Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. (5 page)

AARZOO (Nodding and smiling): Yes, I’m convinced.

PARIDHI (Picks up the stole and dusts it off. Wipes her tears): He comes
home and we drink tea together. Every day. He looks at everything but
me. There is nothing to talk about, so we watch television together. We’re
married to each other, every day, every fucking day.

AARZOO: I thought it was what you wanted. Companionship, wasn’t
it?

 

PARIDHI: Yes, and you, freedom. So imperfect we were, together.
AARZOO (Looking at the ducks): We were just imperfect, together or
alone.

PARIDHI: Yes, but more so together.
AARZOO: Always. It’s mathematical.
PARIDHI: Don’t be so insensitive about it.
AARZOO: About what?
PARIDHI: Us. You used to have so much hope in yourself.
AARZOO (Frowning): Who says I don’t, anymore?
PARIDHI: Why did you stop teaching those kids?
AARZOO: They needed to be taught more than just algebra.
PARIDHI: But why did you leave?
AARZOO: I couldn’t teach them everything.
PARIDHI: But why did you leave?
AARZOO: Because I always
leave
, Paridhi!

PARIDHI (Smiling): That might be the only true thing you have said all
evening.

AARZOO: You’re exaggerating.
PARIDHI: Since when did you have a problem with exaggeration?
AARZOO: Never, I’m just acknowledging it.
PARIDHI: You wrote terrible things about me.
AARZOO: They weren’t terrible.
PARIDHI: I thought they were terrible.
AARZOO: That’s acceptable.

PARIDHI: No it isn’t! You turned me into a needy and despicable
whore!

AARZOO: It was just a character, for the hundredth time!
PARIDHI:
Based on me
!
AARZOO: Exactly!
Based
on you – not you!
PARIDHI: Everyone knew it was me! Paridhi, the whore, they all said!
AARZOO: That should’ve been funny, if anything.

PARIDHI: Oh, stop it! You are such a...(fastens her stole across her
neck) such a...(thinks for a moment, and then folds her hands across her
chest)

(Aarzoo has stopped listening to her. She is looking at the lake and the
setting sun beyond it. Her expression is sombre.)

AARZOO: The sun has gone down.
PARIDHI (Stiffly): So?
AARZOO: So, nothing. Just an observation.
PARIDHI: I never understand your little remarks.
AARZOO: They don’t always mean something more than themselves.

PARIDHI: But mostly they do. Or maybe it’s the way you say them that
makes me think there’s more to them.

 

AARZOO: Maybe.
PARIDHI (tugging at the ends of her stole): There’s still time, we could
talk some more.

AARZOO: Alright. What about?
PARIDHI: Anything. Tell me about the Australian.
AARZOO (Waving her hand): That’s not interesting at all.
PARIDHI: Fine, then tell me some other story.
AARZOO: Any other story?
PARIDHI: Sure, yes. But make it short.
AARZOO: Then don’t interrupt.
PARIDHI: Okay.
AARZOO: Wait, we have to sit differently for it.
PARIDHI: What, why?
AARZOO: You should be on the left and I should be on the right.
PARIDHI: Is this one of your elitist jokes?

AARZOO (Wearily): No, no. People are elitists, not jokes. It’s just crucial
to my story.

PARIDHI: In which way?
AARZOO: In every way.

PARIDHI: You never make any sense to me, do you know that? Come
now. (Standing up and moving to the other side. Aarzoo shifts to the
right.) Begin.

AARZOO: Alright then! This is a story about two mad women.
PARIDHI: All your stories are about
two
people.
AARZOO: Don’t interrupt.
PARIDHI: Oh, right...sorry, sorry. Go ahead.
AARZOO: Okay.

***
Freeze, he commanded. My moment of genius, he thought.

His fingers deliberated and cogitated, but his vision had magically cleared.
He could
see
his masterpiece, just a canvas away, a few colours yonder,
some hundred brushstrokes to completion. For so very long, he had
struggled to paint the perfect woman, and today he had found her, in
two. These women–slightly cross at each other, deeply scarred by one
another, and yet endearingly close to the other –
them
, the essence of his
masterpiece.

He fixed them on the stone bench, broken at the edges. Now, they sat
imprisoned in that moment – a moment so immense that it revealed the
complexity of their relationship. Aarzoo sat on the right and Paridhi on
the left. Paridhi leaned on the backrest, her childlike eyes turned towards
Aarzoo’s face in curiosity and anticipation. Aarzoo sat cross-legged, her
fingers entwined and her posture stiff. The bag acted as the only vis-
ible barrier between them. He sketched it all in a frenzied haste, until he
reached the most important piece of the puzzle–their faces. Then, he
freed himself of his pencils and brushes, and stretched out his fingers.
His eyes ogled at the painting; there were beads of sweat on his forehead;
his greedy mouth fell open. He began.

The first face he smeared with a furious crimson. With his stubby fingers,
he dabbed at it, circling around the dark lines in pencil, adding shades of
orange and yellow, mixing one emotion with another. Nothing seemed to
separate the woman and himself; he had become one with her. Her face
became a kaleidoscope; the curvature of her smile suggested a mystify-
ing grin. With a final touch to the large-rimmed spectacles, he reluctantly
pulled away from her.

For the other face, he dirtied his palette in olive green, navy blue and
white. His fingers worked methodically, rhythmically, patiently. He fell
for her too, and lost himself in the brightness of her clothes, the cheer-
fulness of her silence, the vivacity of her still figure. He encrypted his
affair with her into a twinkle in her eyes, and chuckled to himself. Then,
he stepped away from his easel. He surveyed the calmness of the setting
sun, the fort, the lake and the ducks, comically juxtaposed with the chaos
his women seemed to invoke. He looked at them, talking to each other,
sharing lives, breathing, coming alive. Aarzoo passed him a conspiratorial
smile.

He hurriedly dragged a chair and seated himself before his work of art.
And then he listened to her story.
6.
The 37
^th
Milestone
Abhishek Asthana
“Sir, we’ve got just four bottles of platelets left,” said Dinesh, my as-
sistant.

 

“Don’t worry, they’ll be enough. By the way, are those pamphlets ready?
We need more than 500 of those.”

With my sleeves rolled up, I stood squinting at the lazy October morning
sun, unloading stuff from our minivan – the kind which was the standard
abduction apparatus in a ‘70’s movie, before the Maruti Omni, quite un-
ceremoniously, took over.

A lot of unloading was needed. There were standees, a folding table with
a questionable fourth prong, and a decently sized flex with the tagline,
“Government Check Up Kemp,” printed in big, bold letters. When you
are the person responsible, you don’t laugh at a typo. It laughs at you. I
sighed.

“Doctor sahab, I haven’t seen anybody in our village infected with this
disease in my entire life, then suddenly a dengue check-up camp?” The
headmaster of the school arrived with a cup of tea in his hand.

He seemed apprehensive about our visit, as he would have been about
any other visit by a government official, be it the auditor from the Minis-
try of Education or the indifferent doctors from the health department.
No doctor was going to ask him, how a truck-full of school uniforms
were unloaded at his cousin’s, Gupta Readymade Garments near Hanu-
man Mandir.

“Guptaji, it’s not exactly a check-up camp. We are just taking some pre
-
cautionary measures, some
gyanbazi
, distribution of pamphlets, some
stethoscope molestation and we are going to hurry home sooner than
you’d expect,” I said, suppressing the urge to add a “so don’t worry” at
the end.
The Headmaster disgorged a well-rehearsed laugh from his belly.

***

The previous evening, while I was attending the patients at my private
clinic in Bhopal, I’d received a call from the dean of the government
hospital where I worked. As it turned out, Madhya Pradesh, our glori-
ous home state, was allegedly the only state with zero cases of dengue
reported. The state health ministry wanted to maintain the status quo and
they couldn’t find any other doctor. I was designated to leave the plush
air-conditioned chamber of my private clinic and organize these checkup and awareness camps in Jhabua.

Jhabua, a village tucked in a forest, was populated with tribesmen who
had taken to civilization recently. One could now see them cackling on
their China-made cellphones. However, Jhabua would often grace the
newspapers for other reasons, reasons that were not for the faint-hearted.
Witchcraft, parents sacrificing their own children, and sometimes, even
drinking their blood to please some deity. The news proclaimed that their
ancestors were cannibals, who weren’t too fond of outsiders.

It was a five-hour drive from Bhopal, taking into account the state of the
roads, which had more potholes than the population of Jhabua. Potholes
are anti-incumbency triggers; every time you encounter them, you how
corrupt the government in power is. You then continue with your life,
spitting the paan out of your car window.

***

Meanwhile the headmaster, a portly gentlemen showed me around the
school, harping on everything ranging from the inadequate government
funds (while rubbing his belly) to the tales of spoilt students, who, ac-
cording to him were fit only to intern at the nearest tea shop.

I looked at the pillars supporting the roof of the school building. They
were replete with graffiti. Several arrowed-hearts etched on the pillars,
disclaiming,

Raja + Geeta
Gopi + Geeta
Naresh + Geeta etc.

Clearly, there was no a need for a beauty pageant at Jhabua; we had a
clear winner.

When we reached the back of the school, I saw the boundary wall con
-
veniently knocked down. Though I was a doctor and it was none of my
business, I threw a questioning look at Guptaji. He grinned in response.

It was the emergency exit for the students. After finishing their free midday meals, they would jump over the debri to freedom. I understood
why there were more hawkers and street vendors lined up here than they
were at the main gate. Along the wall, which was newly whitewashed, I
encountered something that made my feet stiff. “Ek bar yaha aa gaye to
wapas nai ja paoge, once you are here, there is no going back.”

Guptaji held my hand in reassurance. He continues totell me that this
was a routine affair. Every time any government official visited Jhabua,
he was greeted by such words. “It’s nothing to worry about. Nothing,” he
said, while looking away. I could feel he was hiding something.

I went closer to the wall. The writing was fresh as the paint was dripping.
Gupta Ji tried to pull me away from the place. By George! I was horrified
because of what my profession had taught me, for what Gupta Ji could
never imagine. It was not red paint dripping down the wall but blood,
human blood. I could have put my fifteen years of medical experience on
the line claiming that was human.

Guptaji and I hurriedly walked back to the camp location. Neither of us
uttered a single word.

 

***

I didn’t mention the incident to any of my junior doctors lest they panic.
They had set up camp, the banners were put and the handouts were ready
to be distributed. But something else was playing on my mind.

As we reached camp, I saw a sixty-year-old man with a smattering of grey
hair and a dense moustache, perched on a chair, looking in our direction.
Guptaji introduced him as the Sarpanch of Jhabua. As we exchanged
pleasantries, I caught him looking at Guptaji eerily. I had absolutely no
clue what was going on. I was offered a village tour, which I hesitantly
accepted.

The Sarpanch related to me the problems he faced here while dealing
with the local people as his roots were not tribal. I was barely listening,
being a little scared. While doing the rounds of the narrow lanes of the
village, I saw hostile eyes peering at me from within the curtains of the
tribal houses. They didn’t like me.

We were here to look for possible cases of dengue, to warn people about
the dangers of the fatal disease and suggest preventive measures. But I
felt like I was the one who needed help.

The Sarpanch helped sanitize the mosquito breeding areas and arranged
for the pamphlets to be distributed among the villagers. I returned to the
school with a nagging feeling. The junior doctors ceased idling around as
soon as they saw me enter the school premises. I chatted with them to
lighten my mood. We waited for patients to come to us as the pamphlets
clearly said that any patient could come directly to the camp for a free
check-up. But I didn’t expect any of them to turn up.

***

There was still an hour to go before we wound up as per instructions
from the dean. At half past four, a man carrying a feverish-looking child
walked briskly past the school main gate. I immediately signaled a ward
boy to help the child on the folding bed.

The boy looked abnormally pale. He stared at me coldly when I plugged
the stethoscope into my ears. The man who brought him was tall, frail
and had a loose shirt hanging about his frame. Only rarely did he say a
word. I checked the boy’s heartbeat. Soon enough, it appeared to me that
it wasn’t a normal fever, so I ordered the junior doctor to administer a
blood test. This could be our very first case, I feared. Meanwhile, the frail
man sat by the side of the boy, brooding for the entire duration, waiting
for the results to come.

Before we arrived at the results, there was an extended power cut .We had
forgotten to bring the most important thing - a generator. It was already
past the stipulated time for winding up. As the junior doctors seemed to
get impatient, I asked them to leave on the minivan. However, I chose to
stay on to return on my fiat. Out of courtesy, the juniors hesitated, but
eventually gave in and packed their stuff into the minivan.
After the power came back on at 8 pm, I initiated the pathological pro-
cess. The first results came at around 11 pm. To my respite, it wasn’t den-
gue. The boy had caught some minor flu. I prescribed some analgesics
and antipyretics and discharged the boy. The man left with the child and
as he reached the main gate of the school he turned around, looked at
me and smiled.