Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction.

by Gabbar Singh

  My Dearest, I’m very happy to notice that you have started to keep the sweets covered. My admiration for you has now become twofold. That you cared about my wish, it makes me feel so blessed. As I’d promised, yesterday while returning, I bought one-kilo of milk-cake from your shop. While handing over some change, your finger touched my hand. A shiver ran through my body. Even now, I can feel a slight quiver. For once, I saw you through the veil too. Your beard suits you. Within a couple of days, I’m going to return, again.

  With a promise of meeting enclosed.

  Yours,

  Lakshmi.

  After reading the letter a dozen of times, Lachhuman started to shake his head. “When did she come? When did she buy the milk-cake? Where did she go? I didnt even notice. Like God, she went without giving me a darshan.” He looked at his fingers intently. The sheer sight of them made him tremble. He decided not to wash that finger until he met Lachhi. He did recall that the previous night at eight, there had been a veiled woman who bought one kg of milk-cake. Shaking his head once again, he opened his wooden box and placed the second letter along with the first. Before shutting it, he compared both letters. The same handwriting; the same fountain pen. Lakshmi had poured her heart into the letter. Lachhuman swayed with joy and passed on sweets to the customers waiting for him at the counter.

  A regular customer among them asked him, “Lachhuman, are you plan- ning on becoming a saint? Heading for a long beard!”

  “Not a saint. Call me jogi12. Jogi.” This jogi was sure that two days later he’d meet his dearest and feed her milk-cakes, the best ones of the lot, with his own hands much like Shabari fed berto Rama. But this jogi’s wife’s days and nights had become harrowing. Her thoughts pictured different explanations for the behavior of her husband. She contemplated on calling an ojha, a tantric from a vil- lage nearby who specialized in shunning ghosts out of those possessed. But the sudden hike in the sales of the shop kept her content. Whenever Lachhuman put his daily earnings on her palm, she would say, “May God keep you sane. I don’t want anything else,” and put the money in the locker.

  *** Arun Babu lived in the room behind the bank. Once finished with work, he and Manoj would generally be the last to leave the branch. But today, they both left a little early. Arun Babu departed first and Manoj swiftly followed him.

  Folding Lakshmi’s saree with care, Arun Babu said, “Lakshmi … make sure the ghoonghat is long. The face shouldn’t be visible.”

  A hoarse voice croaked from within the veil. “Sir, it’s already night. Even if I open the ghoonghata little, Lachumanwa won’t be able to recognize me.”

  12 Jogi, a colloquial version of yogi, stressing on the nomadic and wandering habit in a single pursuit

  – love, in this case. “Okay, but do bite the aanchalwith your teeth. Hope it doesn’t drop.” Arun Babu passed a letter to Manoj and said, “Manoj, you are a kalakaar of the highest order. I cannot surpass you.”

  Flattered, Manoj bent down to take blessings from Arun Babu when he spotted a shadow behind him. Looking at Lachhuman, Manoj shrieked. The ghoonghat detached from within his clenched teeth and fell flat on the ground, wiping away the month old dust. Lachhuman stood as if he were witnessing Draupadi’s chir-haran.

  The sight paralysed Arun Babu. Despite wanting to run away, he remained still, like a statue. Lachhuman’s head had drooped by now, holding back tears. His wings of his imagination had been mercilessly slashed. He had come to Arun Babu’s room after mustering a lot of courage to inquire about Lachhi in private. But what he saw quelled his spirits. Her Lachhi seemed to have been kidnapped and murdered by the two men standing in front of him. Now having been caught red-handed, they were trying to bury her within the floor. They came up with scores of excuses but none of them made sense when served in front of the corpse made up of lies. Sometimes, its hands were visible, sometimes its legs. “Your filthy sweets gave Arun Babu cholera,” Manoj uttered as a last resort. Lachhuman’s indifferent face was the answer.

  There was darkness in front of Lachhuman’s eyes. The floor seemed shaky, and his head felt as though there was no roof above. He turned and disappeared into the night. Arun Babu got up and shouted, “Lach- human…listen, Lachhuman. Wait for just a moment!” but his voice failed to stop him.

  He looked at Manoj and said, “People are betrayed by their lovers. Lach - human might be the first person to have been betrayed by the person who made him fall in love. It’s time to show your real acting, Manoj. Go and find him. There’s no greater act than consoling someone who’s an- guished. Bring him to me, I will apologize to him.”

  Manoj ran after Lachhuman but couldn’t find him. Neither at his shop, nor at his house. Arun Babu joined in the search. They dropped in at each and every house in the locality in vain. The entire night, both of them continued to search for him but there was no hint of Lachhuman. His wife wailed in worry, “What if he is kidnapped? After all, the business had been running so smoothly. Someone evil eyed our Lakshmi.” Bholu followed suit.

  Somehow, restraining their tears, Bholu and Lachhuman’s wife ran the shop the following day. Arun Babu and Manoj, despite weariness, couldn’t fall asleep. Even Lachhuman couldn’t sleep the entire night. He had wandered around, looking at the shimmering lanterns of faraway vil- lages searching for his Lachhi who never existed. He rambled across the funeral ghats by the riverside, spent some time below a large peepul tree until he got scared and moved to a nearby temple, where he spent the night reclined against one of its walls.

  It was only in the afternoon that a clean-shaven Lachhuman appeared in front of his wife. She shut her eyes and after praying for a whole minute, hugged Lachchu - man and cried, “Where did you disappear, leaving me stranded all alone? Are you okay? Do you know how many people have asked about you? I didn’t know people loved you so much. If you left because I erred, I’m begging you for forgiveness. But don’t ever get angry with Lakshmi and leave like this; because Lakshmi gets angry with you in turn and leaves instead. Now take care of yourself and the shop.”

  Lachhuman didn’t utter a word. He remained indifferent. He chose to immerse himself in work, resuming his routine. He looked at the sweets meticulously wrapped in polythene. He had a sudden urge to take it off, rip it and throw it on the road. Let flies, ants and rodents eat his milkcake for all he cared. People like Arun Babu and Manoj deserved cholera. He grabbed one end of the polythene that covered the gigantic platter containing the milk-cake, one jerk short of denuding it. His hands didn’t move this time. Despite the boiling vengeance, he couldn’t bring himself to part away with Lakshmi, the second time.

  27. The Postman

  Riti Kaunteya

  Munmun’s boyfriend Pradip had broken his leg. He was rendered im - mobile with his leg in a cast. Those were the days in the nineties when there were no mobile phones and neither did people have laptops and email ids. Letters and landline telephones were the only modes of com- munication.

  Pradip had to stay in the cast for six weeks. He could not move out of his hostel room. Luckily, the students were on a break owing to preparation for the exams and he had no classes to attend. He resigned himself to six weeks of immobility and relaxation, of being a burden on his friends and an object of sympathy, of being treated like an invalid and being waited upon hand and feet. A sick person catalyzes a range of emotions from pity to exasperation in a person who is saddled with being a caregiver. One cannot help feel sorry for the person and at the same time, frus- trated with the work that caring entails.

  As far as Pradip was concerned, his hormones were raging but there was no outlet for them; his girl friend was not near him to provide comfort, for misery seeks company especially if that company is capable of ex- travagant and undiluted sympathy.

  There was no way the young couple could speak to each other, let alone meet one another. The phone lines in her hostel were always dead or busy. His hostel did not allow girls to come in. Even if she braved the rules and got inside, she knew she would not come out
in one piece.

  Ravi, a day scholar, lived near her hostel. He would cycle to the boys’ hos - tel every morning to study with his friends there. He was a good friend of Pradip’s and they would study together the entire day and he would come back home by nightfall, without fail.

  Pradip hit upon an excellent idea, for an idle mind, or in his case, an idle body is the devil’s workshop. He decided to use Ravi to bring him closer to his lover. One evening, as Ravi left the hostel to go back home, Pradip handed over to him a love letter for Munmun. In that piece of paper he poured out all his love for her, replete with evocative verses he had composed for her. Sealing that precious piece of paper with a loving kiss, he placed it in Ravi’s reliable hands to be delivered to his precious Munmun.

  Now Munmun was equally feeling the pangs of separation and strug - gling to control her tears. It has been three days since she had met Pradip. Damn him. Why did he have to break his leg? This could have been the six weeks of bliss that she had been waiting for, the entire year of their affair. They could have met every day, studied together, sometimes taken a break and gone for a drink outside campus and if nothing else, just held hands or engaged in some heavy petting if chance permitted. But this idiot hadto go and break his leg and spoil it for the both of us, she thought angrily. She could not focus on her books though she tried hard to. She was the studious type after all and wanted to study but her deprived mind would not allow her to concentrate on the words in her book. No number of steamy romance paperbacks would do the trick. She needed to hear from Pradip.

  That evening, as she lay on her bed wallowing in self-pity, she heard the shrill nasal tone of her matron calling her name. “Munmun madam, Mu- nmum madam.” What a surprise! She had a visitor. Who could that be? And at this hour? How did the matron even allow her a visitor at this time of the night? With these thoughts in her head, Munmun tugged at the belt of her short skirt and perfected it, slightly pulling it down to give it a decent enough length. She smoothed her hair and knotted it into a bun and ensured her top showed no hint of an errant cleavage or that no buttons were undone. Slipping her dainty feet into her pink slippers, she rushed out, lest the visitor changed his mind.

  A call indicating the arrival of a visitor is the sweetest sound for the hosteller’s soul. Forced confinement does no good to the otherwise free birds of the hostel. At the sound of the visitor’s call, these birds flock together, irrespective of who the visitor is or for whom. Even though Munmun was sure that it could not be Pradip on the other side of the hostel gate, at that point of time anyone would do. She was surprised to see the tall frame of Ravi silhouetted at the hostel gate. She had a thing for tall men. Too bad Pradip was on the shorter side. She often looked at advertisements that claimed they could increase the height of a person by a few inches and guaranteed results or else a money back guarantee. Sometimes she would tell Pradip to try the products. Just a couple of inches and he would be a six footer. At least buy shoes with heels two inches high, then, she would pester. “Too tall men look down girls’ cleav- age,” he would joke and she would smack him in mock anger, “As if I’d let you do that.”

  She walked up to the gate, preferring to meet him from there instead of going out, since the curfew time to meet visitors was on. Ravi, however, turned and handed her an envelope from the pocket of his full-sleeved shirt. “From Pradip,” he said. “I will stop by tomorrow morning at 9 am to collect a reply,” said Ravi and walked away, by the side of his bicycle.

  Munmun went up to the terrace to read the letter, away from the eyes and ears of her roommate. She read it many times and kissed it as many times. It made her feel close to Pradip and she went back to the room to write a reply. As ardently as Pradip had done, she poured out all her love on the paper and wrote a painfully emotional letter. She spoke of her longing for him and she wished he were there by her side. She wrote that she wished she could be with him, taking care of him instead of being cloistered in her hostel room and finally wished him a speedy recovery.

  The next morning, she paced the balcony, waiting for Ravi. He arrived precisely at 9 am, collected the letter and whizzed past the hostel gate. He arrived at the boys’ hostel and handed it over to Pradip without delay.

  This became a daily routine. The letters got steamier as the two poured out their fantasies onto pieces of paper. Munmun started to look forward to Ravi’s visits as they were the only two occasions that were a break from the monotony of her day. Ravi started to come earlier than usual, just a little bit each day. Munmun always made him wait outside the gates since she could not come out during curfew. Exasperated, he asked her when they would be open so that he could come then.

  So Munmun told him that if he came well before 6 pm, she would be al - lowed to come out and meet him, and that would look less shady, too, be- cause people had started questioning the daily arrival of a tall and hand- some young man even if it were only for a few short minutes.

  And so Ravi began to arrive half an hour before the gates closed. Mu - nmun waited all day to come out and sit peacefully in the park in front of the hostel, under a tree with an extremely convenient culvert and chat with Ravi. It was a distraction for her after all. She could catch up on the gossip at the boys’ hostel, too, and talk about Pradip with him. Soon, in- stead of her usual ratty hostel dungarees, Munmun began to prepare for Ravi’s visits. She would dress a bit, yet take care to not look too dressedup, put on a bit of make up and watch out for Ravi from her terrace. The moment she saw him and his bicycle, she would rush down and wait with her letter for Pradip. She would come out and sit under the tree with Ravi and chat up to closing time. Before he left, she would hand over the letter to him, adding for good measure a warning to not read it, and then head back, energized, to attack her books.

  As time flew, Ravi started to arrive a lot earlier. One day he invited her to walk up with him to the juice shop. She readily agreed, as she was also immensely bored of being cooped up inside the hostel for so long without a class or two to give her an excuse to get out of it. The two of them spent a long time together in the juice shop that day. They chatted continuously and had not just juice but sandwiches and French fries too. It almost seemed like a date. He walked her back to the hostel and she liked it very much.

  This became the second regular routine. The exchange of letters was a convenient excuse for both of them, but it got more and more perfunc- tory, at least on Munmun’s behalf. Sometimes she would not even care to write it beforehand but would sit with Ravi outside under the tree and pen a few quick lines asking after Pradip’s health with a customary ‘miss you’ in the end. Sometimes, Ravi would try to peep in and get smacked playfully, “There is nothing in there; see for yourself. Don’t be so curi- ous.”

  “Ok, I must confess, I read one of your letters, and that was pretty hot,” Ravi said, his eyes downcast. “Sorry I broke your trust, Munmun, I am really very sorry. It never happened again and will never happen in fu- ture too. I ended up feeling miserable for days. Both, because I saw the contents of your letter without your permission, and also, because I had seen for myself, the extent of your love for him. I felt terrible for days, Munmun. I was insane with jealousy, and hated Pradip so much that I could have strangled him.”

  Munmun felt neither angry nor betrayed. She did not even feel shy that Ravi had read her steamy letters. She wondered idly whether he had read the explicit sex scene featuring the two of them that she had written for Pradip to titillate him, in a rare moment of creativity. She did not know what she was feeling. She was unsure of herself. She started to sob, feel- ing a little frustrated with her loneliness. She thought to herself, it was now or never. She had to confess, else she would never get a chance to do it. She had been very lonely, she said. And she had begun to en- joy his company, she said to Ravi after a few minutes of vehement and uncontrollable weeping. Her love for Pradip was receding. And she no longer enjoyed writing to him. She was confused. She did not want to betray his trust. But it was too bad for him and she coul
d not help it be- cause, “I have fallen in love with you Ravi and it will be wrong to pretend otherwise,” she added, looking at him through her tears trying to judge whether Ravi would reciprocate.

  And so the saga of the new love began. They went to movies, lunch dates and long walks and completely ignored their studies. Pradip wondered what happened to the letters and Ravi feigned ignorance. He also reduced his visits to the boys’ hostel and spent quality time at the gates of the girls’ hostel instead, on the days when they were not going out together.

  After Pradip recovered and his plaster was removed, he came to the girls’ hostel directly from the hospital to surprise Munmun. Instead he got the surprise of his life when the matron pointed at the two figures close to each other in the dark, seated strategically behind the huge tree, holding hands and engaged in some heavy petting by the looks of it.

  And as for the exams, the less said about them, the better.

  Moral of the Story: Do not write too many letters to your girlfriend. In the absence of the lover, the girlfriend tends to fall in love with the postman.

  Contributors’ Details:

  Aathira Jim is a twenty five year old self-proclaimed bibliophile who has been in love with books ever since she could remember. She recently discovered her passion for storytelling with a relish and has been trying to do justice to all the voices inside her head. She fervently believes that chocolate is the greatest invention of mankind after books. When she is not day dreaming, she can be found on her blog, where she does the same through words. Aathira can be contacted on her blog: http://awander- ingmindofabookaholic.blogspot.ae/