned and banged the door! Now you tell me Mrs. Chadha, how fair is that?”
“Not fair Ji, not fair.” To Prasanna’s surprise, even the beautician had a value addition to make. “You sister-in-law was here yesterday” “Was she? She lied to me! Did she say anything?”
“She said you are a terrible cook and you serve burnt chapattis to the family”
This couldn’t get any better. Popcorns please! “Hawwwww. Did y
ou hear Mrs. Chadha? I have given my life to this fam- ily and this is what they say behind my back!” “Not fair Ji, not fair.” “What else did she say? Tell me in detail!”
Prasanna envisioned herself sitting in the parlor and mocking her in-laws after marriage.
No. Never. The face pack was finally washed away. She looked at herself in the mir- ror expecting a drastic change.
Before, After. She was sure that even the gods wouldn’t be able to identify any differ- ence, if there was one. She made the payment and was handed over three large tubes of ointments as part of the treatment. “You have to use the red one in the morning, the green one in the after- noon and the dark green one at night” What? What? What? “Uh...dark green in the afternoon, right?” “No Mam! Dark green at night!” “Oh Ok. Thanks.”
Prasanna was about to leave when she realized she had a pressing ques- tion.
“Excuse me! The Dark green one. Do I have to wash it off or keep it on my face all night?” The beautician glared at her as though the answer was obvious. “Ma’am, you have to keep it all night.” It wasn’t obvious.
*** The Khannas arrived on time. They looked like advertisements of fa - mous brand stores carrying the label of every possible valuable brand. The boy looked effortlessly handsome in a Versace shirt and sported the perfect French beard. His short hair was spiked in the front and mollified at the back. He spoke very little and checked his iPhone every minute for prospective urgent calls or important business meetings.
“How much do you weigh?” asked the lady as she crossed out all the points in her ‘ideal daughter-in-law’ list.
Shall I sit on your head?
No one had ever asked her such humiliating questions. For a second, even the boy felt sorry. “65,” she answered uncomfortably. “Hmm.” “What about the acne? Are you considering any treatments?”
“Yes yes! We have consulted Dr. Gangwani. He is a renowned skin spe - cialist! You won’t believe, my niece had similar pimples and now her face is clear,” replied her mother.