Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (22 page)

“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 you 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.

Prasanna was hurt. Her mother’s answers reflected desperation instead
of sympathy.

 

“Hmm. Sharma Ji, we asked the priests but we just wanted to be sure. We
hope your daughter isn’t a Manglik?”

 

“Of course not!”

“Hmm. Fine, Sharma Ji! We have a dinner party to attend after this. We
should leave. We will definitely get in touch with you over the phone.
Namaste.”

The fox folded hands and collected her black Gucci purse from the cen-
tre table.

Prasanna locked herself in her room and sobbed uncontrollably that
night. She wondered why her parents were gambling her life away and
giving it to someone who didn’t even respect her body. She didn’t want
to share her life with someone who judged her in a single meeting. She
didn’t want to be around a family who embarrassed her amidst her own.
She didn’t want to be with a stranger shortlisted from newspapers or mat-
rimonial sites. She wanted to know what it was like to be adored and how
similar it was to what she imagined it be. She wanted to be given a choice
because she didn’t want to end up with the wrong person. She wanted
love to happen through destiny and not through planned meetings. She
wanted to believe in herself.

Prasanna wiped her tears as soon as she heard the sound of a million
tiny raindrops spatter on her window. Rain had a magic of its own. Since
childhood, she had shared her woes with it. No questions, no interroga-
tion, no false promises. She sat by the window and held out a hand to feel
the raindrops dance on her fingers. A cold drop of rain trickled down and
reached the sleeves. She rested her elbows on the table and cupped her
chin into her hands, waiting for the thunder and the fireworks.

Love Story.

She dragged the chair next to the table, turned the pages of her diary and
began to write. Words impatiently poured into her mind, waiting to be
penned. The crucial description of the protagonist was disrupted by a
sudden banging on the door.

“Come in!” Her mother barged into the room with a mobile phone in
one hand and a ladle in the other.

“What happened?”
“Prasanna! Prasann…Wait, Chachi Ji is calling back.”

Prasanna could not figure out why her parents were so excited. What was
this chaos all about?

“Hello! Helloo? Han Chachi Ji! Mrs. Arora called up and they have ac
-
cepted our proposal! Hanji Hanji! Chachi Ji, very happy! The US boy? Re-
member? Hanji Hanji! Congratulations to you too Ji! It is all because of
Guruji. Without his blessings nothing would have been possible. Hanji!
We are at home! Please do come! Ok...ok...ok. Bye.”

Her mother’s century-old phone and Chachi Ji’s booming voice rendered
the entire conversation audible to the room. She felt like she had topped
the boards. Even if she had, she was sure her parents wouldn’t have been
so happy. Her mother hugged her and broke the news.

“You know, Mrs. Arora called up a minute ago. They have agreed only on
one condi...wait…your grandmother is calling. Hanji Namaste Beiji!”

Her mother left the room. Prasanna stood there, wishing for time to stop.
She absently stared at the door while waiting for reality to sink in. She felt
like dirt in a dustpan. Every nerve in her body felt weak. Every second
suffocated her. She wanted to save herself. She wanted to kick her legs
and come out of the deep water to grasp a breath.

She pushed the chair and stormed to her parents’ room. She was sure; she
wouldn’t drown so soon.

When she entered their room, her father was busy with the calculator and
her mother was still talking on the phone.

“Mummy...”
Her mother signaled her to wait for a minute.

Prasanna was scared of sullying their hopes. She doubted if she’d ever be
able to forgive herself. She held the bedside for support. Nothing helped.
She knew it’d break their heart but she also knew that if she didn’t speak
for herself, no one ever will.

“Prasanna! We are so happy for you. Despite knowing everything, they
have...”

 

Despite knowing what Mummy??”
“You know...You have to settle in life
beta
. We are doing this for your sake,
your happiness!”

 

It took every ounce of her willpower to finally confess.
“Did you ever ask me what truly makes me happy? What I want from
life?”

 

Her voice broke and a tear slid down but she held her own.

“I...I want to become a writer... and I don’t want to spend my life with
a stranger...Before I marry someone, I want to chase my dreams! I want
to be independent... I want to enjoy life because I have never been able
to… I beg you to stop fixing these meetings because I don’t want to
feel insulted anymore…I want to be treated like a human being...Don’t I
deserve that?”

“Prasanna, you have to be a parent to understand our decisions...”
“What about my decision? Does it even matter?”
“Of course it does! Don’t you like Harshit?”
“No.”
“What are you saying? Do you like someone else.”
“I said, no!”
“Prasanna! Who will marry you?”
“Let me decide that”
“Do you know? With a face like that, no one will marry you!!”

“It is their choice, not mine. I look just fine and I won’t let anyone make
me feel otherwise.”

“Are you listening Ji? Why don’t you say something?”
Her father finally broke his silence.

“Prasanna, your father would love to read your book. Aarti, tell them our
daughter isn’t interested.”

 

“What is wrong with you two? And what are we going to tell all the rela-
tives?”

 

Prasanna looked at her father in the eye and replied, “I have never felt
more right. Tell them all that Prasanna said no.”

Prasanna smiled. This time, it was real. Her father smiled back. She left
the room, grabbed her slippers and ran towards the terrace. The feeling
of rejecting someone after having been rejected by all, made her climb
the stairs even faster. The wind whistled at her and tossed her hair into
the air. The thunder rejoiced with her and the rain seemed to kiss her
cheeks. She opened her arms wide and hugged herself. The fledgling was
ready to take flight.

***
22.
The Proof of Birth
Urvashi Sarkar

Dola picked at her fruit at the table, hurriedly swallowing her breakfast.
She was conscious of Shotorupa’s disapproving gaze as she shoved the
food down her throat. Grabbing the newspaper and her laptop she head-
ed out of the door. It was beginning of another workday— work she
wasn’t sure she entirely enjoyed.

“My birth certificate,” Shotorupa called out, her stormy brown-gold eyes
looking accusingly at Dola’s green-brown ones that stared blankly at hers.
Both women shared similar, sharp noses and pointed chins. The resem-
blance ended there: Shotorupa’s complexion was a glowing dusk while
Dola’s was lighter and pockmarked. Neither looked Bengali—their large
eyes were the only giveaway. When either spoke, there was no marked
Bengali inflection—you only heard urban and English-educated ac-
cents— usually hard to match with a specific region.

“You still haven’t written to them for my birth certificate,” Shotorupa
said, her mouth a thin line and eyes flashing. ‘I’ll do it today,’ said Dola,
her face still expressionless.

Once in the car along with her father, Dola scanned the newspaper
headlines. Modi was the flavour of the season. She was already tiring of
him. The car jolted forward. Birth certificate, she recalled abruptly and
thought about her mother, who, just shy of her 53
^rd
birthday—did not
yet possess a proof of her birth. Dola’s head creased slightly. The fact
that Shotorupa did not have a birth certificate made her feel inexplicably
guilty—though it was hardly her fault. She gazed out of the window, ob-
serving the bleak December fog.