Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (13 page)

***

Behind the neatly manicured lawns of Garden View Apartments in Gur
-
gaon,, home to the affluent and the aspiring, Ameena lived in one of the
shanties with mud walls and tin sheds. The day began with hurling abuse
and trading insults at the solitary hand-pump, where women lined up to
store water in bright plastic pots. She was witness to fierce brawls in the
cluster of huts, adjoining several others in filthy surroundings teeming
with stray dogs.

Away from the chawl, Ameena steadily grew accustomed to the marvels
of the city. Other than Rafique’s sly smile, what bothered her most was
crossing the busy roads. With her heart racing faster than the cars, she
would hold her sari, look around and begin to walk, but the speeding
vehicles would scare her enough to return and start again.

One afternoon the following week, when Ameena was unable to find
work at the construction site nearby, she found Rafique idling on her
charpoy. He had a job offer as a house-help in the high-rise apartments.
Reluctantly, she sat beside him. Pointing towards two women, he said,
“Two years ago, they came with me. Now they live like locals.” As he
spoke, he leaned towards her and the whiff of tobacco from his mouth
nauseated her.

“
Inshallah,
if you behave, I’ll get you an election card.” Rafique then
moved closer to give her a new sari and a pack of bindis he had bought
for her.

“Achcha, if your madam asks you about your native place, say you are
from Malda. Or Midnapore. And that your name is Meena.”
“Why?”

 

“You want work?”

Ameena nodded but kept quiet, trying to work through the implications
of what he was saying. That night, after Rafique had her, she looked at
him leaving, the blankness of her eyes not revealing the pain that was
tormenting her body, ready to erupt in a tearful rage. Once she had a job,
she would run away from him, she thought.

***

As Ameena approached the elevator, she could hear her heart pounding.
What if the door didn’t open? What if it fell down with a big thud?
It was safer
to climb. On the fifth floor, she summoned enough courage to press
the doorbell. It rang in a series of fading squeals. Clad in shorts and a
white shirt, Isha opened the door to find a woman with a bright red
bindi
adorning her forehead, gazing nervously at her. The dusky complexion
was unblemished, barring a few abrasions on her neck - a reminder of her
violation the previous night. Isha introduced Ameena to her husband.
“Akhil, her name is Meena. What do you say?”

Akhil remained glued to the television. “Don’t trust her with the baby.
Let’s continue with the crèche for some time.”

 

The young woman facing Isha spoke in innocent Bengali and a smatter-
ing of some English words such as baby, kitchen and lift. That was all.

“You don’t have lice, do you?”
“No.”
“Can you cook?”
“I’ll learn.”

***

Large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the busy highway character
-
ized the main living area. A giant but slim television hung on the wall.
The apartment was tiled with white stone shining so brightly that she was
able to see the bright red dot on her forehead. A fancy looking glass lamp
stood in the corner with crystals hanging like dew drops, and beneath it
were three sets of telephones. “This black one is an intercom. It is for
calls within the complex. The other two are landline phones,” Isha ex-
plained. “I will call you from my office on this white one. Is that clear?”

Ameena was to sleep on the bedding, in the small utility area provided
near the kitchen. “I’ll get new clothes for you this Sunday, okay?” Isha
said as she headed towards the bedroom with the baby in her arms. “And
for God’s sake, take a bath before you begin work.”

The house was quiet, except for the intermittent cries of the baby and the
buzz of the air-conditioner. Ameena was trying to come to terms with
the grandeur, the cleanliness, so unlike her dwelling. Finding it difficult
to sleep, she gazed at the various gadgets in the kitchen. The following
morning before leaving for the day, Isha issued a list of do’s and don’ts
to be followed in her absence. While Akhil carried the baby towards the
elevator, with a bag of diapers and briefcase in hand, Isha told her that
she was not supposed to touch any electronic gadgets, venture out of the
gated community, or open the door for strangers.

After finishing her chores inside the house, Ameena would nurse the
plants in the balcony. Several cars would emerge from the parking lot
and disappear in the weightless veil of the morning fog. The guard would
keep track, jotting the vehicle numbers in a hand-held notebook. When
Ameena grew restless she would go back to the kitchen and clean the
cupboards with the help of a stepladder, painstakingly tending to the
expensive crockery.

At home Isha and Akhil hardly spoke. On days when both returned later
than usual, they ordered something in a cardboard box and ate in their
bedroom. Ameena observed Isha’s short skirts, fancy under-garments and
the strapless tops each time she was asked to spread them on the clothes-
line. Out of curiosity, she stepped into Isha’s stilettos, only to sprain her
ankle. The ritual of applying a face pack especially amused her when Isha
resembled the clown she had once seen in a circus back home.

In order to keep the conversations private the couple spoke in English.
“Leave the stupid job and stay at home. This crèche is useless. Look at
the baby. She has lost weight,” Akhil said.

“Why don’t you leave your job and stay at home?” Isha snapped.
“I can’t, and you know that!”
“Don’t shout” hushed Isha. “The maid is in the kitchen.”

“I can’t shout in my own house because you have this dumb maid,and she
is more important to you than your own husband.”

Within a fortnight, Ameena was trusted with the baby and allowed to
venture out within the gated complex. The baby took to her naturally.
In the mornings when the couple left for work, she would stand in the
balcony with the baby. The warmth of the eight-month-old felt so good,
so right. Stroking her soft hair and cradling her in the nook of her arms,
Ameena dreamt of watching the baby grow.

Soon, Ameena stopped squatting on the floor. Switching on the televi
-
sion or the microwave was no big deal either. Her hair smelt good and
her hands felt clean. Her vacuous eyes appeared less sedate and more
animated.

With his impish smile and crinkly eyes, the Nepali security guard helped
familiarize Ameena with the elevator and her heart no longer pounded
each time she was alone in the enclosed space. He held the door of the
elevator open for her, careful to give her enough room to move without
having to brush past him. On her way out, she often paused to chat with
him, “Do they treat you nicely?” he’d ask, concerned. “I know how it
feels like to be an outsider, away from home.”

Her home! Would her mother be worried? What about her sisters
? Initially, her
mother was not in agreement, but eventually decided to dispatch Ameena
with the potbellied stranger for a few hundred rupees. Rafique had prom-
ised, “Delhi is bigger than Dhaka. She will earn more.” People in big
cities, unable to clean floors and wash utensils, need help, he had said.
Had she stayed back, her mother would have negotiated with the bald
widower who had had his eyes on Ameena. But Rafique’s offer promised
hope, even if it meant crossing the border with a stranger.

Standing in the balcony, leaning against it, Ameena was idling that af
-
ternoon. The baby was asleep and her chores were over and done with.
She watched the assembled pigeons waddling in the grass, nodding their
heads for no reason, pecking and shuffling their iridescent wings. The
guard below looked up at her and smiled. That is when she spotted a
familiar patch of baldpate on a rotund figure, approaching the block. She
ducked. The guard noticed her abrupt move.

Why was he here?
Panic and uncertainty warring within, she hid behind the
shelter of the potted plants and strained to listen. Her heart was beating
like that of a scared animal. “Is there a new girl in 501?”

“No. Just the regulars.”
“Long hair, dusky complexion?” the man asked.

“There is no live-in maid here. All are part-timers. They come in the
morning, go back by the afternoon.”

After loitering for a while, Rafique left. She gave a shy smile of gratitude
to the guard. He returned it, reassuring her. At same time, Akhil appeared
in the balcony to fetch his towel and caught her smiling at the guard.

That day onwards Ameena felt uncomfortable in Akhil’s presence. When
Isha was around he hardly noticed her, but in her absence his watchful
eyes would stalk her. Every now and then he would glance at her while
she rolled
chappatis
, washed dishes or mopped the floor. At times, he bore
his eyes into hers and the intensity of his scrutiny made her strangely
conscious.

That evening Isha was late from work. Akhil returned early to find Amee
-
na in the bedroom, cooing and swaddling the baby to sleep. A sharp smell
of liquor wafted from him as he walked unsteadily towards his closet.

“Baby is asleep. I’m in the kitchen, if you need anything press the bell,”
she said as she left the room.

 

“I have a headache. Get me a cup of coffee,” Akhil muttered. “Strong.”

A few minutes later, when she appeared with a cup of coffee, a barechested Akhil lay in bed wearing his checkered boxers. As Ameena passed
on the coffee cup, he lunged forward, brushing against her breasts and
smiled as if about to reveal a delicious secret. She promptly turned to
leave the room when Akhil said, “So, your real name is not Meena? And
you are not from Calcutta?” Akhil continued to look quizzically at her.

Smiling at her ashen face he added, “Don’t worry I won’t tell Isha. Come,
sit here,” he said, patting the bed next to him. Ameena pulled back. But
Akhil stood up, and edged closer to cup her face with his hands.

Just then the phone came alive. Ameena wrenched the door open and
darted across the living room to take the call. It was Isha. “How’s the
baby?”

“Theek hoi, madam.”
“Did she eat anything? Isha sounded concerned, “I will be late today.
Mash a banana and feed her when she wakes up. Will you?”

“Yes.”
“Who is it?” yelled Akhil from the bedroom.
“Meena, is someone at home?” Isha asked.
“No. It’s the television.”
“Reduce the volume. The baby is sleeping.”

***
“Akhil,” said Isha. “She eloped!”
“Who?”

“That Meena,” Isha lamented on the phone. “Imagine, we trusted her
with our baby!”

“Is anything missing?”Akhil asked.
“Nothing.”
“Thank God!”

“You won’t believe Aki. According to the police, Meena was not even her
real name,” said Isha . “Liar.”

 

“Really? Bloody migrants. Just can’t trust them.” Akhil said angrily. “Any
news about the guy she eloped with?”

 

“It was the Nepali guard,” said Isha sounding appalled. “Aki, I’m sure I
overheard a man yesterday, when I was on the phone with her. She was
definitely with someone!.”
“Could be him,” Akhil sounded unsure. “Forget it. Look for another.
And for God’s sake, find someone with character.”

 

***
14.
Vaman
Rohit Gore
*****
And the fifth avatar of Lord Vishnu was Vaman, the dwarf, who could trample
the three worlds.
***

I always knew there were intelligent beings in the universe. I am not an
-
other conspiracy theory nut or someone who believed that aliens built
the pyramids in Egypt or that some sentient beings taught us how to light
a fire. However, I somehow always believed in the possibility of beings
that were far superior to us. Now I have concrete proof.

But I am jumping ahead in the story. The story begins when I was born.
The first reaction of the doctor was that I was the smallest baby he had
delivered. My mother did not ‘deliver’ me in the truest sense. I kind of
fell out of her. Everyone was surprised that she could hold me in for
nine months. It was no wonder that I had caused so much ruckus inside
her – a lot of empty space for me for nine months. My features were
indistinguishable. I grew up in a large joint family and no one, not even
my father, could make out my nose from my mouth, or my eyes from my
nose. They were all mixed up. It took them five years to find an accept-
able form on my tiny face. The whispers began immediately after people,
including my father, saw me. ‘Heis not human’, ‘has the face of the devil’,
‘God hasn’t given him a face. God did not like him.’ Everyone said that
except my mother. She died a few years ago. She lived a hard life, but
always smiled and told me wonderful stories of the Gods, of Rama and
Krishna and how they destroyed the evil in the world.
So, it was 1978 and I watched ‘Back to the future’ for the first time. The
theatre was old and dilapidated and just five weeks ago there had been a
fire that had killed ten people. My cousins (sixteen of them) told me that
‘Back to the future’ should not be missed due to any reason, including
the threat of another fire. So there were just the seventeen of us in the
theatre. We were watching the scene where Michael J Fox drives the car
through the time portal when it happened for the first time. Suddenly
there was pitch darkness in the theatre. The movie screen went blank.
The screen, the chairs with insects deeply buried in the cushions, my
boisterous cousins, and the half-burnt theatre had dissolved into a thick
blackness. Just as I thought that this must be the blackest darkness I had
ever seen, the screen came back to life in full glare. But I still could not
see the chairs, the theater walls or my cousins. Michael J Fox was on the
screen. There was nothing else. I wondered if there was a screen really.
It was as if the screen was the size of Michael J Fox and had taken the
shape of the man himself and his movements.

“Hello Vaman,” he said.