Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (4 page)

The shirt was cut in such a manner that any minimal wind was allowed
entry. This ventilation, I believed for the longest time, was how a sufferer
of the skin could dupe the benevolent vaccinators. I wore the shirt over
long skirts so that I could suffer the skin. I was a rebel.

Then came the experts who told you exactly how being a woman func
-
tioned: probiotic curves that do not show, well-vaccinated attire insured
with duppattas, teflon skin of a uniform shade whose visibility is not
interrupted by any out or ingrowth, hair groomed to prescribed lengths
in restricted regions such as over the skull or above the eye. A mellow and
polite smile increased your chances of procreating.

I still wore my grandfather’s shirt on a long skirt. “Why does your daugh
-
ter dress like a eunuch?” “You really like being androgynous, don’t you?”
I only smiled, the flat kind, at what the experts deemed insults. My grand-
father still lent me his shirt to wear over my long skirt. He either was ag-
nostic to the experts or did not deem me a woman, they said. “He knew
I had contracted the Skin,” I scribbled in my diary.

On the third of March a year ago, I was to gather with a flock of ten
women in a house. ‘Sleepover’, the invitation mail proclaimed in bold,
pink letters sounding suspiciously of abnormal or illegitimate adolescent
sleeping practices. Yes, I knew the person who called me over like I knew
my mirror. Her address was the tricky bit:

“Waltersingam road?”

The guy in khakhi sitting in the front-half of a yellow-black auto rick
-
shaw rose from his mobile phone. He panned a gaze at me vertical and
horizontal to decide which language he should coin his reply in. An an-
kle-length wrap skirt; a stiff cotton shirt that was clearly not cut for me;
plaited hair with oil; a dot of a golden pin on the left nose; ear studs; a
black-blue cloth sling bag that meant business; a streak on the forehead
was not sufficiently religious; ‘singam’ pronounced just as he would have;
‘walter’ sounded more towards his ‘quarter’. He seemed to search for
some version of a universal sign language. He nodded as he bent down
to start the engine.

“Meter?”

He nodded again, this time with his eyes to the road. I slid into the back
half of the yellow rickshaw. A quarter past eight at night, we reached
this place. I verified the door number and stepped in. Food and music
were served in abundance alongside conversations that are privy only
to the bench-neighbours whom you whispered to. About you, me and
the colleague-acquaintance-friend whose name sounded familiar. And
about anybody who fit into that untitled genre. Simmer the talk back to
a couple: a woman and a man. Tiptoe away from anything that changes a
number or a gender in this formula.

Ten past ten. We had eaten. People were now taking sips of conversa
-
tion with dessert. Homemade chocolate cake. Only the few who pos-
sessed ovens at home asked for the recipe. Two helped clean the table
up, tucking their duppattas away. And two pushed the table to a corner
and stacked all our bags on it. Staring at the ceiling or the television that
played assorted Bollywood songs seemed admissible, too. Yawns had
started to creep in.

Thirty five past ten. The women began peeling layers of cotton, elastic
tapes and polyesters, and changed into night drapes to let themselves a
dose of Skin. They mostly folded the three or four pieces neatly and piled
them over their bags. I, ever the patient of Skin, reclined to listen to them
tuck away their layers.

Eleven. “I wish we could dress like the men,” said the one in a purple
satin gown with frills on it. Two were already asleep. They had peeled
themselves first.

“Those shirts, the banians and all the hair that idiot, my boyfriend pulls
off,” that was a green t-shirt talking as she changed into her shorts and
clean-shaven legs. To swear and punctuate was to help count the number
of years she went out with him, successfully procrastinating a marriage.

A lavender nightie filled a couple of water bottles for the night. She listed
all the men of her house and their daily attire. “Father-in-law in banian
and lungi, shorts and a tee for the husband, ‘bermuda’ for the brotherin-law.”

Two past twelve. “Dude, my grandpa never wears a shirt while at home,”
the green tee, in the city to visit her cousins and appalled.

 

“Nor does mine,” I murmured, removing my brassiere through the lon-
ger-than-slack sleeve.
5.
Benched
Abhilasha Kumar

SCENE: It is nearly four in the afternoon. Two women are seated on a
stone bench, no different from the many others on the pathway encircl-
ing the Hauz Khas Lake. It is an ordinary, calm evening. The lake over-
looks a dilapidated fort that stands still on its rocky foundations. Birds
don’t sing, traffic can’t be heard, and the air is quiet. Several ducks swim
aimlessly in the lake, not quacking.

Paridhi is seated on the right. She is dressed in a green kurti and white
leggings. Wrapped around her neck is a multi-coloured stole, with bold
patches in green, teal and brown. Her eyes are lined with
kajal
. Aarzoo is
seated on the left. She is wearing a denim tunic that ended just below her
knees. Her spectacles are large-rimmed and she wears her hair in a care-
lessly tied bun. Paridhi’s bag lies between them both.

PARIDHI: It’s funny, us meeting on a bench like this. We were closer
than that, weren’t we?

 

AARZOO: Why does a bench imply distance to you? We could be a hap-
pily married couple out for some fresh air, for all you know.
PARIDHI: Come on, we could’ve never been a ‘happily married cou-
ple’.

 

AARZOO: Do you mean that we couldn’t have been married or that we
couldn’t have been happy?

PARIDHI: What? That’s a really silly question.
AARZOO: Not important. Answer it.

PARIDHI: I am already married. To a man I love. In any case, you never
liked my constant need for company.

AARZOO: Does he?
PARIDHI: Does who?
AARZOO: Your husband, of course.
PARIDHI: Oh. Well,
I
don’t need his company so much.
AARZOO: Oh, I see.
PARIDHI: What?
AARZOO: Nothing, nothing at all.

PARIDHI: You can say whatever you’re trying very hard to not say. I can
hear it.

AARZOO (Shrugging her shoulders): But I don’t have anything to say.
PARIDHI: Fine.

(There is silence for a while. Paridhi frowns, as though regretting this
meeting already. Aarzoo brushes away a small feather that has landed on
her tunic.)

PARIDHI: What about you? Do you still write?
AARZOO: Occasionally, yes.
PARIDHI: Do you still draw inspiration from the people around you?
AARZOO: Of course, all the time.

PARIDHI: Who
are
the people around you? (Turns curiously towards
Aarzoo and rests her left leg on the bench.)

AARZOO (Dismissively): Just regular people.
PARIDHI: Your parents?
AARZOO: Mom lives in Bangalore. Dad is still in rehab.
PARIDHI: Oh. Do you visit him?
AARZOO (Looking surprised): No.
PARIDHI: (Nodding): Of course not. So who do you...?

AARZOO (Interrupting, almost with a maddening urgency): Did you
start reading books? Did I not say once that I’d be very surprised if you
did?

PARIDHI: (Looking startled, but distracted): Right, yes you had. I didn’t
start reading though.

AARZOO (Saddened): Oh, no?
PARIDHI: No. I barely get the time.
AARZOO: I bet that’s not why.

PARIDHI: Okay, fine. (Rolling her eyes) I don’t
like
to read, not even
now.

 

AARZOO: You never try new things, that’s your problem.
PARIDHI (Masking her irritation with a knowing, nostalgic smile): Ah,
there’s the catchphrase. I had almost forgotten it!

 

AARZOO: That’s not my catchphrase. I am not a character on televi-
sion!

 

PARIDHI (Sulking a little): You would be a very interesting one,
though.

 

AARZOO (Laughing darkly): Haha, that’s funny. But I agree with you.
PARIDHI (Poking her in the right arm): Look at you, immodest little
creature!

 

AARZOO: Ouch! Keep your distance, woman! (Rubbing her arm) Now,
‘immodest little creature’ rings a bell, doesn’t it?

 

PARIDHI: Of course it does. It’s how you address your dark soul!
(Laughs wildly and covers her mouth with her colourful stole)

AARZOO (Shaking her head firmly): There’s no such thing as the soul.
PARIDHI: So we’re just flesh and blood?
AARZOO (Pensively): Yes.

PARIDHI: You were never optimistic. You always believe that nothing
means anything.

 

AARZOO: So you believe that something means something?
PARIDHI: Sure! We all count for
something
, don’t we? You, with your little
stories about us, and us, the
regular
people in your stories – it all counts!

AARZOO: Who’s keeping count?
PARIDHI: Don’t start the God debate with me, Aarzoo. Not today.
AARZOO: I’m just saying, they are just words.
PARIDHI: Your stories?
AARZOO: Them too.
PARIDHI: What else? What else is
just
words?
AARZOO: Everything, generally speaking.

PARIDHI: You can’t talk about everything and say you were speaking
generally.

AARZOO (Looking puzzled): But that is the only time I can.
PARIDHI: Oh, you and your insufferable logic!
AARZOO: Don’t blame the logic.
PARIDHI: Alright, alright. Let’s not fight.
AARZOO: Let’s not.

PARIDHI: So, tell me, what adventures did you encounter on your jour-
ney to Ithaca?

AARZOO: You...you remember the poem?
PARIDHI: Of course. I read it every now and then.
AARZOO: And?
PARIDHI: And what? Well, that’s how I remember it.

AARZOO: I didn’t give you that letter so that you could
read
it every now
and then.

PARIDHI: Yes, you did. It says so in the letter.
AARZOO: I mean, you were supposed to act on it!
PARIDHI: Act on what!
AARZOO (Standing up):
You were supposed to have adventures of your own!

(Aarzoo’s breath comes in hot flashes, her lips quiver and her fingers
tremble in anxiety. Her moist eyes are narrowed at Paridhi, as though
accusing her.

PARIDHI: Oh! You don’t have to scream at me. (Gestures at Aarzoo) Sit
down, will you? (Aarzoo sits down, begrudgingly). What makes you think
I haven’t had any adventures?

AARZOO: Well, have you?
PARIDHI: Sure. Everyone has adventures.
AARZOO: Generally speaking?
PARIDHI: No, specifically. I’ve had a life.
AARZOO: An adventurous one?
PARIDHI (Waving her hand): Sure, sure. Adventure, drama, the works.
AARZOO: Then tell me all about it!
PARIDHI: Hey, I asked you first!
You
tell me!

AARZOO: Oh, alright, fine! I swam in the Atlantic, tried crocodile meat,
wrote a terrible novel – you know that one, almost married an Australian,
got a tattoo on my shoulder, was homeless for about a week and taught
algebra to some children in Dehradun until I couldn’t take it anymore.
(Aarzoo takes a deep breath and sits still, her fingers crossed tightly over
one another, still trembling. She looks away from Paridhi, shifting her
gaze to the ducks in the lake. For a minute, neither says anything.)

PARIDHI: Wow. Can I...can I see the tattoo?
AARZOO (Smiling): Sure. (Turns on the side and pulls down her tunic
to reveal her right shoulder) It’s a sword.

 

PARIDHI (Running her hands across the tattoo in fascination): Why a
sword? Is that a symbol for something?

 

AARZOO: Oh, everything is a symbol today. It means everything and
nothing.

 

PARIDHI: But why a sword? Why not something else, if it means noth-
ing?

AARZOO (Smiling mysteriously): Because it also means everything.
PARIDHI (Pouting): You never tell me anything.
AARZOO: I
am
telling you. I’m just not spoon-feeding you.
PARIDHI: God, you’re such a mother sometimes.
AARZOO: What! Haha!

PARIDHI: It’s not funny. You would annoy me like this back in college
too.

 

AARZOO: College seems so far away. Do you remember anything? I
don’t remember much.

PARIDHI: So we expected. Everyone thought you would forget it all.
AARZOO: Who’s everyone?
PARIDHI: The three of us, Aarzoo. Surely, you remember the names!
AARZOO: What did you expect?
PARIDHI: Don’t joke around. You do remember, don’t you?
AARZOO: Paridhi, Sargun and Tara, the holy trinity (She chuckles).
PARIDHI: Thank God.
AARZOO: Thank
me
! I remembered the names, didn’t I?
PARIDHI (Rolling her eyes): And you did us a huge favour.
AARZOO: I’m pretty sure
God
did nothing.
PARIDHI: Oh, let it go. So did you find your Ithaca?
AARZOO: The point was that it probably doesn’t exist.
PARIDHI: Of course it does. Where are we going otherwise?
AARZOO: To a place that doesn’t exist.
PARIDHI: What would be the point of anything, then?
AARZOO (Delighted): That’s the question, that’s exactly the question!

PARIDHI: You’re not making sense anymore. (Takes off her stole and
fans herself with it. Starts looking around, but doesn’t find anything in-
teresting enough. Looks at Aarzoo and then looks away. Fans herself
more vigourously.)

AARZOO: Your turn, with the adventures.

PARIDHI: What? (Looks distracted, her hand constantly fanning her
-
self.) Oh. Well, you know. The usual - I got married, I got a job. I went to
the States. I bought myself a house; it’s really beautiful.

AARZOO: That’s...not an adventurous life at all.

 

PARIDHI: And who are you? The Adventure Police? I’ve had one heck
of a life through all of this! (Fans herself more rapidly)

 

AARZOO: Following routine? I hardly think so.

PARIDHI: You think you know everything!
Everything
! It’s not
routine
!
Every day brings new things to worry about! It’s a circus – yes, a
real circus
! (Her hand moves quickly, violently, until the stole falls down on the
ground. She stops and looks down at the stole, and breathes heavily). A
fucking circus. (She begins to cry.)