Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (10 page)

***

Rinki kept all the money stashed away from Dheeraj. She did not trust
him. If he got hold of the money, she was almost certain he would run
away to his family. They had collected 53,000 rupees from a bunch of
aspiring actors. It was this money that funded their trip to Kota.

In Kota, they took refuge in Rinki’s dad’s house, who was away on work.
Other than the dust and the foul smell of the stuffy house, it had all
facilities.

The morning following their arrival, Dheeraj took both of them to meet
his friend, Ralhan. Rinki was dressed conservatively in a salwar-kameez,
afraid that she might run into some acquaintance. Manika, on the other
hand, was dressed in tights and a low-cut top, towering over them all in
high heels.

They met Ralhan at his home office. An air cooler buzzed from a win
-
dow, fluttering Ralhan’s carefully styled hennaed hair. His paan-stained
teeth flashed as he spoke. Rinki did not like him at all, but put up with
him. Ralhan explained the nitty-gritties of filmmaking in his high-pitched
voice and gave rough estimates of expenses and returns from a lowbudget Rajasthani movie. Manika seemed impressed. Rinky and Dheeraj
had not broached the topic of financing with Manika until now.

After meeting the director, they went for lunch in a restaurant, chosen
intentionally by Dheeraj. Rinki was a tad jealous at the way Dheeraj treat-
ed the young girl. Last night, she had warned him to keep away from
Manika, and he hadn’t even reassured her like he used to earlier. Maybe,
he will stop being such an ass once they squeeze the money out of her,
thought Rinki.

As soon as they were seated, Manika excused herself to go to the wash-
room.

 

“When are you going to ask her for money?” Rinki scowled at Dheeraj.
“Let’s get home. What’s the hurry?”

Soft instrumental music played in the background, transporting Rinki to
the old days when Dheeraj would take her out for dinner, ditching his
home-food, after which they would go to her place to act out their daylong, pent-up passion. He had changed so much. Rinki let out a sigh, but
immediately regained her posture.

Manika was back, all decked up, with retouched makeup and perfume. As
if she were required to shoot, thought Rinki. They ordered food. Rinki
could not help but eye Manika’s expensive accessories.

“This is an old Gucci,” said Manika, extending her wrist towards Rinki.
“A gift from Uncle. He still wants me to marry some royal hunk and
settle down in Nepal. He says, ‘Why do you have to work when you’ve
got everything?’ But you know, it’s my hobby, and I would go crazy if I
didn’t work. I don’t want to be famous for being famous, you know, like
Paris Hilton.”

“You are so lucky,” said Rinki. “We will definitely film our next movie in
one of your castles.”

 

“That would be awesome,” said Manika with a chuckle.

 

They reached home at around 4 o’clock in the afternoon. Rinki led them
in. Manika rushed to her room upstairs.

 

“Don’t beat about the bush. Dheeraj, are you even listening?” Rinki muf-
fled her voice when she saw Manika climb down the stairs.

 

“Manika,” Dheeraj said with a broad smile, “we want to discuss the fi-
nances with you.”

 

“Sure, I won’t charge you much. You know this movie is, in a way, special
to me.”

Rinki was excited. She was imagining the day when they would film the
muhurat
shot of their movie. As a producer she would shoulder a lot of
responsibilities and prove her mettle to gossipmongers and naysayers.

“We also want you to be a partner in our production. We are banking on
you to fund half the budget.”
“Excuse me, where did this come from?” Manika tried to laugh away the
proposition.

“It is our film. We thought it was understood when you agreed to do the
movie.”

Manika took a deep breath. Her smile vanished and her eyebrows curled.
“I am sorry, I did not agree to fund the movie. Besides I don’t have that
kind of money.”

“You may borrow from your parents,” suggested Rinki.
“Not possible. My mom is a miser and I am not on good terms with
them.”

“How about your uncle?” asked Rinki.
“He is an eccentric. He won’t agree either.”

There was an awkward silence. Manika’s replies were unexpected. Rinki,
though slightly upset, was still hopeful. Dheeraj sat there as if it was none
of his business. Coward, thought Rinki, he was not even trying. Now she
had to act tough to get her talking.

“They will agree,” said Rinki with confidence. “Tell your parents that you
have been kidnapped and ask them to deposit 25 lakhs rupees in your
account.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Take your time and think about it, dear. I am going to make tea. What
you can or cannot do, we will decide after that,” so saying, Rinki moved
towards the kitchen. Not finding tea there, she proceeded to the adjacent
storeroom, contemplating on ways to persuade Manika. Her otherwise
nimble mind was short of any ideas, until she unbolted the storeroom’s
door. Right in front of her lay a piece of rope and a roll of niwar, cotton
webbing. It didn’t take her long to come up with the master plan.

Rinki clanked utensils together to mimic the sound of making tea. She
observed Manika from the corner of her eye. Maharani, thought Rinki,
sitting there as if she had already become a superstar, and she, her atten-
dant. Rinki called Dheeraj to help her and gave him the niwar. Fiddling
with the rope, she said, “Let’s tie her up and then make her call her par-
ents.” After the initial feeble attempts at resistance, Dheeraj gave in.

They proceeded to the drawing room, without a trace of having just
cooked up a conspiracy. As soon as they were sufficiently near her,
Dheeraj started to tie Manika to her chair with an unexpected swiftness.
Manika didn’t shout or struggle, only shuffled a bit. It seemed as if she
didn’t have the strength to resist: she was so slight and fragile. When
Dheeraj reached the end of the niwar roll, he tied the ends together.
Rinki then gave him the rope to tie her hands. Manika’s forearms looked
like spatula handles.

“What are you doing?” Finally some words managed to escape Manika’s
mouth.

“Nothing dear,” Rinki assured her. “We just want you to call your parents
and tell them to deposit 25 lakh rupees in your account. We are not ask-
ing that money for us; it is to launch you in the movie and then you can
return the amount to your parents once our film releases.”

“They don’t have the money.”

 

“Don’t fool us. I am calling your home,” saying this, Rinki grabbed Mani-
ka’s phone, but realizing she couldn’t operate it, passed it to Dheeraj.
Dheeraj called Manika’s mother and put the phone close to her ear. Rinki
shook Manika by the shoulders to make her talk.

“Mama, I have been kidnapped,” she sobbed.
“Ask for money,” Rinki growled.
“Mama, help me. Mama, I am sorry.” She did not mention money at all.

Rinki summoned Dheeraj to demand money. “Tell them we have a blue
film of their daughter.”

“Listen, Mummiji, if you want your daughter back, then deposit 25 lakh
rupees in her account.” Rinki could comprehend that they were not will-
ing to give in to his demands. Dheeraj continued, “We have made a blue
film of your daughter. And if you try to act smart, we will put it on the
Internet. Now hurry up and do as you are told.”
“They don’t have money,” cried Manika.

“Who are you trying to fool?” asked Rinki sternly. “What about your
uncle in Nepal? Your castles?”

“They were all lies. I don’t have any castles. I come from a poor family.
Please leave me. Please, please. I will work for free for you. I will do any-
thing for you.”

“How dare you lie to us, bitch. Who do you think we are? A bunch of
morons. And you? Princess of Bakwaas? We spent so much money on
you. Now who is going to repay? Liar. This will teach you a lesson.” Rinki
grabbed a folding chair and smashed it on Manika’s head.

“Stop it,” Dheeraj held Rinki’s hands.
Rinki was still burning with indignation. The bitch was quiet. Rinki had
beaten the royal swag out of her.

Rinki stopped to observe Dheeraj. He was touching Manika’s face and
hands. Was he sympathising with her or feeling her up? Rinki kicked
Dheeraj’s waist in a huff; he fell on top of Manika’s tied-up body. He
gathered himself and moved his hands towards Manika’s left breast. En-
raged, Rinki went to the kitchen to fetch a knife to teach Dheeraj a lesson.
When she returned, she found him shaking Manika’s body deliriously.

“She’s dead,” he let out a panicked cry. “She’s dead. You killed her.”
Rinki’s anger evaporated, her heart in her mouth. “No,” she cried, “I
didn’t hit her that hard.”

 

“What are we going to do now? She’s dead. You killed her. She’s dead.”

Rinki started to hit Dheeraj with her fists. “You made me do this. It was
your plan to get money from her.” She left him when he hit her back and
rushed to Manika. “Oh God, oh Mata Rani, save us.” She shook Manika.
“Come back, come back. You are not dead. Stop pretending.”

They untied her and tried to revive her, first by shaking her and then
splashing water on her. She looked malnourished. Her body was all bone.
Her eye make-up had spread over her face, making her look like a ghoul.

Manika’s phone started to ring. Rinki looked at Dheeraj, who picked the
phone with trembling hands and went to the other end of the room.
Rinki could hear him say, “Deposit the money or you will never see your
daughter again.”

Rinki went to the bedroom, and sitting cross-legged on the bed, began
chanting, “Mata Rani, Mata Rani.” She nourished a faint hope that Mata
Rani would bring back Manika.

***

Dheeraj was stomping all over the house. This was Rinki’s house, he
thought. If he sneaked away, only Rinki would be held responsible for
what had happened. He will go to his wife and she will testify that he was
with her all this time. In an unobtrusive manner, he started to collect his
things, making as little noise as possible. He also slipped Manika’s mobile
phone and ATM card into his suitcase. When he looked up, Rinki had
stopped praying and was staring at him with burning eyes.

“What are you doing? she asked.
“Nothing. You also pack your stuff.”
“What will we do with the body?”
“Let’s bury it in the garden.”

“We have a septic tank there. There! Nobody would be able to find the
body until it is beyond recognition.”

They dragged the body to the bathroom. To make it difficult for the
police to identify the corpse, they decided to dispose the body and the
head at different places. For the same reason, Rinki removed the earrings
and the watch from the corpse and then brought her father’s axe. Dheeraj
closed his eyes and chopped off the head. They wrapped the body in an
old bedsheet and carried it outside. Dheeraj removed the lid of the tank
with some difficulty and they pushed the headless torso into it. The water
turned purple, as if someone had added permanganate into it.

Dheeraj wanted to say, “Let’s part ways,” but couldn’t muster sufficient
courage. “Let’s pack and leave.” he told her instead. Rinki looked ex-
hausted. They cleaned the house and packed their belongings as well as
Manika’s suitcase. Dheeraj wrapped the head in a plastic pouch, covered
it with a towel and put it in an airbag.

They boarded a bus to Delhi. On their way, Rinki kept reciting Mata Ra
-
ni’s name. Leaving Manika’s suitcase at the Delhi bus station, they bought
tickets to Jammu thereon. If they stopped, they’d be caught, they feared.
It was late at night when somewhere midway in Punjab, the bus stopped
for the passengers to relieve their bladders. Dheeraj got down and threw
the bag with the head into the bushes.

Back in the bus, both of them reverently chanted “Jai Mata Di,” with the
other passengers. Mata had called them. She would fix everything.
***

Two days later, when Nidhi couldn’t reach Manika on the phone after
innumerable attempts, her husband said, “Why are you getting worried?
You know how Manika is. The slut was offered a lead role, wasn’t she?
She must be comfortably ensconced in the director’s harem.”

***
11.
The Perfectly Poached Egg
Ramya Maddali

“An egg represents everything that is right with the world,” said Aruna,
as she lowered a large brown duck egg into water that was simmering in a
large steel pot over the gas stove. Her shiny new Williams Sonoma sauce-
pan was being used for the first time. Normally, she disliked heavy pots
and pans but the weight of this particular one was reassuring. It felt right.
The one saucepan brightened her 12’ by 10’ kitchen in a way that the
8-piece Tupperware set couldn’t. They were lighter; that was an advantage
but with the lightness came the tendency to not take them seriously. In
fact, only yesterday, she had dropped the little yellow Tupperware bottle
onto the kitchen floor. It had rolled into the darkest corner of her little
food factory, the dungeon under the sink. Aruna had casually retrieved it
and forgotten all about it afterward.

“You see,” she said, “there are so many ways in which you can make eggs.
Boiled, half-boiled, poached, scrambled, in omelettes, and of course, you
could eat them raw but you wouldn’t want to do that. There is the Salmo-
nella.” She looked at her watch to time the boiling of the egg. She wanted
to make what Chef John called the ‘perfectly hard-boiled egg’ and one
couldn’t do that if one was too Indian about it and paid no attention to
time. Seventeen minutes he had said and seventeen it was going to be.

“But my mother says she ate eggs raw while she was pregnant with me,”
said Madan, her husband of two years. Currently on a sabbatical from
work as the assistant curator at a little known museum in Vizag, Madan
was a short, thin man who liked his striped shirts and full-length polyes-
ter blends. He tried his best, on the one hand, to pretend to help his wife
in the cooking and on the other, to keep out of her way in her cramped
territory as much as he could. He settled in a chair near the entrance to
the kitchen; a comfortable distance from the scene of action – not so
close that he was obliged to fetch and carry yet not so far that he couldn’t
actually help her – a responsible distance, he assured himself.