Ranjit Kulkarni's Blog, page 25

The Tryst: Short Story

They say that when someone goes out of your life, they go out of your memory. I will tell you that it is not true. I had convinced myself it was true, but it wasn’t. I can vouch for that. In that sense, my life has been a lie of some sort.

The woman in front of me dropped her wallet while walking on the pavement during lunch time last Wednesday. I wasn’t sure if it was unintentional. It had fallen one side open. I saw a photograph of a man staring at me from there. In one instantaneous flash, someone who I thought was out of my life and out of my memory came back. It had been eighteen years. I stopped and picked it up.

“Hey Hello,” I shouted in the direction of the woman. “Madam, your wallet has fallen.”

She turned around and looked at me. She checked her pocket and realised that I was right. She walked back. I sensed something amiss in her smile. It seemed made up. Something wasn’t right.

“Thank you,” she said on seeing it in my hand. I held on to the wallet for a few awkward seconds. She waited as if she expected me to hold on, before eventually asking for it. “Can I have it back?”

“Oh yes, of course,” I said, handing it back. She waited for a few awkward seconds after taking it, as if she expected me to ask her about the man in the photograph. And I did.

“How do you know him?” I asked. “The man in the photograph,” I clarified.

She wasn’t surprised. “He is my husband,” she replied.

“I see,” I shrugged my shoulders. “I am Aruna,” I introduced myself.

“I know, he is the Daniel you know,” she remarked before pausing a bit. “Or knew.”

Knew? My mind went back two decades. How can you say just knew? It revolted with scenes from the past replaying in my mind’s screen. My flowing white wedding gown. The candles being lit. Passages from the Bible, carefully chosen. The precious ring and the vows. All waiting for Daniel. It all came back in a flash. I thought it had gone out of my life with him.

“Aruna?” she asked, shaking me out of my thoughts. “I am Shirley.”

She was slim and had wrinkles on her forehead, dark circles under her eyes, a tired face, brown lips surrounded by crumpled cheeks that made her look many years older than she might have been.

“So now I get it,” I remarked in a hurry. “That was the reason.”

“No, it wasn’t. Not what you think,” she replied. “We married twelve years later.”

I looked at my watch. It was already 2 pm. Time for me to get back to office.

“How about lunch tomorrow?” Shirley asked. I hesitated. I didn’t want to open a pandora’s box. I thought I had already closed that chapter of my life. I didn’t want to revisit it.

“Maybe some other time,” I resisted, at first. Shirley looked at me closely. It was almost a gaze of scrutiny. I didn’t want to look at her in the eye.

“Are you happy?” she asked, again shaking me out of my stupor.

“What do you mean? Of course, I am. Tell Daniel that,” I lashed out at her. I rummaged through my purse and got my old house keychain out. Thank God I still had it. I was worried I had lost it.

“This is my husband and daughter,” I jumped down Shirley’s throat in ire.

“Very nice,” she said, in a serene voice. “Let us have lunch together. Just you and me,” she persisted.

I wasn’t ready, I felt. But then I thought, why not? This was my chance to show her how happy I was. So what if he didn’t turn up that day? My life went on. I nodded, almost against my wish.

“1 PM. Indian Kitchen. Then you can come home,” Shirley said and left.

**  

All of the next twenty-four hours, the memories flooded my mind.

I had met Daniel just after college. Tall, dark, and handsome. Isn’t that what they called them? Knight in shining armour? The one who sweeps you off your feet? He was all of that and more. The centre of attraction everywhere he went. They were the best two years of my life till then. No, Ever.

If only I knew that he was what he turned out to be. If only I had listened to my parents who hadn’t agreed initially before eventually falling in line, for my sake. My father had two near heart attacks – once when Daniel turned up and once when he didn’t. My mother became a bundle of misery.

The next afternoon, I stepped out of my office before 1 PM. I had taken the second half off. This was way too important. I couldn’t miss this chance. A chance to get back after eighteen years.

Shirley was already there when I reached Indian Kitchen.

“You met after college?” she asked after the food was out of the way. What difference did it make? Why was she asking irrelevant questions? I didn’t answer, at first.

“I wish we hadn’t met at all. If I knew he wasn’t going to turn up for the wedding, I would have been better off not meeting him. He showed me dreams and broke them,” I said. The bitterness hadn’t gone away. They say time is the best healer. It is a mirage. It just puts things in the background.

“Are you happy?” Shirley asked again, glaring at me as if she was looking through me.

“I told you yesterday. Why are you asking me again and again?” I tore her off. Why was she bent on making me uncomfortable with myself?

“Really?”

“Yes, I showed you the photographs yesterday.”

“Then why are you here?”

I looked up with trepidation. Had she come to know? I wondered.

Daniel had messed up my life. I wasn’t able to keep my marriage intact due to him, especially after my daughter died seven years back in an accident. He had broken my marriage and my life without being there. Or perhaps, because of not being there.

“I know,” she said, putting a hand on my shoulder. I shoved it aside and scowled at her.

“I don’t need any of your sympathies. I am fine,” I said.

“We should have met earlier,” she said.

“I don’t think so,” I countered. “We shouldn’t have met at all. And I shouldn’t have met your husband at all too,” I howled. “I wasn’t always like this.”

“It might have saved your marriage,” she mused. “But I didn’t know where you were. Till last week.”

And I didn’t care where Daniel was any more. I didn’t want to engage any further with her.

The wife of the man who had been responsible for my failed marriage and wretched life wanted to save it. How outrageous? Was my life so miserable that I had to live off that? I stepped out from the table and decided to leave.

“Wait,” Shirley held my hand. “You need to come home,” she pleaded.

I had no reason to be a toy in her hands anymore. I didn’t want to. No chance I wanted to meet Daniel again in my life.

“Where do you live?” I asked, despite wanting not to.

**

Shirley had a two-wheeler that she took through the wretched lanes of the city to reach what looked like a hutment. Or a slum. I didn’t know the difference. She stopped in front of a door and opened it.

“Come in,” she said.

I cringed as I lowered my head to enter the room. It was a dark, dishevelled neighbourhood, the likes of which I had only heard about but never seen myself. I had never been to something as grim as this place in my life. When Shirley switched on the light inside, I cowered back in fright.

In the centre of the room was an unkempt man on a wheelchair with his neck falling on the right. He had a long beard that extended almost till his chest and hair falling on his back. He wore old, thick-rimmed spectacles, and a white flowing dress that covered his entire body, like a hospital gown. His feet were floating in the air, and he had an expressionless face.

“Daniel,” Shirley said, pointing to the man.

I quivered back in fear. This was not the man I knew. My Daniel was the cynosure of all eyes, the centre of attraction wherever he went, the life of every gathering. This was someone else. I moved closer with trepidation and looked into his eyes. That’s when I recognized him. It was Daniel.

My baffled, rattled state was broken by Shirley who put a calm hand again on my shoulder. I shuddered at the sight and asked her questions with my eyebrows, gesticulating my fingers.

She started saying something and then stopped. This happened a couple of times. She wasn’t telling me everything. There was no reason for her to hide anything. I was ready for anything. I persisted.

And then words came out like a flood. The story of the last eighteen years flowed as if a dam had burst, and the water of a bound river had found its path down the mountain.

She told me about the diagnosis in the days before the wedding and the accompanying hopelessness of recovery. She told me about his debilitating, deteriorating illness and the sheer helplessness of having to live with it. The first few years of anger desperately seeking an answer to why it happened. The later years of resignation and broken hearts of how it was destined. The lost jobs and money and the practical problems. The plunge into poverty and the reality of being deserted by everyone. The starkness of being left all alone and taking shelter in God.

And finally she told me about the nurse who saw it all and who was still with Daniel. Shirley. His wife.

All along, while she spoke and I heard, Daniel was unmoved. There was no movement of hands, no movement of legs. No expression on his face. No sign of life.

When she finished, without knowing it, I found myself shedding tears. I didn’t know whom they were for. Were they for Daniel? For his fate? For his illness? For his love? For his life? For his walking out of my life? For Shirley? And most of all, were they for myself? For my bitterness? For what could have been? I didn’t know and didn’t care to find out. I just let them flow.

Shirley was right. We should have met earlier.

“He is counting his last breath,” Shirley said after a while. “Since last week, he has been whispering something. That’s why I found and tracked you down,” she added. “Come closer.”

I put my ear near his stirring lips. After a lot of effort, I heard him murmur, “I am sorry, Aruna.”

I fell on my knees with hands folded in prayer. I held his hand softly. I thought there was a slight flutter. Or maybe I imagined it. I wasn’t sure. And then there wasn’t any. I pressed his hand again. There was no response. I put my hand on Shirley’s shoulder.

Then I quietly walked away and closed the door behind me.

***

This story was first published in the Potato Soup Journal. You may also read it here.

Potpourri: A Motley Bunch of Short and Long Stories

Just a note to let you know that my latest book “Potpourri: A Motley Bunch of Short and Long Stories” is now available. It is a collection of Thirty One Stories of varying sizes – some of them very short (less than 1000 words) and some quite long (up to 9000 words).

The topics in this collection, Potpourri, will give you a fragrance of the different aromas of human life, situations and characters. With this third collection of my short stories, I now complete 100 published short stories in total across the three collections: Kaleidoscope, Melange and Potpourri.

Potpourri is available on Amazon in Kindle format and in Print (Paperback). It is also available in Print (Paperback) on Flipkart, Pothi and Notion Press. Hope you check out the book, let me know how you find it, and tell others who you think might be interested if you like it.

See the links below:

Potpourri Amazon.in (Kindle and Paperback)

Potpourri Amazon.com (Kindle and Paperback)

Potpourri Flipkart.com (Paperback)

Potpourri Notionpress.com (Paperback)

Potpourri Pothi.com (Paperback)

A brief description of the book and a quick glance on what kind of stories to expect inside follows (from the book cover).

Book Description:

• Can a professor instil interest in his class? Find out in Amar, Amartya, and Amrita
• How much can a man fall in a downward spiral? Read about it in Downfall
• Find out what happens when a junior gymnastic champion doesn’t quite stand up to her potential in The Athlete
• What is in store when a vegetable vendor moves back to his village in the middle of the lockdown in the pandemic? Simple miracles are possible in the life of Swamy
• What happens when a man loses his sight, and a strange old friend of his wife visits them on a cold evening? Check out in The Mind’s Eye
• What is intriguing about A Feather in the Balcony or An Avian Revenge?
• Read about a young boy who loses his mother in A Boy Called Vihaan
• Can a newlywed bride settle in her new home? Will she make an Adjustment?
• Read about these.. and many more.

These are some of the 31 wide-ranging stories included in this book.

Ranging from hidden sensitive stories set in the everyday happenings in the life of everyday people to the emotions of the heart and expressions of love, Potpourri is a motley bunch of short and long stories written in simple language about simple people that will stay with you long after you have finished reading it.

***

Open House: Flash Fiction

At the open house of Vidya Niketan School, all students sat in uncomfortable silence. Most of them were with their mothers. Some of them were with their fathers. They waited for the class teacher to call them. They dreaded the impending discussion about their performance.

Most of them wondered why this day existed. Some of them wondered why mothers existed. A few of them wondered why this day and their mothers existed together. Everyone sat in silence.

Varun sat with his mother on the last bench of the classroom. He was in a cheerful mood. He saw his marksheets with amusement. Despite the lowly marks he had scored, he smiled every time he showed them to his mother.

“See, I could have scored more here,” he pointed to an answer marked wrong.

“It is ok, dear. Next time be more careful,” his mother said. Varun felt better.

He fished out a chocolate from his bag. “You kept this in my bag, isn’t it?”             

He gulped it down, making sure no one else in the classroom saw it.

“I never share it with anyone,” he told her. “That’s why no one sits near me, isn’t it?” he asked.

“That’s ok, dear. But you still have me. And I still have you, isn’t it?” his mother whispered in his ear, trying to cheer him up. But she saw that he was still a bit morose. So she told him a joke.

Varun laughed aloud at the joke. Everyone in the classroom looked back to see what broke the silence. They saw Varun laughing all alone and talking to no one.

***

This story was first published in the January 2022 issue of Literary Yard, voted as one of the top 100 literary blogs on the planet. You may read it here.

A New Journey: Short Story

It was a place where time stopped. The beauty was overwhelming. Rohan couldn’t get his eyes off the scene. He saw his father get the camera out and click a picture.

“Tavleen would have loved being here,” Mr Rana said. “If only…she were here,” he sighed.

“It is a spell-binding scene of nature,” Rohan agreed in a pensive tone. “Mom missed something.”

Mr Rana clicked a few more pictures and moved closer to his son. “That’s the reason we got her here, isn’t it?” he put a hand on his son’s shoulder and spoke. “Let her end her journey here now in these pristine natural surroundings. Get her out of your bag,” he told him.

Rohan looked at his father. “It’s in your bag,” he reminded his father.

“My bag? I thought you kept it in your bag,” Rana sounded surprised.

“No, it is in your bag. You kept it there last night, at the hotel,” Rohan reminded his father.

“Oh, did I?” the old man had a frown on his forehead, trying to remember.

After he had turned seventy, his memory had started fading. But it had worsened after his wife’s death three months ago. It was partly a result of age. It was partly because he felt nothing was worth remembering anymore. He got his backpack down from his shoulders and rummaged through it.

He searched for the small pot holding his wife’s ashes.

“They are not here, Rohan,” he reported to his son, in a tone indicative of some panic.

“Don’t tell me, Dad. Have you forgotten Mom at the hotel?” Rohan asked appearing perplexed.

Rana sat desolate on the white sands of Vijay Nagar beach. He rummaged through his backpack again. The clear waters of the sea in front of him waited for Tavleen to merge with it one last time.

“I still don’t see it. Look if you can find it,” he told his son and handed over his bag to him.

Rohan went through the contents of the bag. It had a towel, a cap, sunglasses, a water bottle, some snacks, a mobile phone, and camera batteries. But the pot was missing.

“It is not here. I will check my bag,” he told his father and rushed to open his bag. After a few minutes, he looked at his father and shook his head. “Dad, you forgot Mom again?” he asked.

Rana scratched his head trying to recollect. “This is amazing. You said she always loved going to beautiful places, and that’s why we came here,” he said. “And I forgot to get her to the most beautiful beach in the world,” he remarked with a smirk on his face and his palm on his forehead.

Rohan knew that his mother was a born traveller. She was always ready to go on new trips, start new journeys, anywhere. But his father never let her. Rohan wanted to let her, now. It was his idea to take her ashes to a beautiful place near nature for immersion. Mr Rana had agreed with hesitation a couple of months back, after much convincing by Rohan.

“You never took her anywhere even when she was alive,” he made a caustic remark under his breath, and bit his tongue. He felt that he shouldn’t have said it. His father was old now.

“You are right, Rohan. I never took her anywhere. She loved to travel, she was an adventurous soul,” Rana said. He stood up and put his backpack on his shoulders. “She wanted to go all around the world to see new places. I never understood it. And now I forgot to get her again,” he said.

“Never mind, we will check in the hotel when we get back,” Rohan said hugging his father tight.

They went back to the hotel in a hurry. Rana paced across the lobby like he was thirty years younger.

Rohan sauntered along. On his way back from the beach to the hotel, a thought had struck him. What if he could take his Mom around the world, at least now? But he wasn’t sure how to go about it. Plus he felt his father would not like the idea. His father had been such an unadventurous fellow. True to tradition, true to duty, true to norms, true to how things should be done.

His mom had suppressed her urge for adventure all her life, Rohan felt. She had no choice. Rohan knew that she was one happy-go-lucky woman at heart, if left to herself.

Rana asked Rohan for the room keys. He walked straight inside the room and opened the wardrobe.

“There she is,” he heaved a sigh of relief, seeing the pot of ashes lying there, silent, waiting.

“She has always been there, waiting. All her life, isn’t it? And even now?” Rohan asked his father.

Rana did not reply. Rohan bit his tongue again. He again felt he shouldn’t have said that. But he couldn’t stop himself. He gave his father a glass of water and asked him to sit down. But Rana picked up his towel and went to the bathroom to get fresh, to change. Like he always did when he came home after a day of work outside. His discipline. His duty. The right thing to do.

“Let us go tomorrow to immerse Tavleen’s ashes,” he said before going in. Rohan felt he had some time to convince his Dad about his idea. He got to work in the afternoon while Rana took his nap.

**

“Dad, I wanted to ask you something. Can I?” Rohan asked his father next morning after breakfast.

“Yes, dear, any time,” he replied, combing the small tuft of hair on his mostly bald pate.

“Did the scene of nature yesterday at the beach take your breath away?” Rohan asked.

“Yes.. of course it did. I have never seen anything so beautiful in my life!” he exulted.

“Wouldn’t It have taken her breath away too?” Rohan asked.

Rana looked up to Rohan and nodded. “Yes. That’s why we got here, isn’t it? What are you getting at?” he asked, puzzled.

Rohan decided that the time had come to reveal his plan. He picked up the pot of ashes from the wardrobe and removed the red cloth cover. He showed it to Rana.

“Where is Mom?” Rana howled in shock. “How is this empty?” he cried aloud.

Rohan now picked his laptop bag from the shelf below. He removed the laptop and started it.

“Rohan, what are you doing? Where are the ashes? We have to go immerse them in the sea now,” Rana yelled, now pacing in visible exasperation.

Rohan calmly got out another bag from the wardrobe. It had a bunch of around ten small plastic bags each six-inch wide by six-inch long. All the bags had a grey-black powder in it.

“Here they are….,” he said to his father who continued to have a puzzled look on his face. “Come here, Dad. I have a plan,” he told Rana and asked him to sit next to him and his laptop.

Rana looked at what his son showed him. It had a set of photographs from all around the world of natural beauty that looked stunning. Beaches, Mountains, Forests, Deserts.

“I want to take Mom around the world,” Rohan said, pointing at the pictures. “These will take her breath away. Even if it is after she has taken her last breath,” he added.

Rana watched the pictures and his son alternately, awestruck at what he had missed in his life and what his son was making up for. He didn’t know what to say. Initially he wondered if it was the right thing to do. His sense of duty questioned such weird plans.

“How?” he asked Rohan.

“These are people I found who stay close to these places,” Rohan said, marking out some emails with a destination against each name. “I ran a campaign last night on a friend’s website. He runs a travel company. He sent it to his clients and partners. These are people have volunteered to take Mom there.” Then he lifted one of the small plastic pouches in his hands and said, “I am going to send Mom to them.”

Rana was stunned by the plan Rohan shared and was planning to execute.

“So that is how you want to end her journey?” Rana asked. Rohan sat in silence. He thought the journey had only begun. For him and his Mom, at least.

“If you are okay with it,” Rohan said, after a few minutes of silence.

Mr Rana got up from the bed and looked at himself in the mirror.

“I forgot your Mom all these years,” he said with eyes welled up. He put his hand on Rohan’s head, and added, “But you remembered her. Let us start her new journey from here.”

***

This story was first published in the Kathmandu Tribune. You may read it here.

Change: Flash Fiction

They tell me that I am highly risk averse. That I don’t take even the slightest of chances.

That my life is so predictable. Everything is run by a schedule. Everything falls into a routine.

That I am so disciplined that I am boring.

I get up at the same time every day. I sleep at the same time every night.

I have my breakfast at the same time every morning. I come to office at the same time every day. I have my lunch at the same time every afternoon. My meals are fixed most days. I use the same fixed plate and sit in the same fixed chair at the table in the same fixed way every day.

They tell me my exceptions to the schedule are also scheduled. Cheat meal on Wednesdays. Sleep late on Saturdays. No staff meetings on the last Monday of the month.

Well, I tell everyone that it is not because I am risk averse. It is because I don’t like to change what is already working for me. Well, I guess it means one and the same thing.

I get it. They tell me that due to my risk aversion, I miss out on adventure. That I don’t smell the roses. Or is it smell the coffee? Whatever.

That I don’t consider new paths. That some ideas just don’t get any consideration.

I understand what they say. But I have been successful this way.

When I do the same thing again and again, I realise that I can beat any targets.

That’s the problem, they tell me. That there is no need to be so obsessed with targets on everything.

Well, I ask that if a CEO doesn’t get obsessed with targets, who does? Didn’t I become CEO that way?

But still, I consider everything they say on its own merit. I am open to inputs. I take my risk aversion and focus on discipline as an area of improvement.

Everyone tells me that I should chill out a bit. That I should let creative ideas come to myself. That as a CEO, I need to strategize, to think things through before setting them into action.

I get it. I finally get it after all these years.

So, I have decided to make some changes this year.

I am going to set some time aside for chilling out. I am going to consciously let creative ideas come to me. I am going to deliberately strategize before getting into action.

Starting this Friday, 3-4 pm is set aside for strategizing and creative ideas. 4-5 pm is chilling out time.

I have marked it in my calendar.

***

100 Amazon Ratings

Just a quick update note to let you know that there are now 100 Ratings and Reviews of my books on Amazon. It is a small yet significant milestone. 100 Ratings just sounds good.

You can check out the books and ratings at my Amazon Author Page at the link below:

Ranjit’s Amazon Author Page

And with that comes one important request.

If you have read any of my books, whether it is Jigneshbhai and Swami’s “The Good, The Bad and The Silly” or “Give Me a Break“; or if it is the Short Story Omnibuses “Kaleidoscope” or “Melange” or any of the other smaller collections, I would not just request but urge you to please leave a rating on Amazon. It just takes less than a minute but helps both the author and other readers. I also found out that ratings and reviews also trigger the Amazon algorithm to make the book appear ahead in reader searches. If you are in a particularly good mood and feel like expressing what you feel about any of my books, a detailed text review will be even better. But a simple star rating is also good enough.

You may click on any of the book links above or go to the book you want to rate from my author page or search for it on Amazon to leave a rating and/or review. Or you can simply search for it on the Amazon App or in the Kindle App on your phone or device.

However you get to the book, please leave a rating. It is anonymous till you write a review. I am looking forward to it. Thanks in advance!

And one last note. Four of my books: The Good, The Bad and The Silly, Give Me a Break, Kaleidoscope and Melange, are now available in Paperback on Amazon.in. Check them out at the link below:

Ranjit’s Books in Paperback on Amazon.in

Thanks for your attention. Thanks for reading!

***

The Open Drawer: Short Story

When she bent down to clean the floor beneath, her eyes were drawn towards that drawer again.

The drawer was open when the bell rang. She knew what was inside it. She took a deep breath.

“Shanthamma, give the keys to the driver,” she heard from the other room.

She took the keys from the open drawer, went to the door, and gave them to the driver. When she returned to clean the floor, her eyes went again to what else was in the drawer. Keys. Two Wallets. Currency. Some coins. Loose papers. Old pens. Business cards. Bills. Some stray papers.

“Shanthamma, clean the bathroom today,” she heard again from the other room, breaking her chain of thought. She was momentarily distracted from the drawer.

“Yes, madam,” she replied with her head down.

Madam got ready and came out of her room to leave for office. It was a busy morning. The cackling sound of vessels under the tap and the humming of clothes inside the washing machine filled the living and dining area. A sound of a ceiling fan buzzing, and the smell of breakfast being cooked filled the air. Shanthamma finished the floor cleaning and went to the sink to start washing the utensils.

“The washing machine has another fifteen minutes to go,” Madam came and checked. “I am getting late, Sumeet. Can you wait till she finishes her work?” she asked her husband.

“Ok fine. I will wait. But tell her to be quick, too,” Sumeet replied.

“Shanthamma, finish the vessels and clothes, and go today. Clean the bathrooms tomorrow,” Madam ordered, making an adjustment.

“Ok, madam,” Shanthamma nodded her head.

“And come a bit early tomorrow,” she yelled while closing the main door. “Bye, Sumeet.” Madam left in a hurry. The drawer was still open.

The phone rang when Shanthamma was doing her last task of the day. She was in the balcony putting the clothes to dry on the line. She glanced over her phone. It was her daughter.

“Amma, school fees, tomorrow last day,” she declared.

“Hmm. You go,” she assured her daughter.

Her mind went back to the open drawer. She went past it while keeping the empty bucket in the bathroom. She saw what was in it. Madam had forgotten her small purse there. It was easy pickings.

“Going Sir,” Shanthamma yelled, and left.

***

The next day when she returned, the drawer was still open.

When Shanthamma looked inside, it still had the same things.

The car keys, coins, loose change, papers, cards, and bills stayed untouched. Some new pens and cheque leaves had found their way there. She felt sorry for herself. She remembered what she had done yesterday when she went past the drawer while cleaning the floor. The drawer seemed to stare back at her as if it knew. Shanthamma looked elsewhere.

“Shanthamma, clean the bathrooms today, both of them,” Madam howled from her room. All days are the same, Shanthamma felt. I clean the floor and vessels, and Madam gets ready. Then I hang the clothes on the line, and Madam leaves. Nobody cares what I do. They won’t miss anything. A wave of dismay enveloped her.

The doorbell rang like every day. “Shanthamma, give the k…..,” Madam shouted.

Shanthamma shouted back, “Yes, madam.”

She knew it was the driver. Today, she smiled at the driver when she handed over the keys while closing the door. But he never smiled back. He had the same expression every day. All days were the same, she told herself.

But today was different for Shanthamma. It was the last day to pay her daughter’s school fees. Two thousand rupees; fees for three months. Shanthamma knew she had arranged for it.

“Sumeet,” Madam shouted again from her room. “Did you see my purse anywhere?” she asked.

Shanthamma’s heart missed a beat. Her body froze, if only for a moment. She paced through washing the vessels. She wanted to finish them fast.

“Which one? The small one? No, I didn’t see it. Where had you kept it?” Sumeet asked.

“I don’t remember. But it must have been in the drawer,” Madam tried to recollect.

Shanthamma knew where exactly the purse was. Yesterday and today. She had sweat on her forehead. She wasn’t sure she had done the right thing. But did she have any choice? How was her daughter going to go to school, otherwise?

One part of her mind told her that this was no way to pay for the school fees. Another part of her mind told her that there was no other way. God help me, she prayed.

“Or maybe I left it in the car,” Madam said.

“Shanthamma,” she called out. Shanthamma’s heart skipped a beat. “Go down and check the car for my purse,” she ordered.

Shanthamma nodded and continued washing the vessels. Her mind went blank. Why did Madam trust me so much? she wondered. What am I to do now?

“Was there anything important in it?” Sumeet asked. “Maybe you forgot it in office?” he added.

Shanthamma silently picked up the bucket and started putting the clothes on the line. She did not want to face them, lest they understand the tension in her mind. She fumbled while putting some of the clothes but pretended as if they had fallen down from the bucket on their own.

“Some business cards, some medicines, I think it had some money.. maybe three thousand plus some change..,” Madam replied. “Maybe some lipsticks and pens, I think…”

“So nothing important as such.. I guess,” Sumeet reassured her.

“Well, not very.. but still..,” Madam fiddled with the drawer. “Shanthamma, can you go down and check if it’s there in the car?” she persisted. “Put the clothes on the line later.”

“Yes, madam..” Shanthamma nodded. She was ready to step out.

***

Shanthamma went down the stairs faster than usual. Her mind was working fast as well. What was she to do now, she wondered again. With her mind racing, she went to the car.

“Madam, purse.. in car?” she asked the driver. He opened the door and looked inside. The seats. On them. Below them. The floor. The dashboard. The drawers. He even checked the trunk. Shanthamma pretended to be worried and waited in right earnest. The purse was nowhere to be found. The driver shook his head. Shanthamma shrugged her shoulders and went back up.

She climbed the stairs much slower than when she had raced down. Her mind had slowed down by now. When she reached the second floor, she slowly walked through the corridor. She let the soft breeze cool her temples. She tiptoed towards Madam’s flat. She had made up her mind when she rang the doorbell.

“Madam, purse,” she said on stepping inside. She handed over the purse to madam. She put on a fake smile and pretended to be excited with the discovery.

“Oh, wonderful, you found it,” Madam exulted in happiness. “Sumeet, I knew Shanthamma would find it. It was in the car,” she said. “Keep it in the drawer,” she directed her to the open drawer.

Shanthamma walked silently to the drawer and kept it there with a sly smile. She had no idea how she was going to pay for her daughter’s school fees now. With her head hanging down, she went to the door and prepared to leave.

“Shanthamma, wait,” she heard Madam shout out loudly before she closed the door.

Shanthamma’s heart was in her mouth. Did Madam find out? Did she know that the purse was not in the car? Did the driver tell her that the purse was not found? Did Madam realise the truth? Thoughts of impending doom raced through her mind. Her blood pressure shot through the roof and with a palpitating heart whose beats she could hear and feel.

Her face had turned pale when she walked back in. Maybe she had bitten off more than she could chew. Maybe she was going to lose even the one job she had.

“What about the remaining clothes? And you didn’t clean the bathrooms,” Madam reminded her with a smile, when she came back. Shanthamma was overjoyed when she heard that and put a palm to her forehead. Never before had she felt a greater joy at hanging the clothes than she felt today. She hummed her favourite song while cleaning the bathroom today. Her heart felt light.

When she finished, she had the satisfaction of a job well done. The drawer was still open, and her mind went towards it. The purse was safely in it and Madam was almost ready. It was time to go.

“Shanthamma, one minute…,” she heard Madam call her out again. She wondered what it was this time. Every time Madam called her today, her heart started beating faster.

“Take your salary before you go…,” Madam said. “I have kept two thousand rupees more this month, because of your festival this month,” she added.

“Ok, Madam,” Shanthamma nodded. Her pumping heart slowed down in a sigh of relief and joy. She smiled looking at Madam; this time it was not fake.

“I have kept it in the drawer,” Madam told her and left for her office.

Shanthamma walked towards the open drawer. All days, definitely, weren’t the same.

***

This story was first published in the Indian Periodical. You may also read it here.

Something’s Cooking

This week I am posting an unpublished chapter from an unpublished book. I had started on a story idea a few months back but never got back to completing it. I chanced upon it this week while thinking of something funny to write.

Who knows – perhaps it might go into the next novel from the world of Jigneshbhai and Swami. Here follows what is, as of now, an uncooked dish, but which I had named, at that time, as ‘Something’s Cooking.’

***

Jigneshbhai and Swami gulped a spoonful of the thirteenth and last dish participating in the annual organic cooking contest for which they had been invited by Shridhar Mama as judges. As part of the preceding twelve, they had relished whole wheat chapatis, fruit salad based on organic milk, sandwiches with organic jams and even a chickpea organic soup. It was after a lot of deliberation which needed repeated tasting of multiple dishes (which Jigneshbhai didn’t mind), that they decided that the winner of today’s cooking competition was the organic spinach paneer dish.

“I never knew that a job like this existed,” Jigneshbhai remarked licking another spoonful from the prize winning dish. “If I knew it when I was twenty, I wouldn’t have started my business,” he added. Swami tapped on his friend’s rotund belly and said, “This would have been double its current size then.” Shridhar Mama broke into his loud guffaw that reverberated throughout his farmhouse. Thirteen participants from the nearby villages laughed with him adding to the merriment.

The day was bright with magical sunshine. The soft breeze and the blue skies made it a perfect day for the annual contest that Shridhar Mama started a few years back to encourage local villagers. For the past couple of years, he had started inviting a few urban types to the annual event. It was a day out for everyone. It was a day to taste the organic recipes from the nearby villagers based on the fresh vegetables and fruits in Shridhar Mama’s farmhouse – Prakriti Eco farm.

One would have thought that on a day like this, Shridhar Mama would be at his exhilarating best. And that had always been the case for the past few years. But this year, Swami felt that he was a bit off colour. And the reason was not far too see. For an informed eye, it was clear that the cause for his worry was his wayward son Venky.

The youngest among cousins, Shridhar Mama’s son Venky grew up on a recipe of constant comparisons with his elder cousins. One of them was Swami Anna, the role model to emulate, who he must be like. And the other was Balu Anna, Raji Periamma’s son, the role model to neglect and be wary of, who he must not be like.

Venky probably misinterpreted the recipe of instructions and reversed them. He completely avoided being like Swami. In fact, to a large extent, he ended up being far from Swami’s academic accomplishments which, even in the luckiest of circumstances, were way beyond his reach. He attempted, instead, to be like Balu Anna which didn’t amount to much, and was much easier. Because till very recently, Balu was a good-for-nothing whose college going son’s educational needs, only of late, awakened the fatherly responsibilities within him.

But Venky couldn’t rise up to Balu’s level of incompetence as well. At his best, Balu was a harmless dunce, and at his worst, he was a timid small-time crook. And he knew it. But Venky at his best was a dimwit who didn’t know it, and at his worst, was a smart alec with a needless, adventurous side. That side spurred him to action and got him into trouble. And that penchant for misadventure was what worried Shridhar Mama.

“Well you may think that this is not an appropriate forum and occasion for me to raise my filial concerns,” Shridhar Mama started pulling out from his lexicon. Jigneshbhai asked Swami in a whisper what filial meant. But such interruptions don’t affect Shridhar Mama whose relentlessness in the use of verbose English is his defining trait.

“But now that the cookery competition is over and we find ourselves in the close-knit company of each other, I thought it best to muse upon this topic before you take leave. I think it would serve the best interests of my adult offspring if your attention is directed towards his recent misadventures.”

Shridhar Mama and his volley of long sentences fell on Swami and Jigneshbhai like an avalanche snowballing with every roll of words. And he was just getting started. He took a pause to catch a breath. That’s when Swami barged in to interrupt Shridhar Mama’s snowball.

“Venky is still young, Mama. He will find his way,” he reassured the worried father, while tying his shoelaces.

Shridhar Mama had a gaze that Julius Caesar might have had before saying Et Tu Brutus. Swami’s reassurance felt like a knife of the great betrayal to Shridhar Mama. He was expecting more empathy from his responsible nephew.

“Well, I have been waiting for him to find his way for the past ten years.” Shridhar Mama continued. “But he seems to be a perpetually lost traveller who has neither a map nor a destination. Forget about these important details, he doesn’t even have a compass for general direction.” He went into a travel toolkit for the journey of Venky’s aimless life.

“He goes from one thing to another every few months. And what others are doing affects him more than what he is doing, which in general over the past ten years hasn’t amounted to much.” The father was not mincing any words in his demonstration of filial affection.

Staring blankly at the prize winning organic spinach paneer dish at the top of the table, towards which Jigneshbhai too stole a cursory glance, Shridhar Mama continued his heartfelt compliments towards his errant son.

“The only noteworthy achievement of his educational life was the bagging of a beautiful, rich and, I now think, an impulsive, naive girl, as his wife. I was surprised with the fact that he cleared his college exams. But what shocked me beyond measure was the reality that this girl, who deserved better in life, agreed to marry Venky. In fact, I remember asking her twice before agreeing to bind them in marital vows. One has to be considerate when one is knowingly pushing someone down the cliff.”

Jigneshbhai broke into a small chuckle. On the day of Venky’s wedding a few months back, this was the exact question that he had asked Swami. How did this girl agree to marry Venky? Swami’s lips curled on one side as he tried to restrain his smile during what was a serious conversation about his youngest cousin’s future. Shridhar Mama was immune to all such distractions and continued.

“I thought marriage to a girl used to better standards of living will make him more responsible. But all it has ended up doing, I reckon, is to make him more adventurous in pursuit of keeping up with the Joneses. Though I don’t know why keeping up even with the lowliest Joneses should be difficult for someone like him who doesn’t have much to keep up with. Any addition to zero is a positive number.”

Shridhar Mama went on and on throwing one compliment after another on his son. Jigneshbhai and Swami, all set to leave, looked at each other. But Shridhar Mama wasn’t coming to the point, which was, in reality, he being himself. He took another pause for breath allowing Swami a chance to direct him to the point.

“So what is his latest misadventure, Mama?” Swami sneaked in what sounded like a précis question after an odyssey. Shridhar Mama came straight to the point in a hurry.

“Well, he thinks I should commercialise Prakriti Eco farm. And that I should hold this organic cooking competition more often. And that I should get sponsors for it. That I should invite more urban folks like you to promote organic food. And I should have healthy walk and healthy run events at the farm. And what not. And most importantly, I should fund his misadventures which he, without any compunction, calls as business ideas!”

For once, Jigneshbhai, though he briefly wondered what compunction meant, felt that, while not nature and Mama friendly, this wasn’t a bad business idea, if done well. Swami, on the other hand, thought it would be impractical for him to eat thirteen organic dishes every weekend, if the cooking contest is held more often. And it would be impractical to expect him to participate in healthy walk and run events after judging the dishes, for sure. He didn’t quite like it. Shridhar Mama nipped the bud of optimism in the happy mind of Jigneshbhai before it could flower any further.

“Before you start attributing the credit for such business ideas to the bairn of our family, let me warn you that it has not come from his brain. Pun intended.” Shridhar Mama laughed aloud alone at the pun of words that he had used.

“It has originated from his observation that Discovery Farmland, the property next to this one is trying similar commercial experiments now. After its Seventh Heaven project failed to take off, you might have noticed some billboards around organic farming at Discovery Farmland on your way here. That’s the reason for the newfound business acumen of my progeny.”

Shridhar Mama took a long pause after his tirade while Swami and Jigneshbhai mused over this new development. But it didn’t take long before he continued.

“I have rejected this idea, lock, stock and barrel. And I fear that he will engage in some other misadventures now that the easiest option is closed. Therefore, I wish that you talk to the youngest scion of our family and guide the heir apparent to the Prakriti Eco farm towards more fruitful ways of keeping up with the Joneses.” Shridhar Mama, after a brief interlude with to-the-point sentences was back to his melodramatic speech.

“I must also forewarn you that, as part of his plan, after my rejection of it, he briefly mentioned that he would not hesitate to fund it by selling our ancestral property,” Shridhar Mama threw a bombshell.

“Ancestral property?” Swami asked with the curiosity of a cat.

“Yes, the dilapidated structure that they now refer to as a mansion, though as per my dictionary, a crumbling edifice is a more appropriate description, if you have seen it, of late,” Shridhar Mama minced no words letting us know what he felt of the ancestral building.

“Oh, is it? You mean the one in our village? I haven’t seen it in years,” Swami said.

“Well, Yes, that’s the one. Even I haven’t seen it for a couple of years. It was a largish structure that your grandfather had built on top of a house that his father had built,” Shridhar Mama informed us.

“Oh I see,” Swami remarked.

“No, you don’t see, Swami,” Shridhar Mama implored. “I can only pray to God that you see the path that my adult offspring is taking and stop him in his steps before he moves any further,” he added in desperation.

It was at precisely that moment that Swami heard a familiar sound of a car. It grew louder after every minute. Caught in the moment, Swami thought it was Venky. But Jigneshbhai reminded him that he had sent his driver Puttuswamy to fill up petrol in his car for our return trip. He had come back and it was time for us to leave. With a promise to talk to Venky, Jigneshbhai and Swami got up to leave Prakriti Eco farm.

As we got out of the gate of Prakriti, at the turn we saw a young man standing next to a bike waving out.

“Stop,” Swami told Puttuswamy. “It’s Venky,” he added looking at me and Jigneshbhai. We wondered what was cooking.

***

Some Books I read

I recently read “A Prisoner of Birth” by Jeffrey Archer. One would think that a long book about a simple man wronged and his story of revenge against powerful adversaries would be a common story. But the way Archer writes and tells the story makes this an extremely gripping, interesting, tense one that I could not put down. Fast-paced, beautiful legal articulation, with perfectly drawn-out characters and believable scenes, this is Jeffrey Archer doing what he does best.

Before that, I also read another interesting book titled “A Man called Ove”.  It is the story of an old, grumpy man called Ove and his struggles with coming to terms with a situation in his life. The description, behaviour and dialogue of Ove and his relationships with everyone are so well crafted that the reader can visualise Ove. The manner in which the book is written switching between past, and present tells the story of Ove layer by layer. A grumpy old man gets reasons to live by a set of people and circumstances. A well told story of an exceptional character!

It inspired me to write a short story called “A Boy called Vihaan”!

Another one was a big book of short stories on Kindle called “50 Greatest Short Stories” which I picked up to learn from the great writers of the yesteryears. It turned out to be quite a something unexpected. It has stories by Chekhov, Maupassant, Saki, O.Henry, HG Wells, you name it. For lovers of classic literary short stories, this book is like a collector’s item, containing masterpiece after masterpiece collated together in one package. It’s a long book – almost 600 plus pages – and takes a while to complete, but well worth the finish. I treasured it.

And last but not the least was a book called ‘The Tattooist of Auschwitz’. What a tragic, heart-wrenching circumstance for a heart-warming love story! An absolutely stunning novel that numbs you with the worst of humanity, and at the same time, springs you back to life with the best that humanity offers – True love. This is one book that you will not forget for a long time. Well researched, well told story of a couple that falls in love in the inhuman environment of Auschwitz but doesn’t give up despite death hovering over them all the time. A heart-rending exposure to the atrocities in the concentration camp is the backdrop for a lovely story. A novel not to be missed!

Just felt like writing a short post this week. Till my next post, Happy Reading!

***

Ready for the Big Stage: Short Story

In his mind, he always believed that he could have been anything – a doctor, an engineer, a businessman, a stockbroker, or an artist. But he chose to be a detective. But success had eluded him, and he blamed the small town he lived in for it. “You deserve better,” he told the man in the mirror every morning when he woke up.

Therefore, when detective Badshah got a call from a diamond trader in the big city of Mumbai to solve the case of his stolen uncut diamonds, the small-town detective felt that his reputation and career had finally reached the tipping point. How else could one explain this unsolicited case dropping into his lap like this? He liked the new development. He liked the successful feeling he got in his excited heart from the new development even more.

He felt he had had enough of solving cow thefts and petty drunken brawls. How much more of one’s life can someone as talented as him spend on fixing vandalism and minor shoplifting in his small hometown? But this case was something worth his time and talent.

A diamond thief in Mumbai must be a thief deserving respect in the community of thieves. Tracking him down would be something worth the time and talent of a detective of the pedigree of Badshah, he told the man in the mirror again. It would propel him into the higher orbit that he deserved. He gave a contented smile to the man in the mirror and set out.

He had never gone out of his small hometown for longer than a few days. This was going to be his first major trip outside. Travel was something he always wanted to do, and he felt it was apt that it was to the big city of Mumbai for work. He saw the flight ticket that the client had sent him. He flaunted it to everyone in his hometown. Everyone thought that detective Badshah, after toiling for years on local cases of low importance, had finally arrived on to the big stage. He prepared to leave for Mumbai.

It was a late evening flight. It was almost midnight by the time Badshah landed at Mumbai Airport. He wondered why his client sent him a ticket for a flight so late. Couldn’t he have booked a flight at some other convenient time? Badshah thought of asking the client, but he didn’t ask him. Beggars can’t be choosers, he reminded himself. There was no need to get carried away. This is his first case on the big stage, and he shouldn’t act over smart, he felt. Thankfully, dinner was paid for in the flight and so when detective Badshah landed in Mumbai close to midnight, he didn’t have to worry about dinner. Life in his hometown revolved around food and meals and he was glad that his client in Mumbai cared about it.

The client had booked a suite for him at a hotel already. He had said it should be easy to find it. But detective Badshah decided that he had done enough work for the day. Why bother so much about finding the hotel yourself? After all, this was a case of stolen diamonds. The fees should be good, he felt. He had not spoken about it with the client yet. But from the client’s conversation, it looked like fees shouldn’t be a big issue.

All he had to do now was to take a cab and pay the cabbie who shall drive him to his hotel. He can afford such small luxuries now, he told himself. After all, people on the big stage value their time and spend on the right things. He should learn to do it too.

Detective Badshah walked out of the airport and hailed a cab.

“Golden Orchid hotel,” he told the cabbie.

The cabbie gave him a head-to-toe look. Detective Badshah had a purple bag. He wore sunglasses even at this hour. He had a cap with a big capital B on it, which the cabbie noted. Badshah also wore a gold chain in his neck that fell over his shirt. It was a good luck charm from his mother that protected him from all evil.

“500 rupees,” the cabbie said.

Badshah sat in the cab. The cabbie waited for him to hand over his bag to be put in the trunk like his normal airport customers. But detective Badshah didn’t notice that. He made himself comfortable with the big purple bag next to him on the back seat. The cabbie came back to his driver’s seat. He had a smirk on his face when he started to drive.

“First time in Mumbai, Sir?” he asked.

Badshah gave him a glare from above his sunglasses and, after a pause, replied, “No, I come here every month on work.”

“Stay at Golden Orchid every time Sir?” he asked.

“Yes, most of the time. I love their suite,” detective Badshah replied and turned his gaze outside the window. “The city of Mumbai never sleeps, eh?” he remarked after a while.

“Yes Sir,” the driver said and focused on his driving.

Detective Badshah enjoyed the sights and sounds of the city for the next twenty minutes.

“Sir, your hotel,” the driver said.

“Oh it’s here. That was quick. No traffic at night, eh?” detective Badshah remarked, and handed over a crisp five hundred rupee note to the cab driver.

“Yes Sir,” the cabbie said and left.

The suite was the best hotel room that Badshah had seen. Not only had he never seen something so luxurious, but it was something that was even beyond his imagination. He jumped and danced on the bed, and switched on the air conditioner, and opened the minibar, and checked the food menu. In short, he had a whale of a time before going to sleep. He had indeed arrived on the big stage, he told himself looking at the suite.

In the morning, he had a wholesome breakfast that the diamond trader had booked along with the room. Then he clicked photographs of the hotel and his room on his phone and sent them to everyone at home. Then, he dug out the numbers of everyone he knew in his hometown and sent the photographs to them.

For the next thirty minutes, he called all of them to check if they had seen them. He told them how this case was the break he was waiting for and how it was going to leapfrog him into the big league. He had never been happier.

At nine thirty, when he was back in his room after breakfast, he got a call from his diamond trader client.

“I hope you had a good flight,” the client said.

“Yes sir. It was a bit late, but you know, working at night is not uncommon in my profession,” detective Badshah replied.

“Wonderful. Any problems finding the hotel?” the client enquired.

“Not at all. I am here to find the diamond thief. A hotel shouldn’t cause problems, isn’t it?” detective Badshah said with a swagger.

“Yes of course,” the client smiled. “Shall we meet at 10.30 at the lobby?” he asked.

“Lobby? I am sorry?” detective Badshah enquired.

“The Lobby? It’s on the ground level. Or let’s meet at the coffee shop on mezzanine. 10.30 sharp,” the client said.

“Alright.. oh .. ok,” detective Badshah replied, wondering where is this mezzanine and why he has to meet at a coffee shop.

He quickly got ready. The room had become stuffy, so he decided to open the windows. He couldn’t find any windows. So he went close to the curtains and found one behind them. He realised that the windows were closed and couldn’t be opened. He pushed the curtains away to let some natural light come into his room. If not fresh air like his hometown, he felt the urge for some natural sunlight. He stood in front of the window.

Just as he turned back from the window, he noticed a structure with a board that said “Mumbai Airport Terminal 1” right in front of the hotel. He wondered whether it was the same airport that he came to last night. He thought it was. A frown of suspicion made its presence felt on his forehead.

He went to the coffee shop at 10.40. But no one turned up at the coffee shop till way past noon. He tried calling but couldn’t reach the client. When he enquired with the coffee shop, they said someone had left him a message. He opened the paper chit that had the message. It said, in bold letters, “DON’T NEED A DETECTIVE WHOM A CABBIE CAN FOOL. GO BACK.”

Detective Badshah bit his lips and made sure no one around him had seen either the message or his face after reading it. He quietly checked out of the hotel after paying all the bills. He glared at the airport as he stepped out but went to the railway station and took the first train back. The next day he told everyone in his hometown about his travel adventures and how he had cracked the case of the lost diamonds in the big city of Mumbai in less than a day, and how he was, finally, ready for the big stage.

***

This story was first published in Cafe Lit Magazine. You may also read it here.