Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (21 page)

Up and down, my legs stretched and relaxed, waiting, preparing to leap.
***

“Your legs don’t shake any more, young lady. It’s good that you’re finally
listening to instructions. Who knows? We can step up your exercise rou-
tine soon,” Dr. Shankar said.

Amma beamed, running her fingers gently through my hair. I was ready
to wait. I was ready to sing a song I may never dance to, and follow a
mārgam that may lead nowhere.

Perhaps, this journey
is
my destination.
20.
The Life-Changing Present
Ashwini Ashokkumar

Diya shut her eyes tight and curled up under the rug, shying away from
the blazing light that came in as mama opened the window shutters. The
rug cuddled with her tiny form affectionately, re-inducing sleep that ma-
ma’s hollers were taking away. Its dim insides made for a soft and cozy
sleeping bag. Mama, amidst her own shouting, tugged the rug off her.
Diya rolled over to the other side of the bed and got off it, knowing it
was the only way to end the yelling.

Mama looked at her five-year old standing at the edge of the bed in her
pink pyjama shorts. Her curls fell on her face, covering her forehead.
Her eyes sparkled every time she blinked and her cheeks glowed. She
stood there with her brows furrowed, making an evident pout, her way
of showing displeasure at the interruption of sleep. It only made her
cuter. Mama chuckled at the sight. This was to be Diya’s first day at her
new school.

Mama carried the little girl to the other room, brushed her teeth and got
her ready. Diya recited her morning songs as mama dressed her up in the
new uniform – an off-white button-down shirt and a pleated, checked
skirt. Mama hurriedly fed the girl some breakfast; she didn’t want her to
miss the school bus on the first day of school. Diya was one of those rare
cases of kids who didn’t make a fuss about a thing. You just had to feed
her, that’s all. It did not involve running around or pleading with a crying
kid; just the feeding. Only, she’d continue to sing her songs managing a
bite or two in between.

“A sailor went to sea, sea, sea. To see what he could see, see see.”
No
one could stop her; she was insistent on completing her list of songs ev-
ery morning.

Diya stood up, still chewing the last bite of her sandwich, still singing.
She looked adorable. Mama pinned the school badge on her shirt and
she was good to go. Mama had big dreams for her. She was a smart kid,
a very compassionate and understanding one, quite surprising for a fiveyear old. Mama could see her, in her mind, growing into a magnanimous
lady someday and enlightening people around, befitting of her name. She
would bring her girl up, teaching her the beliefs of the Dalai Lama who
she revered so deeply. Mama helped Diya put on her backpack and put
out her index finger. Diya held on to it tight. She loved to walk the roads
with her mama, she felt like a big girl. They walked on the pavement, girl
and mother, finger in hand, singing songs, feeling chirpy and cheerful.
The neighbor’s furry brown dog, Ruffles passed by. Diya petted him and
giggled as he wagged his tail. They got to the bus stop with a lot of time
to spare.

“But all that he could see, see, seeeee, was the bottom of
the deep blue sea, sea,
seaaa…”

Mama noticed something that another parent was holding; it then dawned
on her that she had forgotten Diya’s bus pass at home. There was time,
she could sprint home and be back before the bus got to their stop. She
asked the little girl to stay there, just there at the same spot. Diya nodded
obediently. Mama rushed toward home.

“Helen had a steamboat, the steamboat had a bell,
When Helen went to heaven, the steamboat went to hell”
A well-dressed man walked across to little Diya.
“What’s your name little girl? You sing very sweetly.”
“Thank you,” she said shyly. “My mama asked me to talk to no one.”

“Oh she’s right. Never talk to strangers. I have a little present for you
though. I will give it to you and I will be gone. Does that work little
girl?”

“Okay,” Diya smiled eagerly. She loved presents.

The man handed over a tiny black device. She held it with both hands. He
asked her to press the green button when she was going to start singing.
The display would do a countdown and when it ended, the red button
would glow. Just then, she had to stop, at the exact point of time. And she
could start over again. The device, the man said, would let out really soft
beeps to add music to her singing. Diya was delighted. The man smiled
and walked away as promised.

Diya pressed the green. She couldn’t hear the beeps yet, she held it close
to her ear and she could hear them. They were really really soft and pe-
riodical. She sang:

“Ask me for a muffin, I’ll give you some old bread
And if you do not like it, just go and soak your head.”

The beeps didn’t sway or amplify to the song she sang, but they were fine.
She could make them match. She couldn’t wait for her mother to see this.
She could see someone jogging towards the stop, at the end of the road.
It must be her mama. She couldn’t stop singing yet, the device said 13.
Not 0. There was no red glow. She was thrilled. She sang fast.

“A sailor went to sea, sea, sea
To see what he could see, see, see.”
The device said 6. She sang faster.
“But all that he could see, see, seee
Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea”
Now 2. She was exhilarated. She’d stop at the perfect moment.
“A sailor went to sea –
aaaaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhmmmmaaammmaaaaaaaaa…”

There was a lot of red. Larger than the glow she expected. It was hot,
burning hot. Singeing pain. And it ended, abruptly.

 

Mama saw fire. And chaos. There were screams, of which one voice she
knew so well.
21.
The Rejection Ceremony
Shubham Kapur

The lady on the sofa looked like a huge chandelier. She wore a golden
suit with flashy red borders. Her attire was studded with shining beads
and the folds of her dupatta tried hard to hide an inch of her cleavage.
The heavy diamond rings on her fingers did the rest of the talking. Her
dyed hair was neatly tied in a bun and her golden heels perfectly blended
with the guise. One could easily count the layers of face powder on her
face and notice the double outlining around the red lipstick; cherry on
top of vanilla cake.

“Where is your office located?” asked the lady, while Prasanna served
Fanta.

 

Like you don’t know already?

People had perfected the art of pretending. The bio data had already been
exchanged and she was sure her pictures were zoomed around thrice. De-
spite knowing the answers, the questions were repeated.

“Gurgaon, Aunty,” she faked a smile as she served the drink to the boy.

He had a round, expressionless face. His hair was parted on the side
and if one looked carefully, one could see a bald patch in the centre. His
fake Hilfiger shirt and his personality dropped every hint of him being
mummy’s little boy.

Reject.
“Can you cook?” the lady asked, breaking the awkward silence.
“Yes Aunty,” Prasanna replied.
“What all can you cook?”
Maggi.

“Aunty, rice...rotis...dal...”
The lady kept staring at her as though expecting more. Prasanna smiled
and blinked twice, indicating the end of list.

 

“It’s alright Ji! These days, working girls prefer office to kitchen. Haha-
haha!”

Her scary laughter echoed through the walls of the drawing room.
Err...was that a joke?
“Alright Ji, Namaste. We will discuss everything else over the phone.”

The lady stood and folded her hands. She left the house with her timid
son but left behind false hope.

Prasanna knew there would be no discussion in future. She had noticed
the lady gazing at her pimples and the consequent look of disgust on her
face. The rejection ceremony was over. She locked her room the moment
they left and turned to the mirror. She stared at herself for minutes and
wondered if she had to live with this face all her life. She moved her hand
and slowly rubbed her face. She could feel the roughness on her cheeks
and an itch in her heart. No treatment did justice to it. Treatment could
only rub the marks but not the scars of embarrassment. Every time a
boy’s family rejected her; the disappointment on her parent’s face killed
her. She had learnt to accept rejection but she could never learn to meet
her parent’s expectations. They were all looking for a Barbie doll and she
wasn’t one. Her hard work and qualifications did not count. Her yearning
to become a writer was of no importance. Her love for food had clas-
sified her as ‘obese’. Her life was all about earning money and carefully
weaving a plot to keep her parents happy. Deep within, she wanted more
from life. A lot more.

Her mother knocked at her door.
“Prasanna?”
“Wait! I am changing!”
She quickly wiped the tears with her her shirt.
“Come in!”
Her mother sat next to her.

“Your father seems to be impressed with the boy. He works in Infosys
and he is earning well. You think they will accept the proposal?”
I hope not.
She didn’t have a say in the biggest decision of her life. Beggars can’t be
choosers, after all.

“I don’t know. I am really tired. I think I should sleep.”
“I think they are very rich. Do you think they liked our house?”
“I don’t know Mummy! Let’s wait for their response!”
“I was just asking...”
“Please close the door before leaving.”

The crowd pushed her into the men’s compartment as Prasanna boarded
the metro at Rajiv Chowk. She loathed Fridays for it marked the begin-
ning of the weekend rejection ceremonies. Metro stations were at their
worst on this day; especially Rajiv Chowk where people would kill to get
inside. She unbuttoned her tight coat to let her tucked tummy out and
commanded the poor Jat chap to vacate the ‘Ladies Seat’ in the corner.
Two men, instead of one, had to vacate to make space for her. The sec-
ond one cursed her under his breath.

What? This seat is my birthright.

 

She sighed, drank a sip of water and fell asleep.

 

***

By the time the Aroras arrived, Prasanna’s makeup had drained away in
sweat. They brought along a round box of biscuits and three large pack-
ets of juice.

“Oh Mr. Arora…You didn’t have to bring all this!” her father complained
as he escorted them to the drawing room.

 

Great. Dad doesn’t want it. The box is mine.

“Mummy!” she whispered in the kitchen before leaving.
“Atleast let me know his name!”
“Harshit.”
“Full name!”
“Harshit Arora”

Prasanna entered the room with five cups of tea. The choice of drink
depended on the status of the boy’s family. It was the only decision she
was allowed to take. If the family isn’t modern, why waste Coke? The
boy sat sandwiched between his proud parents who couldn’t stop talking
about their son.

“Harshit is looking for a new job. His boss doesn’t want him to quit.
What to do? They are so impressed with his performance. In fact, they
are willing to offer him more. Let’s see.”

She sipped her tea and continued.
“Ji, our son will be moving to the US next year. We really want him to
shift. There is no growth in India. US is so much better than India!”
Tell us something we don’t know?
If you want to impress the girl’s parents, you talk about the future pros-
pects of moving abroad and half the battle is won.

“Harshit is also an excellent football player!” his father added.
Yeah right.

Harshit blushed every time his parents counted his accolades. He was
fair, lean and tall. He had eyes like that of a rat and a small nose that well
suited his clean-shaven face. He wore a white shirt with visible creases
and dark blue trousers.

But Prasanna’s mind was elsewhere. She couldn’t take her eyes off the
pasta. She could taste its white sauce in her mind. Every taste bud on her
tongue wanted to feel the twists and curls of the pasta.

Yummm.
It was now the butcher’s turn to chop the lamb.
“How do you commute to work?”
My private jet.
“Aunty, Metro.”
“Oh...must be tiring?”
Hell yeah!
“Sometimes,” she faked a smile.
“Aunty, why don’t you have something?”
She was dying to attack the pasta.
“Sure.”

The family left their house promising to respond within a day. Had they
stayed one more second, they would have revealed their son’s tenth and
twelfth percentages. Prasanna tiptoed to her bedroom carrying the bowl
of pasta.

My Precious…
.

 

Prasanna’s mind battled between the two sizes, L and XL. While her heart
wanted to fit into L, every ‘extra’ on her body denied the possibility.

The salesman interrupted Prasanna’s hunt.
“How can I help you Ma’am?”

“Umm...I am looking for a decent
kurti
. You know? The ones people
wear in office?”

He handpicked an XL-sized black coloured kurti for her.
“Mam, how is this!?”
Are you kidding me? This is horrible.

“This is nice. But I think it is too big for me... I am looking for Medium
or Large sized kurtis”

He looked surprised.
“Mam...I think…you should try this first!”
I know what you mean.
“Thank you... I think I can help myself.”

The bright lights and three mirrors of the trial room highlighted every
protrusion in her body. Her three-tiered structure was the perfect ex-
ample of bad construction.

Am I this fat?
The very minute, she pledged to make alterations in her diet. Large-sized
pizza was cut to medium and two
Gulab Jamuns
were reduced to one.
That should help.
“Prasanna! How long?!” her mother screamed from the other end.

Gosh. Parents can be so embarrassing!
“Just a second Mummy!” she whispered.

She immediately squeezed herself into the large-sized kurti and opened
the door. Her mother scanned the front and the back and made a face.
A ‘something-is-wrong’ face. The two lines between her eyebrows dug
deeper and she finally declared the results.