Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction.

by Gabbar Singh

  *** “Nihal has failed the math assignment. Please make sure he does his homework.”

  Third note this month. Aai had had enough. “I will not sign it, you show it to Baba”.

  “Please Aai, last time! It won’t happen again,” Nihal begged, following her into the kitchen. She ignored him, making her way to the kitchen counter to peel the potatoes for dinner. Nihal needed to act fast. Baba would be here soon. He tugged at her saree.”I’ve heard this too many times Nihal,” Aai finally spoke, giving him some hope. “I just want one last chance Aai! Please! I promise!”

  She looked down at her son, his tear stained cheeks, red eyes, sniffing softly between his words. She felt a strong burst of affection for him. She wanted to pick him up and smother him with kisses, but she fought it.

  “Last time I’m doing this. Next time, I will tell Baba,” she said looking into his eyes with as stern a look as she could muster. That evening, Nihal called Prakash. “I’ll need your help tomorrow,” he whispered.

  “5 rupees per question you copy.”

  That morning before the assignment, Nihal handed him all the money in his wallet. He kept his eyes on the ground on his way home, trying his best to ignore the smell of samosa chaat, the growing mob at the panipuri stall and the rhythmic chant of the sugarcane juice uncle. It was going to be a hard week. He pictured the look on Aai’s face when she sees the marks from this week’s assignment, and suddenly, it was all worth it. Suddenly, the chaat seemed less tasty, the sugarcane juice less sweet.

  *** Prakash held his sister’s hand on the way to the Mela that evening. He looked around, enamoured. Horse rides, merry go rounds, cotton candy, toys, fortune-tellers. His eyes darted across the place, teenage girls buying bindis, aunties bargaining, teenage boys sheepishly picking bangles for their girlfriends. One day, he would open a stall at the Mela, he told her.

  “ Birds for sale,” said a board in one corner. His eyes widened as he went closer. Love birds, talking parrots, doves everywhere. In different colours, shapes and sizes. It was beautiful. “How much?” He said, pointing to a white dove. “130.”

  He counted the money in his wallet. He had only 120. “You can have this one for 120,” she said, pointing to a similar dove with a black spot on its wing.

  When he turned around to show it to Anu, she wasn’t there. He panicked. “Have you seen my sister? She is 4, this tall?” he asked the lady at the shop. She shook her head. He scanned the growing crowd at the Mela, his heart beating so hard it hurt. He walked fast, but he didn’t know where to go. “Someone must’ve taken her,” he thought, his eyes welling up.

  Just then, “Dada! You bought a bird!” came a squeaky voice from the bangle stall. “Anu!” He screamed, bursting into tears, anger and relief overwhelming him. He picked her up and left without another word, glaring suspiciously at anyone who gave her a second look on the way home.

  That evening, Prakash went up to his terrace and set the bird free. It flew away instantly, soaring into the sky without looking back. It seemed to know exactly where it was going. Prakash stayed back on the terrace a while longer, watching it disappear. He felt lighter. He made his way to his room to see Anu sleeping. He threw his arm around her as he drifted into sleep, hoping the dove found its brother.

  *** “Here, take this. Don’t loiter around,” Ma said, handing him 100 rupees and a grocery list. Sameer trotted through the gully, lost in thought. He walked past the panipuri guy, the sugarcane juice uncle, even Fun Time Toyshopwithout a second thought. When he was about to cross the road at Lakshmi Theatres, something caught his eye. Madhuri Dixit.

  Her eyes, her smile, her hair, her hips. He stood there, staring at the poster of Beta on the wall, caught in her spell. He looked down at the crisp hundred-rupee note in his hand. He didn’t need to think twice. He walked up to the counter, and said “One ticket, uncle.” The bespectacled man wondered where the voice came from; he looked over the counter to see a little boy standing on his toes expectantly looking back at him.

  Dhak Dhak Karne Laga. She tugged at his heartstrings with every move, tear and smile. He watched her, speechless, oblivious to the couple kissing in the row ahead of him, the loud aunties who predicted what would happen after every scene, and the several wolf-whistles that resounded through the small, rundown theatre. He walked back home slowly, humming the songs, the sound of her laughter ringing loud in his head.

  “Where the hell have you been? And where is my stuff,” Ma yelled, grab - bing his ear when he rang the doorbell. He winced, trying to break free. “Wait till your father comes back, no pocket money for you this week!” She gave him a tight slap across his face. Tears stung his eyes, as he made his way to the room. The poster of Madhuri on his wall greeted him. He looked at her, accusingly at first, until her smile melted his heart, again.

  Anything for you, Madhuri,he thought, suddenly indifferent to the sharp sting on his right cheek.

  *** That night, the boys fell asleep with the strange sense of satisfaction you get from having everything you could ever want, despite an empty pocket afterward.

  And the panipuri guy packed up his stall, unaware that he was four cus- tomers short.

  ***

  24. Angels and Demons

  Purba Ray

  It was called Poets Café. The hottest new destination for the city’s literati, where Keats met Angelou and Gibran adorned the walls. Lalita adjusted the pallu of her sari as she surveyed the place from her couch, her eyes flitting from table to table as she inhaled the aroma of coffee in the air. These people, huddled together, cocooned in conversations… That elderly gentleman in a crumpled kurta, immersed in his book, his table littered with the many cups of tea he had sipped absently; his tobaccostained fingers caressing the pages of his book. As she took another sip of her cappuccino, Lalita gave the woman seated next to her a grateful smile. It had been almost six months since she had met Mahi at a com- mon friend’s painting exhibition and they had hit it off instantly. Mahi, as bold as she was sexy, her opinions loud and laughter louder, was a contrast to the demure, soft-spoken Lalita. Tonight, Mahi was dressed to hunt and kill – her rich-cream coloured short-skirt hugging her tiny waist, showcasing her gorgeous, tanned legs, the cobalt blue silk top with its ex- tra button left carelessly open, more than hinting at her ample cleavage.

  “Mahi, I know, this is far from your idea of a happening Friday evening but this is just the kind of place I have been craving for. And aren’t you glad to get a respite from the likes of Vicky, Shicky and Sonu trying to impress us with their branded watches, bulging biceps, and their daddy’s cars and depress us with their pea-sized brains? Gosh, I can’t remem- ber the last time I had a remotely intelligent conversation with a decent looking guy. And if you do happen to meet one who doesn’t make you wince with his lack of manners, grammar and depth, he’s either hitched or prefers guys!”

  The two were chortling when Lalita’s ears caught a deep baritone that was balm to her aching soul. She caught his back – uncompromisingly erect; his shirt unmistakably Fab India, and his head – a mass of jumbled curls.

  It was as if Lalita had willed his pen to drop noisily on the floor, when he turned around to pick it up but ended up looking into her kohl-rimmed eyes, the woman in the red ikkat, her glistening tresses partially hiding her full mouth.

  At that moment, Lalita experienced what she had only read about and fantasized. Looking at someone and feeling as if you’ve known him for- ever, falling together like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, only to feel whole again. When he smiled, it lit up Lalita’s eyes with unseen hopes lurking in the horizon.

  “Hi, I am Sivan,” his hands felt so warm and soft that Lalita felt like hold - ing on to them forever. Mahi knew her friend was hopelessly lost when she asked Sivan to join them at their table. He ordered another round of coffee with scones for the pair before settling in with his cup of Darjeel- ing Tea, his long legs crossed over one another.

  *** It had been nearly 17 hours since Munna had last slept. His ey
elids felt like lead. As he swerved to avoid that gaping pothole on the road, he caught his reflection in the rear-view mirror. His bloodshot eyes, jutting out like raw wounds from his gaunt face ravaged by the sun, looked back menacingly at him. Just two more hours and I’ll be done. He burped and the putrid smell of alcohol and keema-kaleji he’d had at Prince Dhaba made him wince. Their quality had definitely deteriorated. The last time he had had kaleji at Prince, he got welts and the hakim inspecting his crotch was convinced he’d got it from one of the brothels. He scratched his balls at the memory. God, it felt so good. His reverie was broken by the sounds of feeble crying coming from the back of his tempo. Damn, I’d better hurry or she’ll get me in trouble! He pressed the accelerator hard, honking furiously at the red car in front of him. He could make out the outline of a woman sitting on the backseat talking on the phone.

  *** The applause was deafening as Sarla Maheshwari finished her address. Her face was flushed as she scanned the audience – thousands of young women had gathered to hear her speak.

  It had started with the life-sized hoardings of the new Mangola ad. Hunny Leone, Bollywood’s hottest new export plastered all over town, holding an over-ripe mango, its juice trickling down her twins that were popping out of her miniscule dress. It had sent the mercury soaring and the sales of the drink zooming to an all-time high. Nobody minded its artificial flavour and sickening sweetness as long as it was endorsed by Hunny, their favourite wet dream. A few weeks ago, a young girl on her way back from work was accosted by a group of inebriated men. She was alone, they were bored, and she was now in the hospital fighting for her life. The reaction was typical – people blamed the apathy of the police force, the police in turn blamed her, the public got outraged, ministers gave long-winded lectures on deteriorating morals and the Vanar Sena, the self-appointed guardian of women’s morals, went on a rampage, bringing down hoardings of the Mangola ad, blaming Hunny for all that’s wrong with society. They were now demanding a ban on all her movies.

  Hunny was smarter than she looked. The next day she was at Vanar Se - na’s chief’s residence dressed in salwar kameez to seek his blessings for her next movie – Sai kee beti. The photographers of the Press went mad as she waved coyly at them, clutching her dupatta close to her bosom. What she didn’t anticipate was the uproar she had triggered. Unwillingly, Hunny the seductress had become the new face for women’s fight for dignity.

  Hunny Leone was just what Sarla Maheshwari needed to fuel her move - ment for safety of women. Three years ago, when Sarla first appeared on a TV debate on how unsafe the city had become for working women, her friends and family from Jamshedpur could not believe that this was the same woman who had left for the city two decades back, to seek a better life for her only daughter.

  Poor Sarla – she’d heard this so many times that it felt like part of her name. From the time her father died when she was only seven, to the time she had to start working while still in school to make ends meet; when her mother had to marry her off to a man old enough to be her father because he was the only one willing to marry her without dowry – she was burdened with people’s sympathy. Feeling hopelessly trapped in a loveless marriage, she didn’t feel like poor Sarla anymore when he died a few years later. She had finally found happiness in her daughter.

  The pay was a good six thousand more plus they were offering her ac - commodation. Sarla didn’t think twice before accepting the offer. That evening as she boarded the train for the city with her 5-year old daughter, she didn’t look back even once at her mother crying alone on the plat- form.

  ***

  They were now chanting, “Whatever we wear, wherever we go, yes means yes and no means no.”

  As she swiftly strode down the stairs, Sarla was immediately accosted by a group of TV reporters as they thrust their mikes in front of her face. “Mrs Maheshwari, do you think your campaign against the Vanar Sena that has been hounding Ms Hunny Leone for indecent exposure in the Mangola ad is sending the right kind of message to the youth across the country?” Sarla took a deep breath before she gazed directly into those questioning eyes. “If Vanar Sena is so disgusted with Hunny’s hoardings all over the city, they should ask themselves, whether it is her skimpy clothing that disgusts them or their own depraved reaction to it! We have had enough of being made to feel ashamed of our bodies, and enough of having to blame our clothing choices. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a family to get back to.”

  Gyaneshwar, her driver of ten years, quickly opened the door of the car as soon as he saw Madam approaching. He could make out from her fur- rowed eyebrows that she was no longer in the mood to talk to the swarm of reporters following her. As the car snaked its way down the highway, Sarla made a phone call.

  *** Mahi couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Lalita so happy. Sivan was just her type. They were having an animated discussion about Sylvia Plath. Frankly, she found Plath’s poetry too morbid for her taste. So de- pressing that she had to kill herself! Mahi stifled a yawn as she stretched herself like a cat and immediately noticed a dozen pair of eyes looking hungrily at her legs. She smiled lazily when she heard her phone ring. When Mahi saw the number, she started moving towards the restrooms to take the call. Lalita didn’t notice Mahi leave until she returned looking quite sombre. “I have to leave now,” she said as she picked up her hand- bag. “I will call you tomorrow?”

  Strangely, Lalita felt relieved as she watched Mahi leave. She now had Sivan all to herself. How time flies when you want to savour every moment of it. The two didn’t notice how late it was until they heard the loud clangs of nearby stores shutting down. “Can I take you out on a long drive before I drop you home, my lady?”

  They walked out holding each other’s hands. Art Garfunkel was crooning My love must be a kind of blind love I can’t see anyone but you. Are the stars out tonight? I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright I Only Have Eyes For You, Dear. The ballad faded away into the distance as they sped off.

  *** Lalita’s heart felt as if it would explode but she knew she couldn’t stop. She felt something warm running down her neck and knew it was blood. The dry twigs were hurting her feet but she didn’t care. All she knew was she had to run faster than her legs could carry her even though they were blistered and bled. She could hear the heavy thuds of his feet getting closer. I can’t let that monster get to me. That’s when she stumbled and fell, her sari unravelling behind her like a trail of blood.

  He turned her around like a limp doll. Lalita looked into his bloodshot eyes and started screaming, but it caught in her throat as she woke up with a start.

  The nurse was gently dabbing her forehead as she murmured, “Shhh! Calm down. Everything’s okay, you are safe. Sister Rachita has called your parents. They’ll be with you any minute now.”

  *** The car was cruising on the highway. There was barely any traffic. Nights were when Gyaneshwar loved driving the most, with no other predatory drivers trying to claim the lanes as their own, mouthing profanities, trying to show him his place if he dared overtake them. Madam had just fin- ished talking to her daughter. Ten minutes on the phone and all Madamjee had done was rebuke her. Gyaneshwar couldn’t remember the last time Sarla madam was nice to her daughter. It must be all the netagiri she does that had made her so harsh to her own. The tempo behind him had been honking non-stop. Uncouth villagers, he fumed and changed the gears and sped ahead. No, I’m not giving way to you. At least, not this time.

  She came out of nowhere, that girl with the long hair and a red sari lash - ing against the wind. All he could see was her terrified eyes as he tried to swing the car away – screeching brakes, a dull thud. Sarla Maheshwari saw the girl crumple and fall, and barked to her driver, “Keep moving. The last thing I want is trouble with the police at this time of the night. Dammit, she fumed, girls these days, so irresponsible! What the hell was she thinking, running on the middle of the road, so late at night!”

  *** Munna saw the inert body on the highway and braked immediately. H
e jumped out of his tempo and walked towards it gingerly when he noticed the body was that of a woman. Thankfully she was still breathing as he turned her around and hauled her onto his shoulders. Munna laid her carefully at the back of his tempo that was reeking of onions that he had just delivered at the Mandi.

  It was the smell that made Lalita regain her consciousness – that putrid stench of alcohol, human sweat and rotting onions. Her head had barely touched the moist sacks lining the floor of the tempo when her eyelids fluttered open and she saw the bloodshot pair of eyes staring solemnly at her. It was when she heard a girl’s whimpering that Lalita started to scream. The screams faded along with her consciousness.

  ***

  Sivan’s lips were pursed with displeasure as his fingers gently massaged the scratch marks on his face. They were starting to swell now. That coquettish bitch led me on the entire evening, giving me those bedroom eyes. Why, she had even sent her friend off to have me all to herself! But when I took her to my favourite spot on the Ridge, she starts acting all funny. I am such a fucking idiot not to have gone for that bitch’s friend, so hungry for attention that she would have gladly opened her legs wide for me at the snap of my fingers. But no, I had to be adventurous tonight and try something new and look where that got me!

  Sivan was rubbing his sore arm when he felt something in his hands. It was the hook of her blouse. Sivan had been smart enough to discard her purse and mobile in a dumpster after he threw her out of his car.

  The bitch even had the temerity to cry and act all outraged when he tried to take her damn blouse off! What was she expecting, me reciting poetry to her as we looked at the stars, acting like a pansy as I held her in my arms? Women like her who think they can change their minds anytime they want and expect us to obey them like dutiful puppies, need to be taught a lesson. She totally deserved that slap. Too bad she lost her balance and hit her head on the dashboard.