pink slippers

Inspired by these, this:

"You haven't done it, have you? I knew you wouldn't do it. It's always the same with you. You just say you'll do it, and then forget all about it. This is the fourth time I've come. Each time you say, come in one hour, come tomorrow, come in the evening. As if I have no other work. You think?"

Madhukar's long, thin face remained impassive as hers puckered up more and more with her scowl. It was as if he heard her from a great distance, and from a great distance he replied, "Come back in an hour, my son will keep it ready."

The sharp quiver of his mustache could easily be mistaken for a smile, only an embarrassed one, but nevertheless a smile that only enraged the already infuriated woman. Bala glared at Madhukar and took one slipper in his hand, reluctantly. But before he could even turn the slipper in his hand, the angry woman bent down and snatched it. She didn't even see the faint tremor of fear on Bala's childish face. Bala picked up the other slipper beside him tentatively, and she grabbed that too from his hand. While she thrust the slippers into a humungous plastic bag, Bala stopped breathing, defying the tears to stay put in his eyes.

After she had stomped off, Madhukar shrugged slightly and looked at the three people standing before him. His mustache quivered more definitely in a mute plea for support from them. But none of them wanted to encourage him with the faintest of smiles. They were on the side of the shouting woman; each of them had made one round or two to get their footwear back from Madhukar.

Madhukar continued with his work silently. Bala rubbed a brown shoe vigorously with black polish. When the last of the three customers had gone, Bala exploded, "I am going to run away, Baba."

Madhukar said distractedly, "No, you are not, Balu child."

Bala said, "Yes, I am."

Bala was ready to jump up this very instant and leave. Though Madhukar didn’t know it, Bala was quite sure of how to get back home to Aai.

He suddenly remembered the smell that clung to Aai, the smell of her sweat mingled with the smoky smell of the wood in the clay stove, and one tear fell defiantly on his cheek.

But then he remembered Aai kissing him over and over again, even after Baba had already reached the gate of their house. She had whispered against Bala's cheek, "You will stay with Baba, won't you, Balu? Don't leave him alone, you know what he is like."

He couldn't go back home without Baba. Aai would only cry and worry about Baba, and not be happy that Bala was back. He was stuck here forever and forever in this tiny tin box in which he could barely stand, and Baba could only sit, on the corner of a busy road.

So he pleaded now, "Why can't we just go back home?"

Madhukar said, "We can't, Balu. We have a shop here now."

Bala said, "This is not a shop. It's only a tin box."

And that it was. They could lock up the broken slippers and shoes in it at night. But Madhukar would not leave his tools there, or the polish box. Those, they carried to the room in the slum everyday, the hot, smelly, cramped room they shared with 13 other men. Madhukar slept with his tool bag under his head, and Bala with the polish box near his feet.

But Madhukar said, "It is a shop. I pay 500 rupees rent for it every month."

Bala said, "Our shop in the village market is so big."

Madhukar's mustache went up a millimeter, and his nose swooped down to touch it, as he said sullenly, "You know very well, Balu, that is not my shop, but belongs to your Ajoba. And after Ajoba, it will be yours. I have no shop in the village. This is my shop here."

Bala knew that the shop in the village market would be Baba's after Ajoba. But who could argue with Baba's mustache or Baba's nose? Only Ajoba, who had a sharper mustache and a sharper nose.

Bala decided that he would never grow a mustache, and he would rub his nose for 10 minutes every day to flatten it a little. He looked around him morosely, rubbing his nose. The city was so crowded. The noise of the incessant traffic and people made his head throb. How different from the market at home.

That was crowded too, and got very dirty by the end of the day, garbage left by the stream of tourists walking through - cans, bottles, plastic bags, tetra-packs. Yet just beyond the market lane, there were the brown and blue hills, and tall trees, and a cold nipping air, and the lake down below. And Bala did not have to sit in the shop all day. He could run between home and market, shop and fields, school and hills, as fancy took him.

But Baba and Ajoba fought all the time. Each time, Ajoba's nose would quiver with rage and he would say, "This is still my shop, and you had better do as I say."

One day he said it once too often, and Baba took out a small suitcase from the loft, dusty and rusty with disuse, and put a few pairs of clothes in it. Aai cried and cried until he agreed to take Bala with him. And then she whispered on Bala's cheek, "You will stay with him, won't you, child? You know what he is like."

Bala seemed to feel again the wetness of her cheek against his and remembering her puffy eyes he was determined to hurt Baba today. He said, " We don't even make shoes here. Just repair them."

Madhukar remained silent. What could he say? He would not mind going back home himself; he missed his wife, and even his grumpy father, and the two little ones, Bala's brother and sister. But perhaps more than them he missed the hills and the sharp colors of the many flowers that grew in every nook and cranny of the winding streets of their village.

He had always loved those colors, they seemed to seep through his eyes and stream through his blood and wanted to burst through his fingertips into the shoes he made. Pink, green, blue, purple. But his father's eyes and blood and hands wanted to stick to the colors that their family had used for generations in their shoes, the colors of the earth in their village, brown, rust, red.

Each time Madhukar went to the city to buy materials, he would return to the village with stains of different hues. His father would fret and scold, "Why waste so much money on colors? If people want pink, or blue shoes they can buy them in the city." And Madhukar would say, "You are an old man now. You know nothing about how the world has changed. No one wants your dull brown shoes any more." And his father would say, "This is my shop. You better do as I say."

Well, this here, this tin box on the corner of a busy road in the city, was his shop now, and even if he did not make shoes here, only repaired them for a few rupees, it was his shop, and maybe one day, he would have enough money to buy some leather and some more tools and some color stains and start making his own shoes.

His mind started brimming with colors again, pink, blue, orange, purple. He came to because Bala was nudging him, his face flushed with excitement. A pair of pink slippers with brown flowers was right before his long nose. He took the slippers into his hands. He looked up at the woman who was looking at his dazed face with concern.

In a voice that would barely come out of his throat, he asked, "Where did you buy these?"

The woman said, "In the market at Mahableshwar."

Bala squealed loudly, "Was it a big shop? In the village market?"

The woman frowned and said, "Yes, I think so, a big shop."

Bala said, "Next to the shop where you get strawberry cream? Was there an old man there?"

The woman scrunching her nose in an effort to remember, said, "Strawberry cream? Yes, I think so, an old man."

Madhukar meanwhile turned the pink slippers round and round in his hand, looking at the seams, the brown flowers, the soles. He recognized his father's hand in the stitches. On each sole there was a small etching of an M and a T.

Madhukar Tambe. That was his name.

He smiled and handed the slippers back to the woman, "There is nothing wrong with these; they are perfect."

The woman said, "But the stitches have come out there, just there, you see?"

Madhukar shook his head, his face stretched in a beatific smile. The woman bemused walked away.

Madhukar smiled and said, "We'll go home then, shall we, Bala? You must be missing Aai, no?" Bala grinned and nodded his head. The brown shoe in his hand was now completely black.

© Batul Mukhtiar, December 7, 2009

home, sweet home

When Basheer went home that evening, there was no home. His nephew, Faheem’s wife, Azra, had been arrested with 5 other women and 27 men from the basti, for scuffling with the bulldozers. Basheer hoped that his new blue shirt left to dry on the door had not gone under the rubble. And the small bag with his collection of second-hand tools was safe. But he was not too worried. Azra was a good housekeeper, even if she let her tongue run away with her most of the time.

He went and squatted beside Faheem and the other men on the road, a few metres away from the police station. The women too sat around, idle. Without their stoves or their utensils, they were free from the obligation to cook the next meal. A hawaldar walked past, carrying heavy plastic bags in both hands, and a danda under his armpit.

Basheer said, "Saab, what is the time?"

The hawaldar glared at him, unsure whether giving the time of the day would undermine his authority in any way, then muttered, "8.25" and walked on.

Basheer laughed, "Saala, he's taking Chinese for his saabs."

Lata, in a voice hoarse with screaming, said, "Basheer Bhai, this haraami was using his danda even against the women."

Basheer shrugged, "They are all like that."

Basheer's mouth felt dry and smelly with thirst. The sharp smell of the Chinese food in the hawaldar's bags had made him hungry. He asked Faheem, "Shall we go to the hotal and eat?"

Faheem refused, "Azra won't have eaten."

Basheer said, "We'll pack her something."

Lata shrieked, "Those haraamis won't allow us to take food inside unless we give them something."

Sawant grumbled, "If it was 500-600 we could have got it, but the b*nc**ds want 3000 for all of them."

The children forgotten by their preoccupied parents had played by the roadside through the evening. But as the headlights from the cars became fewer, the road darker, they came one by one, and huddled against their mothers.

Jayu and Pakya started whining, "We are hungry."

Their mother, Shaku said, "I'll go look for my stove and some rice. Lata, are you coming?"

Lata said, "The fire brigade drowned everything. The grain must all be spoilt."

Shaku said, "Let's go and look at least."

A few other women joined the two, and they drifted back towards the rubble, hoping to slip through the policemen keeping watch over the dying embers of the basti, hoping to scrounge together something for a meal.

Basheer said, "Was there a fire?"

Sawant said, "Lata says some municipaalty guy started it deliberately."

Faheem says, "Who knows? I don't think they would do that, would they? Gopal was saying someone's stove overturned when the bulldozers were working."

Sawant said, "We are going to the municipaalty with an arji tomorrow. Who will come?"

Faheem said, "Don't take the women to the municipaalty office. Let them go to the neta with all our ration cards."

Gopal said, "I have to go to the factory."

Sawant said, "As if your foreman will give you a place to stay in the factory!"

Gopal grimaced. As if. In the fifty odd years that the basti had been built, asbestos, tin, plastic, cardboard, sometimes a few bricks, it had been pulled down at least fifty odd times. In all that time, only one old woman, Yellamma had been given a home by her employer. Her story was told and heard like a fable again and again, amongst the people of the basti. But they were all clear in their minds that it was only a fable and held out no hope for them.

An old, old lady, Parvati piped up, "Yellamma was my friend, you know. She was from my village. We came here together."

Basheer grinned, "That is why you too should now be thinking of moving on, Kaki. Are you planning to take your taalpatri to the pyre?"

Sawant said, "Yes, we'll wrap you in it if you like."

Parvati grabbed some pebbles from the road and flung them across.

She cursed, "Saale dogs, I'll see both of you to the pyre before I go."

Basheer laughed, "That you will, Kaki."

Parvati grumbled, "Now we have to go buy new taalpatris. Each time those m**d**c**ds come and take away everything. As if we came here on our own. Those municipaalty-walas brought us from our villages when they needed to make the roads. Now the roads are made, the buildings are made, they don't want us."

Basheer's back was aching now, and he slid down to lie on the road. The tar was still warm, scorched by sun, fire and anger. Slowly, the others began to slide down too. Faheem remained sitting, keeping a vigil for his wife.

When Basheer woke up, the women were already at the water tap, with their pots and buckets. The few men who had regular jobs were washing up. Sawant, dressed and combed, a big file in his hands, was waiting for some supporters to go to the municipal corporation office with him.

He said, "Basheer Bhai, are you coming?"

Basheer shook his head, "I can't. I am finishing off a big job."

Sawant turned away resentful. Basheer would never miss a day's work.

Faheem knew it was useless to expect his uncle to sit around the whole day. Basheer always behaved as if his work was important, as if he was anything but a daily wage laborer like the rest of them? Yet, the sparkle in his eyes made it difficult for Faheem to hold a grudge against him.

Basheer said, "Faheem, why don't you go get Azra out of the station?"

Faheem said, "They'll leave them soon enough."

Basheer said, "Yes, they will. But if we give them some money, they won't make them wait around at the police station until noon."

Faheem said, "You know how she is, Chacha. She won't come out unless all the others are released too."

Basheer took out a 100-rupee note from his pocket. "Anyway, keep this. Both of you eat at the hotal. Don't make her cook as soon as she comes out."

As the bus rolled into the fishing village, Basheer took long deep breaths of the fishy stink, and felt as if, at last, he was breathing clean air. He got off at the bus stop near the bungalow and sunk his feet into the sand. The demolition of his basti was forgotten and he felt happy. He had been working here for almost six months, and the place felt like ‘almost home’. The gate of the bungalow was open, but the watchman Tiwari was probably at the back, washing up, still having his morning tea.

Basheer liked to be early here, and wander around the house before everyone else came in. As he entered, he bent down to bang gently with his fist, the marble slab under his feet. It sounded solid. Perhaps today, his kadiya boss, Bhuvan would say they must start polishing the floor. Basheer loved it when they did that; the white marble emerged shining, gleaming, under all the dust. How he longed to move with the stone grinder on the floor, but Bhuvan would not let him do anything but clean the floor after him.

Tiwari came in through the back door and said, "Want to have some tea?"

But before Basheer could say 'yes', they heard a car come into the gate.


The watchman said, "Saab has come", and ran towards the gate.

Prabhu, the contractor walked in with the couple that owned the bungalow. Basheer keeping a respectful distance followed the 3 important people around the house as they inspected it. He was hoping to impress Prabhu a little with his punctuality because he wanted to ask something of him later. Prabhu too hoped that this early bird appearance by Basheer would impress his clients and convince them that he was giving their work top priority.

The couple however, was determined not to be impressed. The job had been dragging on for months now, and so many things were not yet done, or not done to their satisfaction. The woman shifted her toe in the dust, and said petulantly, “ All the joints between the marble slabs are black. Is that how it’s going to look?”

The man scowled, "Prabhu, your work has no finish."

Prabhu turned to Basheer and scolded, “Ai Basheera, what about these joints? You haven’t cleaned them properly?”

Basheer knew that Prabhu was only scolding him to please his clients, so he did not feel bad about it. He looked at the man, and said patiently, “Saab, it’s looking dusty now, because we haven’t finished yet. When all the work is done, I promise the joints will be as clean as the marble.”

The woman noticed Basheer for the first time, and giving him an irritated look said to the contractor, “Prabhuji, you must ask these people not to use our toilets. There is a servant’s toilet outside.”

Prabhu too looked at Basheer with irritation.

Basheer wanted to say that in the 22 years he had worked as a laborer in the city, he had not once been tempted to use the English-style toilets to go. He was a man used to squatting on the roads. But yes, sometimes, he did run the hot and cold water from the shining taps, and wash his hair before he went home.

However, he did not answer the contractor. For a brief, very brief moment, he looked at the woman, then dropped his eyes again, and said, “Sorry, Memsaab”. She catching his bright smiling eyes in that brief glance, felt a bit ashamed of her complaints, and mumbled, “Oh don’t worry, it’s OK.”

Saab and Memsaab wandered off, talking about what still needed to be done. The man told the contractor, “This is our first holiday home. We want it to be perfect.”

Prabhu nodded, "It will be, Saab, but these things take time. If you want to do them perfectly." Saab groaned knowing Prabhu had adroitly bought more time for himself.


Basheer had wanted to take advantage of Bhuvan's absence and show Prabhu that he could use the stone grinder. But today perhaps was not the day.

One of these days he would talk to Prabhu and say, "I can be more than a cleaner." Now he slunk away, craving a cup of tea. He suddenly remembered that he had not had anything to eat since yesterday.

The watchman had a cup ready for him. Basheer said, "Tiwari, if Bhuvan-boss does the polishing today, we'll be late."

Tiwari said, "Then I'll go buy some chicken from the village."

Basheer said, "This time, I'll cook it."

A couple of months ago, Bhuvan and Basheer and the other workers had slept over at the house, and it had been lovely - the smell of the chicken cooking on Tiwari's kerosene stove, the smell of the sea, the smell of dust, cement, turpentine, wood-shavings and stone around them. The wind came sharp and cold from the open doors and they lay on the floor making lewd remarks about each other until the quiet of the house took over.

Basheer wanted so much to stay here, in the cool, big house, today and maybe for a couple more days. Then, when he went back to the basti, the ashes and rubble would have been cleared up, and the asbestos, tin, plastic, cardboard sheets would have come up again, and Azra would be back at her stove, with her sharp tongue and her hot food, and her smile as unpredictable as the municipaalty bulldozers.

**basti - habitation

hawaldar - constable

danda - stick

Saala - wife's brother, a term of mild abuse

Bhai - brother

haraami - bastard

arji - petition

neta - political leader

taalpatri - tarpaulin sheet

Kaki - Aunt

Chacha - Uncle, father's brother

kadiya - stonemason

 Batul Mukhtiar, Oct 2009

A river left behind

I read this story at the Caferati meet yesterday. It's a story that has been with me for a long time, and is one of my personal favourites. I'm still not sure whether it's 'done'. But ...

It came from a documentary recce shoot on a mini-DV, Shanker and I in the city. How I wish I'd made a copy of that tape before I sent it off to the producer in the US. Regrets born out of disorganized living.

Malti lived with Raju on a big, empty ground surrounded by apartment buildings, somewhere in Jogeshwari East, Mumbai. When Malti had come from her village many years ago, there had been empty grounds all around her, green fields, and lots of cattle sheds. The smell of the buffaloes, the clinking of the milk pails, and the milkmen in their yellowing white dhotis had reminded her of home.

But now, there were no green fields, and the cattle sheds were wedged between concrete buildings so tall, that Malti had to strain to see the tops of them. The ground that she lived on seemed to have been forgotten for some reason, in the building frenzy.

Malti did not miss her village all the time. But she did miss having a bath everyday. In the village, she could walk into the river any time she wanted, whenever she was feeling hot and dusty, and splash around to her heart’s content. But here she was able to have a bath only once a week.

Raju had to fetch buckets of water from the well near the tea stall. The tea stall owner had become the unofficial owner of the well, and even though Raju paid two rupees for every bucket of water he took, the self-proclaimed owner stared disapprovingly at him whenever he took a bucket too many.

The little boy, Muttu who worked at the tea stall would help Raju lug the buckets to and fro, and bathing times on Sunday mornings became a big event. But even twenty buckets of water could not give Malti the pleasure she had had splashing in the river back home.

Every Sunday, after the bath, Raju would take Malti to the South Indian temple in Matunga. It was a long walk, but they earned a lot of money on that day, because the temple was crowded with devotees, and each one of them gave something to Raju and Malti. Malti would be decked in all her finery, and everyone would turn to look at her, she was so beautiful. Malti would stare back with smiling, crinkled eyes.

Malti loved to go to the temple. The lane outside smelt of flowers and incense; the women were dressed in brilliant colors and the children laughed happily at her. The roads were not too crowded on Sunday, and it was a pleasant walk for Raju and Malti.

On weekdays, Raju would eat his breakfast late, at the tea stall. Malti would wait till he was ready. Then they would start walking on their regular rounds. Past the cattle sheds, crossing the busy highway, crossing the railway tracks to the more affluent western side of the suburb, Andheri where there were many small South Indian eateries, whose owners always had a little something to offer Raju and Malti. Malti hated to cross the highway, with its roaring trucks and cars that never seemed to stop.

Some days they met Indu and her keeper, Mahesh. It did not happen too often, but some times, they would be called together for a wedding party or a film shoot. Indu lived far away in Mira Road, and Malti was happy whenever they did meet. Indu and Malti could talk to each other all day with their eyes.

Indu was Malti’s daughter, born to her in the village many years ago. Malti and Indu had come to the city together, but had been separated when they came here because they worked different rounds. Malti had another daughter, Anu who lived further away in Kurla, and whom Malti had never seen again after they came to the city.

One day, Malti and Indu crossed each other near the crowded Andheri station. It was more than a year since they had seen each other. They were on opposite sides of the road, but oblivious to the traffic around them, they stopped in the middle of the road, and called out to each other.

The traffic policeman glared at Raju and Mahesh, who goaded both the females to move ahead. The cars piled up around them, the drivers honking furiously. But Malti and Indu did not hear the noises around them, or even feel the prod of Raju’s and Mahesh’s sticks, but just continued to stand still and look at each other.

Suddenly, a large red bus with an impatient, irate bus driver nudged Malti on her back and moved forward. Malti, shaken out of her stillness, was hurt by the weight of the bus and moved back a step. Across the road, Mahesh too nudged Indu again, and she reluctantly, but with a lingering glance at Malti, moved away. Raju skillfully guided Malti through the traffic, ignoring the abuse of the drivers around him, and with great patience brought her back home.

That night, Raju lay awake, hearing Malti moan for Indu. Her eyes were shut, probably she was asleep after her long walk, and the injury on her back must be hurting, but Raju thought perhaps she was dreaming of her daughter, Indu and the village to which she belonged.

Raju wondered if he should walk to Malti’s side of the ground and stroke her, but he lay where he was, listening to her soft crying. Again he thought of their silent walk back home, and felt a little proud that he had managed to bring her back without any further accidents, she had been so distressed that day.

After a few minutes, he picked up his thin mattress and sheet, and walked up to her. He stroked her gently and murmured softly into her ear. Malti moaned back.

Raju was a kind mahout. He had often told his owner, Jha-saab that Malti, Indu and Anu needed male mates, but Jha-saab had stopped bringing elephants to Mumbai.

It was too expensive to transport them, too expensive to keep them. The three females he had brought years ago were still paying their keep, but it was certainly not worth its while to invest more money in animals, what with the new rules and regulations. Anyway, where on earth would the elephants mate in Mumbai? There was no place big enough for that in the vicinity. Open grounds no longer existed, and they were lucky they still had place for the three elephants in the city.

Raju shrugged helplessly in the dark as he thought about Malti and her daughters, and their longing for their loved ones. Then he thought of his own wife back home in the village, and wondered if she too moaned for him like that in the dark. He laughed at himself and his fancies, as he remembered his silent Sarita going about her work at home and the fields, and sighing softly he turned to go to sleep.

When Malti woke up the next day, she was still a little sad. Every time she met Indu, she was sad afterwards for days, missing Anu, missing her village. But today, Raju fetched buckets of water, and gave her a bath, even though it was not Sunday. Malti sprayed water on him with her trunk, and tried to be cheerful for his sake. Raju, soaking wet, laughed, and threw yet another mug of water at Malti’s back. The little boy, Muttu came running towards them with a fresh bucket of water, and sprayed by Malti, he too laughed.

The one or the other

A friend sent me this sms today.

'6 am rush hour. Getting stuff ready for school. I get a call on my cell. A polite male voice wishes me 'salaam walekum, bhai jaan hai?' ... I stammer 'nahi, nahi'. My mind is blank, being yanked into a different world. I search earnestly, is it -- salaam walekum or walekum salaam? .. What was the right thing?... Only when the voice asks for bhaijaan again that I remember to say wrong number. He says sorry .. I go back to world but thoughts creep between my stupidity of salaam or walekum and my son's lunch boxes.  Could that be a terrorist? .. Strange how easy it is to make me suspicious,  even with all my intellectual upbringing which seems so skin deep.. How easy it is to break my faith on the other Indian who i've never learnt to wish ...'

It prompted me to write this.

That in turn, led me to dig up a short story 'Alias', published last year in 'Stories at the Coffee Table'.

Their very own room

I read this story at the Caferati meet yesterday. Half way through, I found my hands trembling violently, and my eyes losing focus. It's this fear of reading aloud to an audience that has kept me away for so long from the Caferati meets, despite the fact that I've found the forum a huge help in my writing. Any way, glad to say I conquered that fear yesterday. And had loads of fun. Here's the story - Their very own room.

That day, Shaku was very excited when she came to office. She hoped that Pamela would be on time today – she had such important news to give her. But she knew that Pamela was more likely to be late than early. As usual.

She looked for her in the queue outside the lift, but Pam was not there. She smiled absently at the others, and waited her turn to go up in the dusty, creaky lift, to her musty government office on the 5th floor.

She put her purse in her drawer, her tiffin under her desk, shuffled some papers in her inbox, and yet, Pamela was not there. The bell on her desk rang. Mr. Jadhav, her boss called her into his room, and then, there was no time to look for Pamela for another hour or so.

Pamela herself came up to her desk with a cup of coffee and opened a pack of biscuits at around 11. The rest of the vast office seemed deserted – everyone had gone for a break. Some were tea people, some were coffee people, but 11 o’clock meant stretching the legs a little, and gossiping for a while.

Shaku scolded Pamela for coming late.

“Hey, can’t you be early even one day? I wanted to tell you something.”

“So, tell me now.”

“Hmm. The fun of it is gone, no. I was bursting in the morning.”

“Oh ho, so burst now. Come on, what’s it?”

Shaku smiled radiantly. “We’ve got our very own room, now. Now we can get married. What?”

Pamela shrieked and clapped her hands, and hugged Shaku. “Wow, what news, men. Lucky girl.”

Shaku shook her head. “Not lucky, ha. You know how much we tried for this. Four years. Four years Tony and I are engaged, you know.”

Pamela nodded. “You have lots of patience. I would have got married by now.”

Shaku grimaced fastidiously. “No, re. I know, na, my brother and his wife. How they do all that. All of us in one room. Chchee! Like animals. I don’t like that. I told Tony I will never do like that.”

Pamela pinched her, mischievously, “Now you will do, na, in your own room? Or any more demands?”

Shaku blushed and smiled.

The marriage was lovely. Shaku wore white. Her bridesmaids wore lilac. Pamela was her maid of honor.

Pamela teased her before the reception, in the make-up room outside the hall, “Hey, virgin woman. Today last day, no. Where you going today, which hotel? No secrets, ha.”

Shaku said solemnly, “No, no, we are going home. Why should we go to hotel? Unnecessary cost. Our room is so nice.”

Pamela laughed, “Did you decorate it?”

Shaku smiled, “Yes, we put up little thermocol hearts, gold and silver, and white and lilac streamers. It looks beautiful.”

“And the bed?”

Shaku blushed, “Shut up, men. You have a one-track mind.”

Pamela snorted, “Oh ho, and what you have in mind for today, then, Mrs. Shakuntala Pereira? Choir practice, what?” They both laughed.

A big photo of Tony and Shaku glittering with tinsel was pasted at the entrance of the hall. “Lilac and white looks lovely, no?” Tony’s mother asked everyone who came in.

Tony and Shaku danced at the reception. The band played long after midnight. Tony’s embrace became hotter and hotter, and Shaku squirmed in his grasp, giggling. She was so happy, that she did not even cry when her mother embraced her, and bid her goodbye. Tony’s friends insisted on accompanying the couple to their room. Tony’s mother went along to keep decorum.

Tony carried Shaku into the house. All of them squeezed into the little room. Lewd jokes were whispered in deference to Tony’s mother being around. She passed remnants of the wedding cake around, and bustled in the kitchen, letting the young ones enjoy.

Suddenly, there was a crash. Tony’s mother had fallen. The young men rushed to her side, Tony lifted her gently and put her on the bed, decorated with lilac and white streamers. Tony’s best man called the doctor on his mobile.

Later, after everyone had left, Tony’s mother, drugged lay on one side of the marital bed. Shaku, stiff in her “bridal trousseau” nightdress, lay on the other. Tony lay near her, but on the floor. In the dark, they could hear his mother breathing. Tony pulled gently at Shaku’s toes, willing her to come and lie beside him. Shaku kicked his hand gently, and stubbornly did not move.

Tony’s mother stayed with them for a month. Shaku and Tony had not planned a honeymoon; they needed all the money they could save to pay back for their new house. They went back to work after 3 days. Shaku shook her head at Pamela’s questioning. Pamela shook her head solemnly.

Tony and Shaku met every evening at the bus stop, like they used to when they were courting. After a couple of days, Tony put his arm around her and kissed her, like he used to earlier. But Shaku pushed him away. “We are husband wife now, no. This looks so bad.” Tony and Shaku went home silently.

When she cooked in the tiny kitchen, Tony would hold her from behind, and kiss her neck. She responded warmly to him, but at the slightest noise from her mother-in-law, she would push Tony away.

Well, Tony’s mother recuperated. She wanted to go back home. She did not say much, but caressed Shaku’s cheek lovingly.

Tony dropped her off home, and then called Shaku at office. “Want to take leave, and come home? I’ll wait, or what?”

Shaku scolded him teasingly, “Very impatient, what? I can’t take half-day now. Unnecessary salary will get cut. You go to office, also. We’ll meet at bus stop. OK?” Tony agreed reluctantly.

At the bus stop, Tony said, “We’ll go home in taxi today. Come.” He dragged her, they sat down in a cab, laughing, exhilarated, finally to be going to their own room. They hurried upstairs.

Outside the door, they saw a suitcase. They looked at it suspiciously. At the end of the corridor, a silhouette smoked a cigarette. The person turned and came forward.

Tony yelled, “Oh, Dino. You. Where did you land up from?” Dino and Tony hugged. Shaku opened the door. Dino said, “I called up Aunty. She gave me your address. I just landed from Dubai, man.”

Dino’s luggage had got stuck in the customs at the airport. He had to get it out, before he pushed off home to Goa. Dino was Tony’s school friend. Of course, he would stay with them, while he sorted out his customs problems.

Shaku got busy cooking. Tony and Dino had a few drinks. Tony and Dino slept on the bed, Shaku slept on one side on the floor.

Dino stayed for a week. While leaving, he gave Shaku a gold bracelet, a wedding present. The bracelet was too large for Shaku, but she thanked him. Tony was going to leave Dino to the railway station. They gave Shaku a lift to the office. Tony told Shaku, “Take half-day today, no?” Dino laughed. Shaku glared at Tony.

Tony was not at the bus stop that evening. Shaku went home. Tony was lying on the bed. She snuggled up to him, thinking he was sulking. He was burning with fever. Tony got chickenpox. Shaku slept on the floor, Tony slept on the bed. During the day, his mother came to give him lunch, while Shaku went to office. Tony got well after 15 days.

Pamela asked Shaku everyday, “What? It happened, or no.” Shaku would get irritated at Pamela’s insistence on knowing. But she shook her head, not being able to lie. Pamela frowned with sympathy. Shaku tried to avoid her as much as she could. Pamela was hurt.

One day, Pamela came to office with a swollen eye. Her stepfather had beaten her again. He was a drunkard and beat Pamela’s mother regularly. Once in a while, Pamela got some of his blows, for being her mother’s daughter, or just for coming in his way.

During lunchtime, when Shaku asked her what had happened, Pamela sobbed and sobbed. She did not want to go back home. Shaku, outraged, asked her to come home with her. Pamela grabbed the opportunity eagerly. “Really, really, I can come? I’ll stay only for a few days, till I find a room of my own.” Shaku nodded.

Shaku and Pamela slept on the bed, while Tony slept on the floor. Tony and Pamela crossed each other awkwardly near the bathroom, or near the kitchen. Tony was withdrawn with Shaku. Shaku would try and hold his hand at the bus stop, but he would jerk it away. He did not even try very hard to get a seat next to her, in the bus, like he used to earlier. Pamela looked desperately for a room, but after a month of trying, she decided to go back home.

After office that evening, Shaku and Tony were alone at home. Both were silent, tired. Shaku slept on one side of the bed, Tony on the other, both turned away from each other.

The next day, Tony hugged Shaku as she made breakfast. She kissed him eagerly. She whispered, “Let’s take leave from office today.” He held her close. The doorbell rang. It was Tony’s mother. Her toilet had got blocked. The landlord would repair it after a week. She could not live there until then.

And so it went on. People walked in and out of Shaku’s very own room. Very often, other people besides Tony and Shaku slept on their very own bed. Tony and Shaku worked hard all day, all year, for many years to pay off the housing loan they had taken for their room.

Shaku learnt to kiss Tony in the kitchen when no one was looking. Tony made Shaku laugh again. Somehow, in a couple of years, Tony and Shaku even managed to have a baby, and then after a few more years, another one. The little room was painted several times, and every day, it became brighter and cleaner with Shaku and Tony’s care.

 Batul Mukhtiar, April 2008

Ashura

The British Council paid me 2000 rupees for this story, for the Faith issue of womenswriting.com. But never did find the link to the story while they had the rights to it. Now, that the rights have come back to me, here it is, a story for today, Ashura.

Today is Ashura. The 10th day of Muharram. Today we are all fasting, Maaji my grandmother, Mummy, Daddy, me, my younger sister, Farida and even my toddler brother, Ali. Today’s fast is different from the fasting during Ramzan, because we did not wake up in the night to have breakfast before sunrise.

I am already hungry, and so are Farida and Ali, and it is not even 10 am. We must stay without food and water until sunset. But Mummy has packed a small tiffin and a water bottle for Ali, if he starts to create too much of a fuss in the mosque. I know she also has some toffees for us, in her purse, which she promises to give us after magrib, if we are good.

We leave for the mosque with Maaji and Mummy, before noon. We have missed school today. Daddy too has missed work. All the shops in the mohallah are closed. Today is a big day for all of us, Maaji says.

Maaji gave me a fright last week. She said I would have to miss prize-giving day at school, because it was Ashura day. I burst out crying. Mummy told me that it was not our Ashura day, but the Ashura day of the Shia Muslims in the Imambara. We are Bohris, and we have a different calendar from them. She scowled at Maaji, who was laughing. Maaji likes to make me cry now and then.

At the mosque I saw Rajesh Khanna Uncle and Jeetendra Uncle. They are our downstairs neighbors in Bootwala Chawl, where we stay with Maaji, in a tiny handkerchief sized home. Their names are not really Rajesh Khanna Uncle and Jeetendra Uncle, but everyone in the mohallah calls them that because they are as dashing and well dressed as film stars. Today, they are not smiling as usual, but look grim and solemn, like everyone else. They are also not wearing their colorful bell-bottoms and printed shirts but white kurta pyjamas and gilt-edged caps. They look very different, not at all like the Uncles who pinch my cheeks and make me laugh.

Mummy keeps us close to her, and pushes her way through the crowd to her usual place in the mosque. Tara Maasi and Zainab Maasi are sitting beside her, as always, but their smiles are puffed up with tears. Mummy reminds us that we are not to move from her side. Usually, we play with our friends around the prayer-mats spread by our mothers. But today, we all sit quietly, as if we were at school.

The women too, are not gossiping as they do, or even bickering about their bit of space for their prayer-mats. They are listening to the Imamsaheb reciting the Wayaz, the story of the 10th day of Muharram. He is telling a story full of brave warriors, honor, courage and justice. But he keeps interrupting his story to cry, or to explain a moral. His voice cracks over the mike. The men fill the pauses with marsiyas, which are mournful songs, and the tears roll down everyone’s cheeks. The other children are crying, their faces swollen with hunger, thirst and the fright of seeing their parents cry. I squeeze my face tight, trying to get the tears to roll. But they won’t. Looking at my face today, no one will believe that my cousins call me “cry-baby.”

Ali has gone to sleep, his head in Mummy’s lap, his finger in his mouth. Farida is sucking the edge of her duppatta. I wonder if that is allowed during a fast, because the edge of a duppatta is quite tasty when sucked. Mummy is looking at something that I cannot see, the tears falling on her face, like rain outside a window, silently, her hand beating against her chest rhythmically. So, I put my duppatta into my mouth. I don’t feel hungry for some time.

Kulsum Maasi, my Arabic teacher, is leading the women to sing marsiyas. The voices rise higher and higher, some women swirl round and round until they fall to the floor in a heap. I feel giddy. The faces of all the grown-ups around me seem strange and different; though they are people I see everyday. We start crowding towards the railing, to see the men downstairs doing maatam.

Some men beat themselves with chains, until others pull the chains out of their hands, and push them out of the circle. The air is thick with the smell of rose water and blood. The noise of crying, mourning and chest-beating fills the huge dome of the mosque. I look anxiously for Daddy, hoping that he is not going to beat himself with the chains. He is just outside the centre, crying, beating his chest with his hands, but I feel relieved that he shows no signs of taking up the chains. I am glad when the crying subsides. Mummy’s face glows after she has cried so much, her swollen eyes look very pretty.

We sit down for the community meal. Mummy says we can talk to our friends now if we wish, but we are tired. It is only when we dip into the khichda, delicious broken wheat and meat, flavored with lime and mint, and hot ghee that we smile. Farida and I have both managed to keep the fast until the end, and we are proud. And hungry.

The next day, is prize-giving day at school. Today is the Ashura of the Muslims who live in the Imambara. Mummy says we must come back from school as soon as possible, before the crowds jam the streets. They have huge processions, with big green, white and gold flags, which are called taziyas that they take out while the men do maatam on the streets. They also have a make-believe horse, decked up in green, white and gold, which I normally love to watch. But today, I want to stay in school for as long as we can. I know that this year too, I will win many prizes, and I’d like to stay back and show them to my friends.

I go to a convent school, and our scholarship prizes are lovely, glossy children’s books, which come from England, especially for us. I love these books, even though I do not know what glens, vales or rolling fields are, no one I know has a dog, and I’ve never eaten a cucumber sandwich. But my friends and I often pretend to be detectives like the children in the books, and we also have our own secret gang.

Maaji hates it when I read these books. She thinks I should be reading the Koran instead, or learning the namaz, but I never do the homework that Kulsum Maasi gives me. Maaji often threatens to send me to the madrasa, and that’s the only threat that makes me put in a bit of work for Kulsum Maasi. I wish she would explain what all the prayers are about. If I knew what the Arabic meant, I may like to pray, because I often talk to God in English.

Despite Mummy’s hurry, we come back from prize-giving day late. The taziya procession has already begun. We climb up the steps of the soda shop. I can see Maaji, with Farida and Ali in her lap, at our window across the street, and also Tara Maasi and Zainab Maasi and all the neighbors, at their windows. But it will be hours before we can cross the street to go home. I look at my books a little, but Mummy raps me on the back. Suddenly the lights go off in the mohallah, and I cannot see the books anymore. The noise of the mourners sounds louder in the dark. I put the books to my nose, and smell their newness.

When we reach home, I don’t even change out of my school uniform. I snuggle into my favorite corner, behind the cupboard, and start reading by candlelight. My grandmother tears her eyes away from the Imambara to scold me. “One day, you will go mad, reading all these books.” Farida giggles. I ignore Maaji and keep reading. She does not like me, and I do not like her.

I know that our Ashura is over yesterday. Today, Rajesh Khanna Uncle and Jeetendra Uncle were wearing their bell-bottoms again, and even smoking near the bus stop, when I went to school. And Daddy has gone back to work. Maaji too tuned her radio today morning after ten days of silence. So I can surely read my new books.

The children in my books have a smiling grandmother, with twinkling blue eyes, who makes buttered scones for tea. My grandmother is fat and dark, and wears old, musty clothes, and she has a sour smell about her. I slip away into the English countryside, far away from Maaji and her Imambara.

Stories at the Coffee Table

Edited by Peter Griffin, Manisha Lakhe and Annie Zaidi
With a foreword by Nilanjana S Roy
Design and cover photograph by Hemant Suthar
A Caferati Publication

A wonderful effort, and I'm so proud to have one of my stories published here.

Your room - a short story

And then there was your room. The building was like any of the ghastly buildings that children draw at school, a rectangle with square holes. But no child could have colored the building the way it was, a dirty creamy yellow with streaks and streaks of grey. It was a building amongst many such buildings on a narrow road, a government subsidized block. The buildings had no names, only numbers, and the rooms had numbers like A-2/27/101. The postman who did the rounds there, was certainly increasing his brainpower with all the number crunching he did.


All kinds of people lived in those buildings. Clerks who took the local train from Goregaon to Churchgate everyday, because they worked at the Mantralay, and came back home with chickoos, bought near the bus-stop outside the station, dangling in thin polythene bags. Lawyers who loitered outside Bandra Court, in their faded black coats, smelling of sweat, peering into every rickshaw that stopped, for potential customers worth 100-200 rupees. Salesmen who left every morning, looking important, having pumped themselves up with self-confidence, and came back every evening morose and depressed, calculating for the umpteenth number of time, how much commission they had made that day, and knowing it was not quite enough. And struggling actors, who woke up after the last pressure cooker whistle of the morning had blown in the block, and sauntered to the dairy in their crumpled pajamas for a quarter liter of milk, and meeting one of their kind, stopped to have tea and samosas, before they went back to their rooms to finish their morning ablutions and step out, all bright and energetic and certain they were handsome and talented and going to be successful one day. And there was you.


I had to duck underneath three very low stairwells to reach your building at the end of the block, on the corner of the road, after which there were better buildings and more trees. Your neighbor, a sharp-eyed woman, always on the landing, cleaning rice or wheat, or sweeping out her room’s dust towards the stairs, looked at me with sharp eyes, as I rung the bell. You’d open the door, give her a cursory nod of acknowledgement, and I’d be inside your room.


Your room was quiet, and the lime-green curtains were always drawn, so that you never noticed the peeling paint, and it was cool after the heat of the afternoon in the rickshaw. You had a lamp with a faux leather shade, which was quite swanky, and a couple of easy chairs, which smelt of you. Your bed was narrow, and you had changed the sheet because I was coming, and it was clean and faded, and very soft against our skins. Your landlady had left a withered rose shrub in the ledge outside your window, when she gave the room to you. It had become quite plump and glossy under your care. Once, you had shredded several tight, white buds on the sheet when I came, and I could have laughed, but when the petals were crushed by our warm skins, it was divine, and brought tears to my eyes.


Once my husband came with me to the room. I had called you, with cold desperation, and you were prepared. It was nothing, we were house hunting, but his voice filled up the room, and he opened the bathroom and peered inside, and jumped around from one corner of the small room, to another, while you and me sat quietly, looking at him. The room was filled with little gifts from me, a book, a bottle of shampoo, a small rug, and once or twice, he tossed his head, because his mind was asking him to look at something, that would tell him something, but he tossed his head, and filled up his mind with his voice. I did not look at you too much, in case he saw what he was trying hard not to, but I need not have been afraid.


You were quite calm, and shut the door behind you, walking up to the gate with us. My husband ducked the stairwells as easily as I did, but you had to bend quite a bit, and it was just one of those things that life hits you with in the stomach. Because I did not want to go with my husband then, I wanted to say bye to him, and come back to the room with you. Instead, I sat down meekly behind him on the Kinetic Honda, and listened to his voice going on and on, as he would not say a quick bye to you, and you, too kept encouraging him to talk on. Once, you even touched me, and I trembled, but you pretended it was inadvertent, and I put an arm around my husband’s waist, and we drove off, and I did not even look at you, standing at the gate, looking at us go.


The next time I came to your room, I was afraid it would still be filled up with his voice, but it wasn’t, and there was only us. My husband and I did not find a room in your block, because we were Muslims, and for once, I was not angry with that, but relieved. I did not want to live too close to you, because there were many things about my life and my husband I did not want you to know, and because there were many things in yours which I could not bear to see. Your friends coming and going, and cooking in your house, and all of you watching the football match together, for instance, because I could never be a part of that, and I’d always feel why couldn’t I be? And maybe your other women, because there were, or may have been, I knew, but never asked.


But then, even distance did not remain a guarantee against my wanting to be closer to you. Once, we talked of a woman we both liked, and you asked me whether we should invite her one afternoon. I said yes, but I meant no, because I was jealous, and then, I knew, it would not work. Then, even when you were on top of me, I did not look at you, and even when I was on top of you, I shut my eyes. Instead, we came and came, and the tears just streamed down my cheeks. I did not open my eyes, because I knew that what you saw there would make your eyes cold and frightened, and that would hurt too much. It would wipe out all the afternoons we had spent in your room, and I’d be left with nothing. Better to take those afternoons with me, and so I walked away, as quietly as I had come.


For a few days you called, and once you even tried to talk to me on the phone the secret things we used to say to each other, but I pretended there were other people around me, and I was busy, and you knew or thought you knew that I had moved on. Then, I was desperate for your body, and called you once, but this time, you sounded distant, and I thought I heard a woman’s voice in the back. Maybe, the same woman, we had wanted to invite one day to your room, on one of our afternoons together. Twice or thrice, I walked down that narrow road, crammed with buildings, thinking maybe I’d see you, maybe I’d see you with the woman, and then, at least I’d know. I needed to know. But I only saw the sharp-eyed woman, your neighbor, who gave me a reluctant puckered-up smile. And for days, I tore up that smile into many pieces and put it together again and again, wondering what knowledge it held. And I did not dare to walk down that road again.


It is strange now that I don’t see you so much any more, but I still see your room, quiet, the whitewash peeling, the faux leather lampshade, the two easy chairs, and your narrow bed. Sometimes, when my husband is on top of me with his drunken breath, and making all those noises that he must, I shut my eyes and your room, B-2/38/301, is one of the places I go to, for a little quiet.

© Batul Mukhtiar

Of Goddesses and reluctant super-moms

Just one of those days, hot, sticky. My hair constantly flies into my face, irritating me. My old, broken-sequinned shirt pokes me uncomfortably. We’ve waited all day for Aiman’s new cycle to be exchanged. The one that was delivered yesterday had loads of scratches, unacceptable to her. The shop guy was nice about it, but then didn’t send anyone all day with the new bike. Aiman kept annoying me with her repeated sulks about it not coming. Five calls later, in the early evening, only after throwing a tantrum on the phone, I managed to get it delivered to her and get her off my back.

Her old cycle too is being repaired. The cyclewallah has taken his dues before completing the job, and now we must make several trips to him before he deigns to set it right. Why, oh why?

Vivek’s been packing to leave today for a shoot in Garhwal. As usual, I must close cupboard doors after him, pick up discarded bags, nag him about toothbrush and undies. Sometimes, I long to jump off a window – if only I could fly. Make no mistake, I’m no believer in a wife’s only duty being to take care of house and family, or even it being only her duty to take care. But even so, one does land up with more than one’s fair share.

Just one of those days. Meanwhile, read my short story, 'Of Goddesses and reluctant super-moms'

Isn’t it strange that in a land full of goddesses, I don’t know many? Oh, I know of some. Though I haven’t really met them, I would recognize them in a crowd. Though goddesses are not usually to be found wandering in a crowd.

Kali maybe, or Durga as her name may be. With her wild eyes, and wild hair, and her wild tongue, she could be found wandering in a crowd, flaunting her sword. Though I say, what business does she have waving a sword about? Very unwomanly, I would say. A woman’s place is at home, in the kitchen mostly. And then when there is some free time, when the children are at school, and the in-laws fed, and the husband away for hours as yet, then perhaps a little TV does no harm. But to go about like that with open hair! But these days, even ordinary girls do that, that is go around with open hair and wild eyes and loose tongues, though I’ve never seen any with swords. So who’s to stop a goddess?

Lakshmi too walks in and out as she pleases, but then she’s powerful, and routine traffic has to be held back for her, though she comes without a convoy. Special arrangements have to be made, and one has to be most obsequious and welcoming, because she is haughty and quite finicky, as very rich people can be. And there have been so many instances when she has come to the door and then turned away, because she does not like the color of the walls or something. Like Jennifer Lopez, who sulks and shuffles back into her hotel room if she does not like the color of the limo that has come to pick her up. JLo is a goddess; that is what people say. She looks like one, with her curves, which are essential for any Indian goddess.

But my daughter says, I must not believe everything I read in the magazines. She says, did I see JLo going back home because she didn’t like the color of her limo. I say no, but then we haven’t actually seen Lakshmi turning back either because she did not like the rangoli sketched at the door. The attempts were amateurish to say the least, and must have affected her aesthetic sensibility. For all her wealth, she’s also got pretensions to art and culture because she’s a cousin of Saraswati.

Though Saraswati and Lakshmi never go to the same place. They’ve been at a cold war for ages, some family feud going on for generations, maybe about lotuses, because Lakshmi’s one is pink and Saraswati has a white one, maybe about their birds, because Lakshmi has an owl and Saraswati has a swan, and I’m sure Lakshmi must have fought tooth and nail for the swan, and some well-meaning aunt said, Saraswati is always so gentle, let her have her own way for once. And so now, though they smile politely if they do meet, they make sure to ask their hosts and hostesses beforehand if the other is coming to the party. It’s very awkward I must say. But then rich people can behave, as they want, as can goddesses. And people like us must just be polite.

I’ve seen that on television, the way the rich daughters-in-law dressed in expensive georgette saris and diamond jewellery, and made up even when they are sleeping, behave, an ordinary woman like me would be kicked out of the house on the first day, or burnt to death by her in-laws. But it’s good for the young ones, because at least they will learn something, and not be pushed around. I often tell my daughter to watch the daily soaps with me, but she looks at me as if I was mad. She likes to look at me like that, just because she goes to college. She doesn’t know how I have brought her up, what all I have done for her. But then, there is no gratitude for the wife and mother. It’s not as if she was a goddess like Kali, or Lakshmi or Saraswati.

Though Saraswati too does get a raw deal most times. No one really worships her, except a few eccentric artistes. I guess men like their women to be powerful and successful, not their wives of course, but other women. Saraswati is mild and pink; at least in her pictures, and the lotus she sits on looks as if it were a rock. Why would she jump on to a lotus, if she wanted to stand frozen in perpetuity? No, I think she jumped on to a lotus, so she could float away. The lotus must have expected to be toppled when it saw her leap. But then it did not know that goddesses have no weight. Not like us, always fighting cellulite. Especially after babies.

I was so thin when I was young. But after my daughter’s birth, I have a girth. And that’s why it hurts so much, when my daughter looks at me with barely concealed disgust and says, Mom, why don’t you exercise? And I say, it’s easy for you to say. Where is the time? And just wait till you have babies of your own. And she turns away irritated.

But Saraswati is weightless, and happy to lie around in the lotus, strumming her veena, for her swan. Though it must be very boring to be on a river all day, and see only trees and flowers all around. I don’t know why all this nature stuff is exciting for people. When we went to a forest last year with the children for a holiday, I was so bored. There was no television. My husband said, come on, learn to enjoy yourself. Enjoy what, dark, green trees, mosquitoes? I didn’t say anything. I was glad to be home, though I’d missed so many episodes of all my daily soaps. TV is also educating. And enjoyment. I like the movies too, but I like TV best, because I don’t need to tag along with my husband and kids then.

Though when they come back home, they take over the remote control as if I have no rights in this house. There are moments then, when I feel like taking my tongue out like Kali and waving a kitchen knife about, if not a sword. Oh if I had been rich, I could have made some demands, and put up a petition of rights on the kitchen post-it board, like Lakshmi. Or that I had been carefree like Saraswati and could jump onto a lotus any time I wanted. But all that’s for goddesses. Not for me, who only knows of goddesses. But doesn’t know any.

© Batul Mukhtiar

Coffee and me

Shared an instant coffee with Dhanno yesterday evening at 9 pm. Am still wide-awake at 11 am next morning, in a "wish I could go to sleep" way. That's me. Get a caffeine shot with 2 sips, and get drunk when I shampoo my hair with beer.

Meanwhile, a new short story, 'A Perfect Circle'.

Nupur stepped off the sidewalk with a slight leap that took her springing across the road, careless about the traffic, unusual for her. She wondered if Aman could see her from his window, and a small smile hovered on her face. She stood on tiptoes on the road divider, and she felt ridiculously young. She used to love walking on a road divider, pretending to be performing an incredible balancing act. She cringed now at what a show-off she had been. But when you are young and pretty, even the embarrassing things you do, are cute.

The non-existent traffic on this quiet side-lane did not warrant her standing on the divider for long, and she crossed the road with a bouncy walk that she had long forgone. These days, her gait was that of a graceful elephant, according to her husband Prateek. But if Aman were watching her right now, he would think her as agile as he had known her.

She entered the 5-star hotel foyer with a familiar but long-forgotten sense of doing something forbidden. How enjoyable that feeling was! So sweet, and exciting. Only Aman and she had never met in a 5-star hotel before. The receptionist called Aman’s room, and asked Nupur to wait for a few minutes. Aman would come down to the lobby as soon as he finished his meeting with a prospective employee. Nupur sat down, relieved to have these few moments to calm her before Aman came.

Aman had called her this morning; he had wanted her to come over as soon as she could. He thought she could hang around while he conducted the interviews he was down in India for. But Nupur did not want to sacrifice a day of her holiday to her Maa’s house in Bangalore, and hang around Aman the whole day.

Besides, what would she tell Maa? Her mother knew all her friends in Bangalore, and in fact, she had finished meeting all of them in the last few days. If her mother knew she was meeting Aman, she would be very worried, even if Nupur pretended to be cool about it. Even if Nupur told Maa that she had spoken to Prateek about it. In fact, that would worry Maa more.

Finally, she told Maa that she was going to Trupti’s house for her son’s birthday. That had allowed her to doll up a little without Maa wondering what she was up to. Nupur thought she should call Trupti and tell her about the lie, but it seemed too juvenile. She’d just leave it, and if Maa found out her lie, she’d explain. In all these years, that’s one thing Nupur had learned. It was easiest to get away with a lie, if one didn’t set it up too elaborately.

She had spoken to Prateek before she came to Bangalore about this meeting with Aman. Prateek had not paid much attention to her nervousness. She felt a little irritated that he was not more jealous, but then, at a traffic signal, he suddenly said – “You must wear that blue saree of yours. You look lovely in it. You must dazzle that Aman. Let him know what he’s missed.” She looked at her husband with disbelief. He was laughing, and he punched her affectionately on her shoulder, she began laughing too, comforted as always by his good humor. It was moments like this that she felt incredibly lucky to have met Prateek and married him.

Remembering Prateek now, she felt herself again, a happily married woman, who had no reason to feel these butterflies in her stomach, because she was meeting an old boyfriend. Aman had been her first love, but it was she who had broken up with him. Right now, she could not quite remember why. Even back then, her decision had confused her friends and family, and Aman himself. Everyone thought they were the perfect couple. Aman, handsome, laughing; with all the signs of becoming a successful man, a sports champion. Nupur, pretty, shy, but very clever. But Nupur had been bored by Aman, a little, and that had frightened her. Perhaps she was too young for the relationship, who knows?

Today, she had not worn the blue saree Prateek loved her in. She remembered that Aman liked yellow, and she had worn a yellow shirt and her blue jeans. Aman had mailed her his family photograph, and his wife had been wearing a dark purple saree. Nupur did not want to wear a saree like Aman’s wife. Today, Nupur did not want to be the 38-year-old woman she was, but the 16-year-old girl she had been. She wondered what the receptionist must think of her, sitting here, waiting for a man. Did she look the sort of person who usually did that? Nupur laughed to herself, and wondered if she should call Aman again, and tell him she would leave if he kept her waiting any more.

Even when they were in college, Aman kept her waiting for hours on end. Sometimes, they would have arranged to meet at the corner of a road, and Nupur would circle around endlessly on her moped, until she caught sight of him. She would be upset, he would be laughing. And even today, she was waiting. It only increased her anxiety. What would Aman think the first moment he saw her? “Oh thank God, I did not marry her. She is not pretty anymore.” Nupur wished now she had worn the saree. She looked plumper in the jeans. And perhaps he would not like her in this boyish outfit. Why did she have to be so perverse?

When Aman did walk towards her, she felt dazzled by her own emotions. She forgot the jauntiness of her steps a few minutes earlier, and rolled up to him, clumsy and awkward as usual. He was laughing with all his brilliance, and he engulfed her in a hug. She wondered frantically whether she smelled all sweaty. Aman looked down at her from his imposing height and said – “Hey, do you want to go out? Or shall we just sit in my room? It will be cooler there.”

Nupur nodded quietly. It did not even occur to her that she should suggest they sit in the coffee shop. She followed Aman to the lift. She thought the receptionist’s eyes were boring into her. Aman looked at her up and down in the lift and said – “Hmm, you’ve put on a little weight. But so have we all. What?” He looked at his own little paunch and laughed again. For the first time, Nupur noticed that yes, Aman too had put on weight, and he too had strands of grey in his hair, and his hair too had thinned, and he too had signs of a double chin. She sighed deeply; she didn’t feel so bad anymore.

Aman’s room was quite swanky. The TV was on, some music channel. “I love the remixes. I watch this channel all the time when I’m here. I don’t get it back home.” He went and switched off the message tone on his laptop. “Otherwise people will keep beeping me.” Nupur looked around, and tried to remember the days they had spent together, in small inexpensive coffee shops, or better still, on open pasture lands just outside the small town where they grew up. Their moments of intimacy had depended on finding either one of their parents out for a couple of hours. They had been luckier than their friends. Their parents knew they were dating, and they did not have to sneak around too much. But even then, being alone in a room was taboo. And here today, they were alone in this hotel room; expensive room, air-conditioned luxurious room, and they were sitting across a small coffe-table chatting about this and that. Nupur glanced at the big, soft bed behind Aman and then smiled inwardly at her own helter-skelter thoughts.

Mainly, Aman was talking, about his family, his parents, his wife, his children, his work, his success. Nupur listened, and put in another question whenever he seemed to stop talking. Somehow, she was reluctant to talk about Prateek. Reluctant to talk about the last 18 years she had spent growing away from Aman. She hoped he would not come out with the anguished cry he had sent out to her for months after she had broken up with him. “But why did you do this?” She had an aversion to answer him then, and she had no answers even now. Perhaps all her nervousness today, was her desire to avoid this question.

But Aman was too demanding a personality to leave well alone. The next time, she asked him an inane question, he did not answer. He only looked at her, and said, “Why?” She shrugged. This time there was no anguish in his voice, and she wished she could have given him a more honest answer. But she could not tell him that he bored her a little.

Aman said, “You know I never forgot you all these years. I still love you, somewhere deep within my heart.” She looked at him confused. “But you never tried to get in touch with me all these years.” He shrugged. “I figured that you did not want me to. I loved you enough to set you free.” He laughed, “You know, all that romantic idealism.” Nupur said, “You never came across as a romantic. I thought it didn’t matter too much to you.” “But there was never anyone else.” “But you didn’t say it”. “But I didn’t need to.” Both of them laughed sadly.

He hugged her again when they left the room. In the lobby, he booked a taxi to take her home. At the last minute, he jumped in. She held his hand in the taxi, and said, “Maybe we were too young.” “Hmm.” Later, she watched the taxi leave. She wanted to cry, to stop him, surely there was something more, so many things that they had not said or done.

At night, she called Prateek. “Prateek, do you know something funny happened. He said he loved me still.” “Oh probably, he just wants to sleep with you.” Nupur wanted to hit Prateek, “How can you be so mean? You are not romantic at all.” Prateek grunted. “Yeah maybe. All I know is you are my wife. He has his own. That’s the love I believe in.” Nupur put the phone down, huddled up in bed alone. She thought as she always did, “Love, what was love after all?” All these years, and she still couldn’t figure it out, quite.

© Batul Mukhtiar

Truly Grossssss

My nostrils quiver all the time with the dust from the quarries. Snot congeals every few minutes, and has to be dug out like the stone for buildings. Except that there is no demand for my snot.

The yellow fungus inside the toilet bowl is growing quite well. I'm pleased. I feel it likes me. I walk out of the bathroom and fall while taking a 90 degree turn. The big thud brings no one running. When I come to, there are only aching bones, and no kind soul around. I realize the yellow fungus cannot be much of a friend.

I shuffle to the computer, and hit my home page "Creepies and Crawlies Unite". We of the CCU believe that men and women are not meant to walk. I post my experience of the morning, riling against walking in general, and 90 degree turns in particular.

I immediately get 23 hits from my chat-mates. Carbohydrate levels are high this morning.

The Ride back home

Imran said we could go to Tungareshwar. It was only around 40 kms away from Borivali. I looked at him skeptically. I had been living in Goregaon and then Kandivali for the last five years, and had never heard of the place. By then, I was taking everything Imran said with a lashing of salt. But I did not want to pass on my reservations to Grace, the British producer. Particularly, since my doubts were purely instinctive. Imran had given no real cause for complaint.

I had met him about a month ago, while researching for a program on bikers for BBC3. He had a small automobile garage in Byculla. But a big reputation in the bikers’ circle as a daring rider. As usual, I wangled a ride across town on a Sunday morning from my husband. He grumbled a little that I treated him more as a chauffeur than a spouse, but the promise of a noisy beer-soaked afternoon in Café Mondegar quelled his noises.

The first time I met him, Imran came across as a well-dressed, well-behaved hard-working Muslim young man. Likeable, but not exciting television material really. But he knew everyone in the bikers’ circle, from the Indian Iranian college drop-outs on Grant Road to the super-rich kids and their imported Japanese bikes on Carter Road, to the professional racers. And the aging ones, who still raced on mud-tracks for fun. He modestly counted himself amongst the aging ones, someone who had left his wild days behind him. I was willing to go along with that. He was more useful to me if he was responsible and not reckless. I made an arrangement to meet up with him the next day, when he would take me around town, introducing me to potential “stories”. He also chivalrously promised to come to Bandra, so that I had to travel only half the way from home.

The next day, as I hopped off the rickshaw near the petrol pump, I was a bit disappointed to see that he had come in a Maruti van. I had braced myself for a motorbike ride across the town, but then perhaps it was better this way. It would be easier to talk to Imran, and take down notes, I thought. But as it happened, there was no talk and no notes. It turns out that I had been a little hasty in judging Imran. He was not well-behaved at all behind the wheel, and he had not left his wild days behind him.

Soon, we were hurtling down Turner Road, and before I could even gasp with shock, we were turning into Carter Road, where Imran seemed to get possessed by the old devil he had been. The van screeched, screamed, skidded, leaped, jumped, and the short distance down the road, was to me, a burning moment in Hell. I wondered what I had done to deserve this.

When we stopped at his “aunty’s” place to meet up with a couple of his old friends, and patch together the Carter Road scene, I was not even listening to their biker gossip, or bothered about taking names and telephone numbers. My mind was fearfully on the next drive with Imran. I no longer wanted to do the town with him, and wished I had brought my own production car with my trusted driver, Shaikh. I had often reprimanded Shaikh for driving his Sumo as if he were driving an army tank, regardless of anything in his way. But now I thought of Shaikh with regard. I also made a quick call to his cell, hoping that he would be free and would come and rescue me. But unfortunately, he was in Igatpuri with a magician client of his, who went there regularly to meet his guru.

After our meeting with Aunty D’Souza and her two handsome boys, Karl and Vicky, who predictably wanted to be models, I stood outside the van, sternly telling Imran that I refused to go with him if he was going to drive so recklessly. He laughed and said, “Come on, trust me.” At that moment, I did not even care to be polite, nor for the fact that my rudeness may jeopardize my research. I said I did not trust him, and I did not want to risk my life, on some mad-hatter ride. He took the wheel, and sighed that girls usually loved riding with him. I raised my eyebrows at that, and became all cold hauteur. “Well, I don’t.” Perhaps my marital status, perhaps the fact that he too wanted to be a part of this program, forced him into good behavior.

But over the next few days, he took every chance to rib me, sometimes teasing me for the old-fashioned cell that I carried around, sometimes trying to see if he could get away with a friendly touch here and there. I took him like I did most flirtatious men, with a schoolteacher’s prim and proper attitude. Especially since I knew that he was not even attracted to me. Flirting to him, was just part of his own self-image of a hot-blooded male. He regularly got calls from some girl or the other while we were shooting, and would walk away to coo some meaningless nonsense for a while, and come back with a smug look on his face.

Today, he was telling Grace that his group of friends could go cross-country racing at Tungareshwar. I looked it up on the Internet later at night, and told Grace that it would work for the sequence she wanted outside Mumbai. We arranged to meet Imran and his friends at Kandivali, on the highway.

They were a motley bunch of people, mostly in their 30s, but also an older man pushing 55, Mr. Irani with his youngest son, Sohrab who was 12. Imran asked me if I would like to ride on his bike to Tungareshwar. I said “No, thank you” and stayed safely put in the production car.

On the highway, the bikers weaved in and out of the traffic. Imran was showing off, but so were the others. By then, we had filmed enough bikers to know that they all did that. They loved to speed, but they also liked someone watching. All of them had Enfields. Black, simple, powerful. They also had a Jeep following them laden with big vessels full of chicken biryani and tandoori chicken. Imran said there was no food available at Tungareshwar.

We stopped on the highway, just before turning on the road to Tungareshwar. All the bikers, and our drivers tucked into samosas, jalebis, and sugary tea. Grace and David, the cameraman busied themselves with taking shots. Imran too surprisingly stayed away from the snacks, and made a face when I decided to have some tea there. “It’s not too clean”, he said. I ignored him.

Then, began the unbelievable ride to Tungareshwar. Our first stop was the temple, where we left behind the jeep and the food. Imran also advised us to drop some of the luggage from our car if we possibly could. But David and Grace refused to forsake any of the shooting equipment from their car. The bikers began to whirr and whoom seriously, and in the tranquil quietness their noise was magnified a hundred fold.

The track from then on was “kaccha”. Just mud, and a lot of it flying as the bikers raced and turned and twisted. Grace and David got busy. There was only so little that I could do now to be useful. I had found David an assistant to carry his tripod, and fetch his batteries, etc, so there was nothing for me to do but hang around. I wandered off a little, astonished that so much beauty laid virtually at my doorstep. The cliffs, and the valley below were a different world, from the highway we had left behind. A couple of years later, I was to read about panthers being found in Tungareshwar, and could imagine why they would seek the sanctuary of those green mountains, away from the confusion of the Borivali National Park.

A few hours later, Imran got the boys to spread our lunch in a small shack near the temple. It was a bit odd eating chicken outside the temple, but the people running the tea-stall did not seem to mind, as long as we promised to take the bones back home with us. Imran was at his best bossing everyone around, seeing all of us ate well. He did not eat, even then, high on the excitement of biking and being filmed.

Grace and David too ate very little, impatient to get back to filming. I finally agreed to go with Mr. Irani and Sohrab on their bike to the top of the cliff. Imran looked a bit miffed at this treason, but Grace called him just then for a shot, and he went off obediently.

A little while later, we could hear the other bikers roaring towards us. Mr. Irani laughed and raced off towards them. I had hopped off, preferring to meander at my own pace. The cell phone was off, without any signals, and it was good to be away from Grace and David. We had been shooting for the last week, and I was a bit weary of their demands, legitimate though they were. But then, that was my job.

I went back to the production car that had appeared around the corner, and began chatting with Shaikh. It turned out that he had come here before. Of course, tourist drivers get to see a lot of the world around them. He began to tell me there were some interesting caves there, which I should come and see some time. Just then, we saw David furiously racing towards us on a bike. The bike’s owner sat behind rather helplessly. David barked at Shaikh to give him the car keys, and before we knew what was happening, David had driven off with the car. The biker, Manas who had brought David here, told us that the equipment car had broken down with the load of the equipment. Shaikh had told David to distribute the equipment between the two cars, but David was more comfortable having all his equipment with him all the time.

By the time, we reached where the others were supposed to be, they had already gone off somewhere else. Imran had told them about a small village near Tungareshwar. It had a pond, where they could bike in wet mud, and where they could also “do” the sunset. Manas, not wanting to miss any of the shoot, hurried off, to find them. The broken down car was left in the middle of nowhere. Its driver had taken Shaikh’s car, fortunately, because David, impatient and angry was not in the right frame of mind, to drive down the hill.

Shaikh and I looked at each other, and at the abandoned car. There was some equipment in the car, and Shaikh and I both agreed that we must take the car at least up to the highway. A couple of pilgrims helped to push the vehicle to the edge of the slope. From there, we descended for half-an-hour in neutral, without brakes. Down a hilly road, with it’s fair share of twists and turns. No wonder that Shaikh and I became firm friends since then. He proved that he was a good driver. Like most people in desperate situations, I was calm and resigned. What was the option?

When we reached the highway, we felt we had come home. To the city, where everything was manageable, everything was possible. I forgot the green hills and their tranquility. Shaikh called his boss, who arranged to come with a towing van to pick up the car and us. We waited patiently, drinking some foul tea. And going over and over the bizarre incident.

I was angry and shocked that David and Grace had left us and the car, in the middle of nowhere, in their hurry to complete their shoot. Without any communication. I knew they would not even remember us until the sun had gone down and the shoot had been wrapped up. Just then, Imran called. He said Manas had just found them, and told them of the incident. Imran wanted to know whether we were safe. I forgot all his annoying ways, touched by his genuine concern.

As the towing vehicle came in sight, so did Imran on his bike. He had raced away, as soon as the shoot got over. He had also told David what he thought of him, for his irresponsible and arrogant behavior.

Shaikh settled down at the back of the tow truck. I looked at the truck, wondering if I should hitch a ride back home on it. I did not even want to meet David or Grace, until my anger had cooled down. I’d call them later. And arrange to have the equipment dropped off to David’s hotel.

Imran said he could drop me home if I liked. I said. “Yes”. Finally, I sat on Imran’s bike. I was too preoccupied to even think about the stunts he would pull off, now that he had persuaded me to sit pillion. But after a few moments, I noticed that he was riding with extra care, mindful of the bumps, mindful of me sitting behind him. I realized that my first impression of him had been right. He was a well-behaved young man. Occasionally wild. As befit his image. But not bad.

Alias

Razia Bi alias Sunita Jadhav alias Penny D’Souza was a shrewd woman. No one would guess it looking at her face. She was tiny, plain, her hair tied up in a tight bun. Her face was so insignificant that she could switch identities at will. She was anyone, and no one. The only distinctive features in her face were her eyebrows. Black, arched like impetuous question marks flung into space, quivering over tiny, brown bead eyes.


She wore faded cotton saris. Un-starched, wound tightly around her wiry frame, she seemed ready to catapult into action every moment. She was not a criminal by nature, but had learned to switch roles with ease, tell lies with impunity, and yet sleep with an easy conscience. She was not thick-skinned, just that she was so tired by the end of the day, and the hours of sleep so short anyway, she did not have to woo sleep.


Anyway, she did not even think she was committing any crime. It was hard work, she did. Very hard work. And she didn’t even get paid enough most of the time, but that’s the way of the world.


She had forgotten even when she started on this life of aliases. Perhaps, it was the fat, very fat woman with her diamond earrings, on a huge swing, suspended in the living room. The swing did not swing at all with the fat lady’s weight. She looked her up and down, and suddenly asked, “What’s your name? You’re not a Muslim, I hope.” She stood still for a moment, then glibly said, “My name is Sunita. I’m a …”. The fat lady held up a fat imperious hand. “Your caste doesn’t matter, as long as you’re not a Muslim.” She got the job, though she didn’t keep it for very long. The house was huge, and had to be mopped twice a day, her back hurt, and the fat lady was stingy.


But after that, it seemed to her, that wherever she went, people asked her what religion she belonged to. She learnt smoothly to be a Muslim with a Muslim family, a Catholic with Christians, a Hindu with Hindus. Her faded saris and faded silver chain around her neck, green glass bangles on her arms did not brand her and she was safe.


The slum where she lived had the poor of all religions; they were the same in their poverty, and the same in their joy in festivals. She knew the nuances of most religions more than the people she worked for, and it was easy for her to pretend that she was fasting during Ramzan, that she was going to be busy making sweetmeats for Diwali, that she was observing Lent, or that her son wanted a new shirt for Christmas.


As the years went by, she herself forgot who she was, her real name, her real religion. Living became more and more expensive, and her weariness did not satisfy her needs. She did not see or hear the unrest around her. She did not see the houses in her slum re-align into communal groups. She crossed the dirty lanes, the smelly 'naallah's, and the tiny hovels absentmindedly every day, not noticing the hostile glares, the muttered grumbles.


When the rioters came to her house, she looked at them curiously. They had swords and iron rods and burning torches, their faces were distorted with cruelty, but she did not know what they wanted of her. They asked her name, she looked at them as she did her prospective employers, wondering what answer they wanted her to give. Were they Hindus, or Muslims, or Catholics? Who should she be – Razia Bi, or Sunita Jadhav or Penny D’Souza? Her confusion kept her silent. Her silence saw her dead.

* naalah - gutter

Scavengers all

The dogs scamper through the debris, when they hear voices. They have a glazed look in their eyes, intoxicated with a surfeit of flesh, bones, blood, meat. Glutted, they look through us. After a moment, they slide back into the crevices only they know of. There is enough there to feed them for seven generations.

“Our shop was 120 years old”, he tells us. “My great-great-great grandfather hawked cloth through the city. Carrying a trunk on his head. Who will buy cloth now, in this city?”

Gold, cloth, silver, sweetmeats, flung out of crushed cupboards, and grabbed by opportunistic hands. Diamond rings cut off a sixteen year old girl’s fingers. A woman’s neck, arms, feet cut to sever the gold ornaments off her.

Wealth accumulated over seven generations, crushed under sand and stone, a huff and a puff, in a minute. Naked hands claw at twisted iron rods in broken concrete slabs. Hands jump to grab pieces of iron from a running truck. Kilos and kilos of iron to be sold. Business has never been so good.

A dead body retrieved from under three slabs of concrete by hands and spades. Cameras flash. The retrievers pose with the dead body, hunters with their trophy. One more good deed done.

Everywhere there are powerful pictures, touching sound-bytes. Let’s make the most of the disaster. Let’s retrieve all we can from the debris. There’s enough there to last us all, for seven generations.

The Hour of the Kites

"The parrots used to come here once", she said.

I can imagine that. Droves of parrot resting in the trees, and suddenly flying out into the sky, as if the tree had flung out hundreds of leaves. The air must have been full of song, because those were the days of color, of joy, of music.

Music is lost now. In its name, are helpless screeches, trying to be heard, above the ceaseless din of the city. The parrots have gone away. They are more sensible than us. No one notices that they have gone. No one notices that the birds can't be heard singing anymore.

Now the kites come. Scores of them. They sit in rows, quietly sullen, on the concrete roof ledges of the school outside our window.

The hypnotic light of the ubiquitous TV flickers over her face, ravaged not by the past, but by the increasingly non-comprehensible present, slipping away from the mind's grasp. She looks at the kites, stoically, trying to make up interesting stories about them. But the kites don't care.

They are sullen. They sit watching for the prey. A schoolchild who makes the mis­take of opening her lunchbox on the ground, a timid sparrow, a careless rat, a dead body.

The kites are sullen, cruel. They don't sing, they are dull brown. They are concerned only with their prey. The stories she tries to make up about them come out hoarse from a long silent throat, dull with pain, predicting sure doom.

Ammi’s Shawl

I still have Ammi’s shawl. Big, black, warm. Beautiful.

I’ll always remember her as she used to be in the mornings, huddled up in her shawl , warming herself at the stove, sipping her first cup of tea, while the rest of the house still slept, in their voluminous blankets.

We would walk across Mall Road from the bus station, and the cold, clear air and the clean, blue lake would almost bring tears to my city-weary eyes. We’d cross the horse depot, and I’d smile at the smell of the stables. I felt so happy. Then the fork, and the cobbled path up to the back of the house. I’d be gasping for breath. The walk seemed shorter now, but I always remembered the first time I walked there with Anwar, and it had seemed like miles to my city-lazy body.

It took me almost 3 or 4 years and that many visits to mark for myself, the door of our house. The second door after the tailor’s, across the big, ugly plastic water tank. The wooden door hammered with tin was sure to be open by then. The servant boy, after lighting the wood stove for Ammi, must have hurried out, a few minutes ago, to relieve his bursting bowels.

The door would swing with a loud creak, as we walked in. My heart beat fast, anticipating Ammi’s pleasure on seeing us. Her hoarse voice would cry out, “Who is it?” And we would not answer. But tiptoe in quietly, wanting to see her surprise and her joy. Her face would light up.

She was so beautiful, her skin like ancient paper, slightly yellow and translucent, with age. Her eyes bright. Her long hair, black over her frail back. Later, when Anwar’s older brothers died in a car accident, it became white in one go.

Anwar would hug her, and make raucous noises, as he always did. She’d punch him, and complain, and get mock-angry, but she was happy. I’d beam silently in the background, and she would look over his shoulders at me, with love.

Her face registered disappointment against her will, at my plainness. If only I was beautiful, she would have been happier still. But I was nice anyway.

Each time I went to Nainital I loved her more. But each time I went with my heart more and more burdened with sorrow. Each time I was more and more torn apart between the urge to lighten my own heart of its despair, and the reluctance to lend her more pain. But sometimes I would burst out into tears, and she would know. She knew my pain more than I did, because her son had given her the same pain for many more years than he had me. The difference was that she continued to love him, and I grew to love him less and less. Chafing at the bond of marriage.

There came a time, when the lake, or the air, or the horses, or her love, could not tempt me anymore. I came away. With her shawl. I have it still. Her love, I don’t. He is her son after all. And I divorced him.