Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (9 page)

And Mr. Dopyaza would be lying if he said that he never waited for a
letter from the city, or a call at the neighbour’s house.

And that rock, which anchored him, had blown away like dust, lost in the
smog of the city. The first blizzard, and he disappeared. Floating through
life like a detached observer, he stacked victories like burnt out matches.
Empty. Useless.

And then another breeze brought her in the sticky heat of the summer.
She was the colour of honey, eyes like the sky at dusk. She had worn a
simple blue sari, though a rich trader’s ring crested her finger. Though
pain was splattered across her face, her spine was straight and rigid.

Her little daughter stood by her, eyes downcast. The heavy shackles of
black beads she wore around her neck came off. The blue and black re-
minders on her skin evaporated like the summers. Days crept by and he
felt the chill in his chambers disappear as he held her daughter in his lap
as his own. Laughing with the beauty in front of him. Two empty cups of
tea where the files should be. And he wished to relive old dreams.

One day, the tea turned cold. Addition of another migrant family to the
overcrowded cities could break those left behind. And he hadn’t known
what to expect anymore. Even now, he didn’t expect anything.

But the boy that he wanted to call his own came to mind. Dark like burnt
raisins, his emaciated body had called out to him. Waiting tables at the
dhaba
, the boy was an orphan. Slipping bits of
rotis
and biscuits to him,
Mr. Dopyaza ate there only so he could watch the boy’s joy. One day, he
had slipped a few notes to the boy for school.
And when he didn’t see the boy at the
dhaba
the next day, he was buoyant.
But when the store-owner grumbled about a boy running to the city with
two months’ worth salary without working for even a week, Mr. Dopyaza
lost to the city again.

Cities have always stolen from him. But he knew it weren’t those tall
buildings and levelled roads. It was the greed. It was the weakness of his
bonds. But somewhere in the crevices of his worn and weary memory,
he remembered her.
Gudiya.
Those cream crackers they had shared on the
front porch. Her frail fingers separated the cracker to get to the cream.
Leaning back in his basket chair, he would peer out at the street. The little
girl rested her head on the limb of the chair, crumbs in her handkerchief.
The silence would wrap around them like a blanket. She would call him
Chacha
.
An endearing preface, before she went on to describe the argu-
ments in her house. How the doors would bang as if jumping out of their
hinges. How the silence was consumed by whispered obscenities.

And Mr. Dopyaza had plenty of what she needed. Silence. An unspoken
promise was what they had. That at the rise of dusk, when the people
returned home they would return to each other and find solace in the
quiet. And one day, when evening descended upon the town, Mr. Dopy-
aza waited alone. A platter of biscuits on his lap. The empty house two
streets down spoke volumes. And after that, nobody saw Mr. Dopyaza
unless summoned.

After all these years of solitude, Mr. Dopyaza felt exhausted remember
-
ing those moments of unbridled companionship. And he didn’t know
who could have sent the letter. In his deliberations, he couldn’t open the
letter. Hadn’t touched it even. Hadn’t realized that the stars were peek-
ing through the window, their eyes glittering with sorrow. Savita came in
again to cook dinner.

“Sahib, you didn’t eat lunch?”

 

Mr. Dopyaza looked at the old woman and wondered how time passed by
when one was stuck. He didn’t say anything.

 

“Sahib, are you all right?” Savita asked as she came inside his chamber.
“I just don’t feel like eating.” He looked at his palms, wet with nervous-
ness.

 

“Why , Sahib?” Savita came closer. Her eyes fell on the envelope.
“The letter, Sahib. Is it worrying you?” Savita picked it off the table. “Sa-
hib, don’t you want to know what is inside?”

 

The old man stared helplessly at Savita.
“I’m scared to harbour too much hope. It has always crushed me.” His
eyes glazed over, the hollows under them edging out.

 

“How would you know if you don’t take the leap?”

With trembling hands, she tore open the envelope and took out the let
-
ter. Keeping it on his lap, her fingers trembled. Fisting them together, she
walked out of the room.

Mr. Dopyaza looked at the letter, folded neatly. His trembling hands
opened it. It was addressed to him.

 

So it was for him after all.
He didn’t know how he would have felt if it wasn’t
for him. Relief, devastation? He would never know.

 

And so, he took the leap.

Savita was dicing the onion as she heard Mr. Dopyaza coming through
the door. She dragged her folding chair and laid it out for him. “You
know, I have a grandson.” Mr. Dopyaza stared dreamily into space. “Not
my blood though.”

Savita looked at the stove where the water was boiling.

“She was a girl who shared biscuits with me in the evening to escape the
fighting and the shouting in her house. I wanted to escape the silence,
and she the noise. Then suddenly, she disappeared. Her parents changed
towns, or so I heard. The city has maddened many, destroyed many”.

“Her parents married her off before she could finish her studies. Her
husband drove her out of the slums, unaware of the bud in her womb.
And she watered the blossoming plant, remaining thirsty herself. She la-
boured till she couldn’t help but collapsed so that her son could have the
life he deserved. The little boy grew up to be a great young man who,
when he heard of his mother’s life, wanted to change it, who wished to
let her mother meet a man she considered her father.”
Taking a deep breath, he continued. “He came to meet me a few weeks
ago.”

Savita wished that Sahib understood that the onion had gotten her eyes
red, that the tears were due to the chopped pink vegetable on the platter.
“I always thought where my lovely companion would be. Who was the
blossom in my winter, the daughter I never had?”

Savita couldn’t hold the knife much longer. Her sobs filled in the si-
lence.

 

“You never told me you brought the letter,
Gudiya.
”
10.
The Girl Who Owned Castles
Giribala Joshi

Instead of collapsing on her bed after a long gruelling day, Manika was
either emoting in front of a mirror, admiring how even her sad, scared,
or scary face looked pretty; or was pirouetting in a tiny space which she
had made by kicking shoes, bags and boxes under the bed. “I am going to
be the queen bee,” she shouted, and felt an urge to declare it to the world
on Twitter and Facebook, but refrained. It was too soon. All Manika
had wanted in life was to become a film star, and today on the sets of
BKBA, she had been offered a lead role by Dheeraj Rajawat, a filmmaker.
Of course, it was for a Rajasthani film, but for Manika, who was only
two fleeting roles old, it was a big leap towards stardom. Manika loved
the story that Dheeraj had narrated. She liked him as well. Not only did
he come across as a resourceful person, but also a complete gentleman.
How she wished she had a boyfriend like Dheeraj, someone considerate,
who would not be jealous, but genuinely happy for her successes.

It was 3:35 a.m. Manika badly needed someone to talk to. She fiddled
with her phone and then dialled the number of Nidhi, her friend since
childhood.

***

Nidhi panicked owing to the untimely call. She grabbed her phone and
rushed out of the bedroom, leaving her grumbling husband and whining
daughter behind.

“Is everything alright?” she asked.
“Oh Nidhi, I got an awesome offer, a lead role, today. Pretty soon your
friend is going to be a star. Love you, darling. Muah… “

“You brainless bimbo, don’t you have any sense of time? I hate you. Go
to sleep now. We will talk about it tomorrow in detail. By the way, what
is it about? Tell me, no.”
“It’s a Rajasthani movie. The filmmaker is also a struggler, but he says
that together we can make it big. He has everything figured out and was
looking for a female lead. Oh, and also, he is from Kota. He used to run
a coaching institute there and has made a lot of money. Now he wants to
explore his creative side.”

“Beware of casting couches, darling. I hope he is not the type to exploit
vulnerable girls. Don’t you sleep with him, okay?”

 

“Aye, he is not like that. He has a very devoted girlfriend, his business
partner. Don’t worry, I am safe.”

 

“Thank God he is not married. Married men are more dangerous. Did
you tell him about your castles in Nepal?”

“Of course I did, and about my royal connection as well.”
***
“Was that Manika?” asked Nidhi’s husband as he sensed her return.
“Yeah, it was her. She’s got a very good movie offer.”

“She is good for nothing. The slut might get minor roles if she keeps
obliging the right men at the right time.”

Bitch, he thought, would sleep around with anyone for her career, but
when she had come to live with them, wouldn’t let him touch her. Once
she even hit him hard on his ribs with her knuckles, and he was just be-
ing affectionate! He went back to sleep with his hand sliding over Nidhi’s
body while imagining Manika’s curves.

***

Nidhi, after a while, removed her husband’s hand off her body. He would
become extremely effusive in front of Manika, and then call her names
behind her back. Finally, she had had to ask Manika to look for another
place to live.

Nidhi cared for Manika like an elder sister would, even though they were
of the same age and friends since kindergarten. The girl had a tendency
to get into trouble. She would often lie to her family and friends and
then seek Nidhi’s help in covering her tracks. When they were eight, they
made a pact that they would secretly remain best friends even if they
found other best friends. Nidhi was a nerd who topped her class and also
tutored Manika – let her copy her homework – while the latter would
devote all her time to extracurricular activities.

Manika was tall and slender, the kind who can carry themselves in style
even if clothed in rags. Nidhi remembered her laughter--a sweet sound
that stood out amidst the cacophony of the classroom. When they went
out together, Manika was the one who did all the talking.

Manika’s family had migrated from Nepal. Her dad was the canteen man
-
ager at their school. As a result, Manika and her siblings got concession
in tuition fees and got to study at one of the the most expensive schools
in town. Her mother worked as a beautician. A bossy lady, she was al-
ways seen around a bunch of young men or boys running errands for
her. Her well-groomed daughters gave the conservative neighbourhood
enough fodder for their lazy evening gossip. Eventually, except for the
eldest daughter and Manika, four of her daughters married boys of their
own choice, each creating ripples in the stagnant water of their neigh-
bourhood.

Once a while, Manika’s family would visit Nepal, their home country. On
their return, Manika would elaborately describe to all her friends, details
of her maternal uncle’s castles, which Manika said she would eventually
inherit because her uncle was childless and she being his favourite niece.

Sometimes Manika’s tales involved sexual escapades. One friend was so
scandalized with Manika’s stories of physical intimacy that she started
to nag her boyfriend to do something, anything. They made even Nidhi
envious. Long after the phone call, Nidhi remained awake reminiscing
about her school days. Her reverie was broken, when daylight crept in
through the window curtains. She got up to begin her morning chores.
In the kitchen, she couldn’t find a clean pan to make tea. Not only the
dishes, but the whole apartment was a dirtbag. This, even after excelling
at school and at university. It’s good, she thought, that Manika was enjoy-
ing her life. She rinsed a pan and put it on the stove for tea. In a while
her husband arrived.
“So what has Manika bagged? A Yash Raj or a Karan Johar film?” he
asked.

“You don’t need to worry about her.”
***

Dheeraj woke up after a strange dream. He was already sweating when
the fan spluttered and died. He looked at Rinki who was spread over the
bed like a lumpy sack of potatoes. Last night he had only to mention how
expensive her spa visits were and she she had flown into a rage, throw-
ing things around. Day after day, her outbursts were getting worse. She
had become highly insecure and was keeping tabs on all his activities. He
longed for the good old days. He missed his wife and children, but there
was no going back. How could I have left my family and the coaching
institute for this termagant? She must have done some black magic on
me. He was now scared. He knew Rinki would kill him if she got even a
whiff of his thoughts.

Back in Kota, she had been a teacher at his LLB coaching institute; both
of them were graduates of law. For a while, he had had a good time with
Rinki without any problem at home. But somehow his wife had found
out about his relationship and started making a scene. Unable to cope
with her harangues, one day he left Kota along with Rinki to pursue his
dream of becoming a Bollywood star in Mumbai. Rinki also wanted to be
an actor. However, she had put on so much weight of late that he thought
no one would cast her even in the role of a buffalo.

Now he was the only one who was bringing home an income, a meager
one though, by doing minor roles. They were barely able to scrape a
living. To get out of the rut, they had decided to
make
films. They were
going to begin with a Rajasthani movie, as Dheeraj had a friend who was
in that business for many years.

Dheeraj and Rinki were on the lookout for fresh faces with deep pock
-
ets to cast in their movie. It was Dheeraj’s keen eye that spotted a rich
Nepali girl, Manika Shah, on the sets of
Badaun Ki Bhatakti Atmayein
.
Dheeraj played a news reporter in the movie. He thought it would take
a lot of convincing to rope in Manika, but to his surprise, she jumped at
the proposition. Dheeraj and Rinki offered to take Manika to meet their
director-friend in Kota, where they planned to persuade the rich girl to
invest in their movie. They were sure she would happily go along with
their plan.