Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (2 page)

“Mr. Anderson, this is Mr. Delahunt. I am the legal advisor for ATKOM.
We just heard of the terrible accident you were involved in this morning.
Obviously you must know that we are all very sor…”

“What do you want?”
A silence ensued. However, very soon the voice boomed back but this
time it meant business.

 

“Mr. Anderson, we are asking that you sue your company for compensa-
tion since this was obviously due to carelessness on their part.”
I sat up a little straighter. For the first time in over two days I was actually
thinking.

 

“What’s it in for you?” I asked quietly, unsure of the kind of response I
would get.

Delahunt laughed softly but replied, “I won’t hide it from you Mr. An
-
derson. If you do file this case and the case does go to court we hope to
dole out a lot of negative publicity for your firm, which means a lot of
positive publicity for ours. If you do win, so much the better for you, you
get the money and a job at our firm; if you lose you still are guaranteed
a job at our firm. To put it simply you end up with a better job after this
is over and you might also have a lot of extra money. Now can I put it
any plainer?”

I said I would think about it. He gave me his number and said he would
be expecting my call. After I hung up I was even more confused than I
had been before. I wasn’t doubting God. Not now, at least, but what was
I supposed to do?

I went to work the next day and had barely touched my chair when the
head of our firm, Mr. Andrews summoned me.

“Mr. Anderson, I am terribly sorry for what happened the other day, but
that is not the reason I have called you here. You see, ATKOM doesn’t
want to miss any opportunity, and if this news reaches them they will
definitely try to drag us to court through you. All I am asking is for you
to remain faithful to the company that you have served for so many years
and in return for your faith, we would be glad to offer you a promotion
and, of course, an absolutely new car of your choice.”

I lapped up the offer and the only question in my mind when I left his
office was which car I would choose. I never heard from the ATKOM
legal advisor again.

Three days later I had won a lottery for a hundred thousand dollars, my
son had reached the finals of an International Mathematics Olympiad
(the youngest ever to do so) and Katie and I were choosing between
a trip to France, Greece or Italy, with all expenses paid, of course. It
wasn’t as if I hadn’t thought about charity, it was just that the time wasn’t
right. I didn’t feel guilty for under-utilizing this power. World peace, food
for the poor, I was getting there. I just wanted to enjoy a little before I
moved on to bigger things, as I liked to call them. There was lot of time,
I knew, after all God wasn’t going to let me get away with just pleasures,
he expected me to do something and I knew it. I was just waiting for the
right time.

Next morning, on my way to the office, I was still unsure of what I would
ask God for that day. Since I wanted nothing presently I should probably
wait till I felt the need for it. At the corner of Elf Street, this guy was
selling hotdogs. I had had breakfast but I didn’t know why I felt hungry.
So I got one and stood at the corner and as I stuffed it into my mouth I
thought of the millions of other people who walked about their everyday
lives and how anyone would be ready to kill for the sort of power I pos-
sessed. I could do anything, absolutely anything. If I wanted to, I could
make that building collapse or maybe an earthquake happen and then
everybody would get to know. I had no intention of doing anything like
that but it sure felt good to know that I could if I wanted to.
The hotdog was now half over when a small kid, hardly seven or eight
years old, with beautiful golden hair and wearing a bright blue T-shirt,
stole from his mother and ran right into the center of the road chasing
his red balloon. Standing exactly at the center he got hold of the escaped
balloon and it was only when he raised his head did he realize where he
was. His mother was plainly the lady who was screaming her lungs out,
pleading for the cars to stop or for somebody to help. I forgot the hot-
dog and wanted exactly what the woman standing across the street did. I
screamed and said, “God make those cars stop…” Nobody took any no-
tice of what I was saying. All eyes were fixed on that small angel. I cried
again, “Stop, make them stop! God, please let them stop now, stop…
now.” I snapped my fingers, raised my arms and begged and pleaded.
I remembered clearly that my quota for the day wasn’t over. The black
Mercedes speeding at 70 miles per hour aimed directly at the boy.

“God now brake it. Stop it, there’s a kid down there! Please.” I real
-
ized that people weren’t listening to me because they were saying the
same thing, but only my voice mattered and I screamed again, “Stop that
black one, God, stop that black one! Now! Stop…brake that one…stop
now…”

The Mercedes braked only a fraction too late. The balloon flew away and
there was silence, silence like there hadn’t been in the last fifteen seconds.
People rushed as cars skid to a standstill but I knew nobody could have
survived that crash, let alone a seven-year-old. I saw his arm from under
the car and I saw blood. They were all screaming, no, all silent, it didn’t
matter now. Did it?

Seven days later I emerged from my room. I had spoken to no one since
and had eaten nothing. I was surprised that I was alive. Katie had been
with doctors and psychologists the entire week. I slowly walked to the
drawing room and saw that there was no one there. I didn’t know why I
was doing it or what would happen if it worked but I had to do it. I raised
my arms, and looking at the crystal vase on the mantel said, shatter.”

The crucifix on the wall behind the vase unscrewed from the top nail and
turned through a hundred and eighty degrees. The Anti-Christ. The vase
shattered.

It wasn’t God I had signed the deal with. It was the devil.
2.
The Creation of Love
Deepti Menon

It was a chilly winter’s evening and the silhouette of the Taj Mahal, the
monument of love, shimmered in the haze, shining with an intensity that
cut through the fog. Very few people dared to brave the cold, but an
intense young man strode resolutely. His breath came in a whistle, as he
willed the chill to clear the cobwebs in his mind. He was a playwright who
loved to create life: his characters took birth and lived so realistically that
at times, they would threaten to overshadow their creator.

His latest play was giving him heartaches. He had visualized the perfect
love story- that of a budding young artist and a poor girl of such ex-
quisite beauty that it wrenched the heart. He had brought it to life, the
characters having flown off his pen onto the sheets of paper that drank
them in greedily. The play was written, signed off with a flourish, but the
girl refused to come to life. It did not help that he was a member of the
aristocracy, and as is the case, had no first-hand knowledge of the impov-
erished. He had come to the marble mausoleum, hoping to get inspired
by it and its legend, but his muse seemed to have deserted him, leaving
him bereft of ideas, as cold as the marble that towered over him.

Very early that morning, he had set out, determined to find a suitably
impoverished girl after whom he could model his character. Thus, one
found him, oblivious of the frost that seemed to creep into his bones,
away from home, casting furtive glances into a section of the decrepit
houses he had managed to locate. A whole colony of huts lay sprawled
in abandon, outside which people, dogs and cows slept, all huddled up
against the biting cold. Once the sun made up its mind to show itself,
its golden rays would wash over them, waking them up only to face yet
another challenging day.

He drew his coat closely about him, as he got closer to the stench of pov
-
erty, wishing that he were in his own home, in front of his snug fireplace,
with a cup of tea in his hands. But a poet’s words, “Art is long and time
is fleeting…” ran through his head like a refrain, galvanizing him into ac-
tion. There was much to be done.

In one hut sat a girl, huddled over the tiny fire, as she gazed at the embers
that glowed like rubies, but hardly giving out enough heat to warm her
pathetic form. At intervals, sparks, like little fireflies, would fly upwards
in a pathetic display, and as quickly die down again. She looked younger
than her age; for she had forgotten the last time she had eaten to her
heart’s content. She survived on scraps that the neighbours gave her, but
there were days when the neighbours themselves went hungry.

The young man would have walked past without looking at the girl, if
she had remained inside. But the fire had gasped its heart out, and she
got up edgily, opened the creaking door and stepped outside. She put
her arms around herself, as the wind tore at her ragged clothes, trying to
keep warm. However, the moment she saw him, she assumed the stoop-
ing posture of the regular beggar, whining in a singsong manner, “God
bless you, young sir, and your wife and children! I have eaten nothing
for two days!” He cast an impatient glance at her, retrieved a coin, and
stood looking at her, wondering where he had seen her earlier. Her palm
closed over the coin that he had thrust at her, and then she turned away
awkwardly, her curly hair a-tangle, even as he perceived a strange earthy
charm in her grimy face. A good wash and some warm food would make
her a great deal more attractive, he thought.

Making up his mind, he beckoned to her to follow him, but her expres
-
sion became wary and she shook her head. She did not trust young gen-
tlemen; her attitude seemed to indicate. There were too many ‘kothas’
into which girls had been lured, their lives blighted, where they existed
till they were discarded like the pips of an orange, their juice sucked out
slowly, but inexorably. She had seen their hollow eyes, filled with despair,
as they cursed the men who had forced them into lives of iniquity. Most
of these girls ended up in hospitals or as inmates of grim institutions. She
would never allow herself to turn into them!

“You are safe with me. I will give you food!” he said, in a soft, cajol
-
ing manner. She gazed into his warm eyes, lowered her defences, and
went along with him to a small teashop, run by a burly gentleman with a
handlebar moustache. “What can I get you, sir?” his voice boomed out
cheerily, pretending not to notice the odd couple that had walked in.

The girl looked around, her eyes glistening at the sight of all the food
exhibited within glass shelves. A plate of puris along with spicy potato
curry was placed before her, and she pounced on it, gobbling it down,
licking her fingers in ecstasy after mopping up every morsel. She washed
it down with a huge tumbler of sweet buttermilk, laced with thick cream,
smacking her lips. Her face was animated, almost attractive, as she shook
the last drop onto her pink tongue, emitting a soft belch to show her ap-
preciation.

He observed her as she lay back in the wooden chair, an expression of
satiation on her wan face, like a kitten that had eaten all the cream. As
he began to talk to her, her face showed bewilderment. No one had ever
spoken to her, treated her as human, before. He was different from the
other men she had come across. Slowly, waves of understanding began to
make their way across her mobile face, and she nodded. She was willing
to do as he asked, but she pointed to the food that lay around. He would
have to buy her a meal every day, and allow her to take the leftovers
home. He was gratified that she asked for so little, a creature that grasped
at coins but did not have the intellect to look at big money.

He met her every day, bringing her little gifts to encourage her to talk. A
box of scented handkerchiefs, a little heart-shaped mirror that she loved
on first sight, chocolates that she gorged on! She had no artifice in her,
just like the character in his play. He bought her a cheap sari, which she
wore so often that he bought her another just to stop her from wearing
the first. The grime had disappeared, leaving behind a strange kind of
beauty that seemed to shine from within. They met daily at the teashop.
One day, he took her home as well, relishing her gasps of wonder at the
opulence that he had so taken for granted.

Every time he met her, he would capture a piece of her persona in his
memory and rush to his studio to write it down. When he had finally
fathomed the child-woman she was, he went to his temperamental lead-
ing lady, trying to explain to her how she was to act, and even react, to
the situations in his play. He lost his temper when she could not bring
out the nuances just so!

In desperation, he took his leading lady to the teashop. The moment he
introduced the two, he knew he had made a mistake. The diva’s lip curled
back in a sneer as she expostulated, “Is that what you want me to look
like…to act like?” She turned a withering glance under which the poor
girl blanched. The diva flounced out in a flaming rage, having announced
that she would not stoop down to the level he wanted her to. The young
man’s heart sank. He was back to where he started. He took the girl’s icy
hand in his, and caressed it gently, cajoling her to eat. She began to regain
her colour, and it was then that it struck him. He was in love with the little
waif. Or rather, he was in love with the character he had created, but he
felt that it amounted to the same thing!

He rushed out, wrestling with his conscience, and at night, he tossed and
turned. On the one side was his career, painstakingly carved out of his
hard work and creativity; on the other, his love, a wayward hope that had
crept into his heart. Would he have to throw away his passion to nurture
this little, fluttering flame? Was it worth it? Yes, cried his heart, caught in
the throes of new found love; no, said his mind that desperately wanted
to make him see sense.