Vrushali Samant's Blog
October 23, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Dirty Dirty Things.
Eighteen-year-old Rohan and his twenty-one-year-old girlfriend Sheena were restless. The young couple were tough on luck. They had no friends with spare rooms, nor did they have the money to rent a place for their basic needs.
Then Rohan came up with a not-so-ingenious plan. “Look, my mother steps out for her gym at 9:00 A.M., and she is back by 10:30 A.M, sometimes 10:45, after doing the bazaar shopping. So, come home around ten minutes past nine and leave around twenty past ten," said Rohan like a pucca time-trapped Mumbaikar. Sheena was too desperate to check for any loopholes. She agreed readily.
The next day, when she tiptoed into his flat, Sheena froze in her tracks. Seated on the sofa was an old woman with a scraggly fleece of white hair. She must have been older than the gods! But what was scary about her was that she looked straight into Sheena’s eyes. Piercingly.
Sheena craned her neck to look at Rohan. He was quick to explain, “Don’t worry. Naani does not remember anything. After two minutes, she will forget we are here. See,” he said, taking Sheena’s hand and gently pulling her out of Naani’s line of sight. Sheena noticed that Naani continued to stare in the direction where she had stood just a moment ago!
The young couple disappeared into the passage and began kissing passionately. Hungry for each other, their youthful desire was all-consuming. In that moment, Rohan gently guided Sheena in a certain direction. Moments later, she found herself on the bed.
The increasing decibels of her soft moans excited Rohan even more. In the throes of ecstasy, Sheena tried her best to keep the volume under control—until, suddenly, she shrieked like a banshee. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
And after that, it seemed as if her voice abandoned her. Shell-shocked, she looked toward the door. Her mouth was splayed wide open like a hungover crocodile on a sunny morning, struggling to remember who it was and why it was awake in the first place.
Rohan turned around. Naani was standing at the threshold, staring at the couple. Casually, he stood and pulled up his jeans. Naani stared at a frozen Sheena. Rohan held Sheena by her shoulders and shook her out of her trance.
“Sheena… Sheena… look at me.”
Like a robot, Sheena turned her face to Rohan. “Just be calm, my love. Wear your clothes and let us leave. After 5 minutes, Nani won't remember a thing.”
Now, Nani continued to stare at Sheena as she buttoned up. Sheepish under an unmoving gaze, Sheena hurried away and fled into the dark passage.
Nani, however, continued to stare at the empty bed.
*
When Rohan’s Mummy returned from the gym, she saw that their main door was left open. Worrying the worst, she quickened her pace and entered the flat. There was no one in the living room. She moved into the passage and saw her mother at the threshold of the bedroom. She glanced around to see if anything was out of place. Had there been a housebreak? Did Rohan forget to bolt the door on his way out to college? Or had Nani absent-mindedly just opened it?
The last one seemed the most plausible. Mummy grumbled, “Nani don’t leave the main door open ya.” Nani did not react as usual. Mummy walked over to Nani, who continued to stare at the bed. “Do you want to take a nap?” Mummy asked Nani tenderly.
A scared Nani nodded no. Mummy ran her hand down Nani’s back. “What happened? You look upset…tell me, did something happen?”
Nani looked Mummy in the eyes and said, “I know I forget things. But now I have started seeing things.”
Mummy was compassionate as she asked, “What kind of things? "What did you see?”
And then the usually feeble Naani raised her voice. Scolding Mummy, she said, “Don’t forget I am your mother. I can't talk to you about dirty, dirty things. Chee!”
Eighteen-year-old Rohan and his twenty-one-year-old girlfriend Sheena were restless. The young couple were tough on luck. They had no friends with spare rooms, nor did they have the money to rent a place for their basic needs.
Then Rohan came up with a not-so-ingenious plan. “Look, my mother steps out for her gym at 9:00 A.M., and she is back by 10:30 A.M, sometimes 10:45, after doing the bazaar shopping. So, come home around ten minutes past nine and leave around twenty past ten," said Rohan like a pucca time-trapped Mumbaikar. Sheena was too desperate to check for any loopholes. She agreed readily.
The next day, when she tiptoed into his flat, Sheena froze in her tracks. Seated on the sofa was an old woman with a scraggly fleece of white hair. She must have been older than the gods! But what was scary about her was that she looked straight into Sheena’s eyes. Piercingly.
Sheena craned her neck to look at Rohan. He was quick to explain, “Don’t worry. Naani does not remember anything. After two minutes, she will forget we are here. See,” he said, taking Sheena’s hand and gently pulling her out of Naani’s line of sight. Sheena noticed that Naani continued to stare in the direction where she had stood just a moment ago!
The young couple disappeared into the passage and began kissing passionately. Hungry for each other, their youthful desire was all-consuming. In that moment, Rohan gently guided Sheena in a certain direction. Moments later, she found herself on the bed.
The increasing decibels of her soft moans excited Rohan even more. In the throes of ecstasy, Sheena tried her best to keep the volume under control—until, suddenly, she shrieked like a banshee. “Eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!”
And after that, it seemed as if her voice abandoned her. Shell-shocked, she looked toward the door. Her mouth was splayed wide open like a hungover crocodile on a sunny morning, struggling to remember who it was and why it was awake in the first place.
Rohan turned around. Naani was standing at the threshold, staring at the couple. Casually, he stood and pulled up his jeans. Naani stared at a frozen Sheena. Rohan held Sheena by her shoulders and shook her out of her trance.
“Sheena… Sheena… look at me.”
Like a robot, Sheena turned her face to Rohan. “Just be calm, my love. Wear your clothes and let us leave. After 5 minutes, Nani won't remember a thing.”
Now, Nani continued to stare at Sheena as she buttoned up. Sheepish under an unmoving gaze, Sheena hurried away and fled into the dark passage.
Nani, however, continued to stare at the empty bed.
*
When Rohan’s Mummy returned from the gym, she saw that their main door was left open. Worrying the worst, she quickened her pace and entered the flat. There was no one in the living room. She moved into the passage and saw her mother at the threshold of the bedroom. She glanced around to see if anything was out of place. Had there been a housebreak? Did Rohan forget to bolt the door on his way out to college? Or had Nani absent-mindedly just opened it?
The last one seemed the most plausible. Mummy grumbled, “Nani don’t leave the main door open ya.” Nani did not react as usual. Mummy walked over to Nani, who continued to stare at the bed. “Do you want to take a nap?” Mummy asked Nani tenderly.
A scared Nani nodded no. Mummy ran her hand down Nani’s back. “What happened? You look upset…tell me, did something happen?”
Nani looked Mummy in the eyes and said, “I know I forget things. But now I have started seeing things.”
Mummy was compassionate as she asked, “What kind of things? "What did you see?”
And then the usually feeble Naani raised her voice. Scolding Mummy, she said, “Don’t forget I am your mother. I can't talk to you about dirty, dirty things. Chee!”
October 13, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Problems of SoBo
1) “I feel like such a loser,” announced 67-year-old Motilal Shah in his self-earned, 4 BHK in Sterling Apartment on Pedder Road. “We are not only fellow Gujaratis but neighbours as well! And yet, we were not invited to The Ambani Wedding.” A year later, he still cannot come to terms with what an underachiever he has been.
2) We entered through gate number 15, while media photographers were at gate number 18. Even now, when I tell people we were invited to The Ambani Wedding, they don't believe me,” grumbled Ruby Jolly, the reigning queen of the mobile screen.
3) “I am feeling terrible. Ramesh Kaka drove three generations of our family. Now that he has passed away, we must go to his funeral. The problem is, he lived on the outskirts of Mumbai. I do not know exactly where, but thank God for Google Maps,” said a grieving Zoe Bajaj, and added, “It is some place called Candy Valley.” She meant Kandivali.
4) Overheard a legendary piano teacher ages ago: “I was born, brought up, married into, bore children, got them educated, married, two even remarried – all on this beautiful Alexandra Road. Now that they have renamed it to Dr. Kashibai Navrange Marg, it will take me weeks to mug it up.”
5) “Listen, my situation is so bad that I do not even go to the Breach Candy Club anymore. I am so sorry, Anisha, but I do not have 10,000 rupees to contribute to your surgery,” said Yasmin Poncha to her poor ex-colleague. Then, Yasmin chugged a swig of Chardonnay. The wine raced down, soothing her parched throat. “With both my sons pursuing undergrad in Canada, I am almost penniless,” she said and hung up. Feeling genuinely sorry, she looked at the Arabian Sea's expanse from her new suburban club, Soho House.
6) If we, the sea-facing South Mumbaikars, were against development, we would have resisted the Sea Link network. We did not do that now, did we? All we are saying is do not put billboards. It will distract drivers and cause accidents,” an unfortunate, sea-facing South Mumbaiker, trying her best to save the last of a precious marine view. (And why not)
7) In the sunset years of my life, I have lost everything—luxury apartments on Nepean Sea Road and a fleet of offices at Nariman Point. To make up for these losses, I had to sell all I owned and move here, in the middle of nowhere…” Thus, the former doyen of the textile trade ended his saga. The commissioned biographer stopped recording the audio and looked around at the "middle of nowhere.” His sprawling apartment, a high-rise in Parel, was a striking reminder of Mumbai being an island city. It had a view of the West Coast and the Eastern Harbour.
1) “I feel like such a loser,” announced 67-year-old Motilal Shah in his self-earned, 4 BHK in Sterling Apartment on Pedder Road. “We are not only fellow Gujaratis but neighbours as well! And yet, we were not invited to The Ambani Wedding.” A year later, he still cannot come to terms with what an underachiever he has been.
2) We entered through gate number 15, while media photographers were at gate number 18. Even now, when I tell people we were invited to The Ambani Wedding, they don't believe me,” grumbled Ruby Jolly, the reigning queen of the mobile screen.
3) “I am feeling terrible. Ramesh Kaka drove three generations of our family. Now that he has passed away, we must go to his funeral. The problem is, he lived on the outskirts of Mumbai. I do not know exactly where, but thank God for Google Maps,” said a grieving Zoe Bajaj, and added, “It is some place called Candy Valley.” She meant Kandivali.
4) Overheard a legendary piano teacher ages ago: “I was born, brought up, married into, bore children, got them educated, married, two even remarried – all on this beautiful Alexandra Road. Now that they have renamed it to Dr. Kashibai Navrange Marg, it will take me weeks to mug it up.”
5) “Listen, my situation is so bad that I do not even go to the Breach Candy Club anymore. I am so sorry, Anisha, but I do not have 10,000 rupees to contribute to your surgery,” said Yasmin Poncha to her poor ex-colleague. Then, Yasmin chugged a swig of Chardonnay. The wine raced down, soothing her parched throat. “With both my sons pursuing undergrad in Canada, I am almost penniless,” she said and hung up. Feeling genuinely sorry, she looked at the Arabian Sea's expanse from her new suburban club, Soho House.
6) If we, the sea-facing South Mumbaikars, were against development, we would have resisted the Sea Link network. We did not do that now, did we? All we are saying is do not put billboards. It will distract drivers and cause accidents,” an unfortunate, sea-facing South Mumbaiker, trying her best to save the last of a precious marine view. (And why not)
7) In the sunset years of my life, I have lost everything—luxury apartments on Nepean Sea Road and a fleet of offices at Nariman Point. To make up for these losses, I had to sell all I owned and move here, in the middle of nowhere…” Thus, the former doyen of the textile trade ended his saga. The commissioned biographer stopped recording the audio and looked around at the "middle of nowhere.” His sprawling apartment, a high-rise in Parel, was a striking reminder of Mumbai being an island city. It had a view of the West Coast and the Eastern Harbour.
October 5, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
The Last Layer of Biryani
The gentle splutter from the kitchen woke Karan from his night’s sleep. He smiled as the aroma of sautéed onions drifted into his bedroom. Ah! It was a bright new day, and he had a busy week ahead. His digital food show, Khaata Rahen Mera Dil, would feature mutton curries from different Indian states. The Malvani Mutton Rassa, Saoji Mutton Curry, Bengali Kosha Mangsho, Rajasthani Laal Maas, Kashmiri Rogan Josh, and Gongura Mutton Curry made with gongura leaves native to Andhra Pradesh. He also loved his all-time favorite Parsi Mutton Dhansak and had recently developed a passion for Sindhi Mutton Curry... Karan felt blessed to be born in India—a country with such a wide variety of mutton curries.
However, Karan, who loved eating out almost always, had yet to find an equivalent to the perfect chicken biryani made at his home. So, before every out-of-town shoot, Manda, his ageing housekeeper and occasional cook, would prepare it for Karan. It was a recipe passed down from his great-grandmother, and the tradition continued through his grandmother, aunts, and even his mother. As a successful heart surgeon, she rarely entered the kitchen, but whenever she did, it was only to layer the chicken biryani.
Everything was cooked separately: fiery pieces of chicken marinated with dry red chillies and cashew paste; hard-boiled eggs and potatoes; semi-cooked basmati rice with peppercorns, cloves, and cinnamon sticks. Also, by the time his mother entered the kitchen, a bowl of freshly chopped coriander, a plate of browned onions, and a vati of lemon water with strands of saffron were ready, prepared by Manda, who was older than his mother.
Though efficient, Manda had yet to master layering a biryani at that time. His mother would pour herself a glass of red wine. Yes, the surgeon knew that white went better with white meat. But the biryani she was about to prepare was so hearty that white was too light. It needed the richness of a full-bodied red.
Then, on the two-in-one, she’d play her favorite song—"Gaata Rahen Mera Dil" by Lata Mangeshkar and Kishore Kumar. Karan loved old Hindi film songs because they reminded him of his sprightly mother. While making biryani, she’d always start with "Gaata Rahen Mera Dil." Even now, the song puts him in the right frame of mind.
Taking a sip of her red wine with one hand, his mother used her other hand to grease the inside of a large kadhai with sazouk toop—homemade ghee. First, she made a bed of rice and sprinkled onions over it. Then, she placed three pieces of chicken at a distance from each other. She filled the gaps with potato slices and halves of eggs. Afterwards, she dusted a generous heap of coriander on top. To finish, she cupped a fistful of saffron lime water and sprinkled it around. The first layer was ready.
His mother would repeat the process until the kadhai was filled to the brim. Putting the lid on the pot, she would take a flat dosa pan and place it on a low flame. Then she would put the kadhai on the pan. By then, Lata Mangeshkar and Kishore Kumar would be singing "Aasma Ne Neeche, Hum Aaj Apne Peeche Pyar ka Jahaan Basaate chalen."
It would take about half an hour for whiffs of steam to escape from under the lid, signalling that the biryani was ready. Layering biryani was an art form, and it had taken Manda years under his mother’s guidance to finally master it.
Despite her failing eyesight and trembling hands, Karan couldn't let go of Manda now. He was willing to overlook the occasional cobwebs or slivers of dust. Even shattering plates did not bother him. As long as he could have his perfectly layered homemade biryani, he was ready to accept Manda’s age-related shortcomings.
No, not because she was the last one remaining in Mumbai or on Earth from his childhood days. Karan had decided that people could live without nonsense like love and togetherness, but not without food.
Food provided Karan with everything his past lovers could not. Food did not find faults; it only brought him happiness. Most importantly, food did not lie or betray. It was much easier to stay in a lifelong relationship with food than with fickle-minded girlfriends who had left him heartbroken.
Just then, Karan heard a crash. Thinking it was another plate and bowl, he ignored it and went into the washroom. Moments later, the sharp smell of burnt onions hit his nostrils.
Concerned, he came out and hurried to the kitchen, shouting, “Manda! Manda!”
Manda stood still, gazing into the kadhai, watching the onions burn. “Manda! Manda,” he called as she kept staring silently. A little too still. When he held her, her fragile body collapsed unconscious onto his muscular shoulders.
Karan turned off the gas and lifted Manda. Placing her on his bed, he quickly dialed 108 for an ambulance and explained that the patient had SCA or Sudden Cardiac Arrest.
Then he called his show producer, Monica, and asked her to meet him at the hospital.
*
Twenty minutes later, the doctors pronounced Manda dead on arrival. Karan was surprised when he burst into tears. This was the first time Monica, his producer, had seen Karan so vulnerable in five years. She reached out and hugged him.
“I am so sorry, Karan. I know Manda was like a mother to you.”
No, she wasn't. Yet Karan could not stop crying. Now that Manda was gone for good, who would make Karan’s perfectly layered chicken biryani?
Karan was not selfish. He was simply honest.
Don’t believe me? Ask any foodie you know—Food or Love? Chances are, they’ll smile and say, Food is Love.
So tell me—what matters most to you: food or love?
The gentle splutter from the kitchen woke Karan from his night’s sleep. He smiled as the aroma of sautéed onions drifted into his bedroom. Ah! It was a bright new day, and he had a busy week ahead. His digital food show, Khaata Rahen Mera Dil, would feature mutton curries from different Indian states. The Malvani Mutton Rassa, Saoji Mutton Curry, Bengali Kosha Mangsho, Rajasthani Laal Maas, Kashmiri Rogan Josh, and Gongura Mutton Curry made with gongura leaves native to Andhra Pradesh. He also loved his all-time favorite Parsi Mutton Dhansak and had recently developed a passion for Sindhi Mutton Curry... Karan felt blessed to be born in India—a country with such a wide variety of mutton curries.
However, Karan, who loved eating out almost always, had yet to find an equivalent to the perfect chicken biryani made at his home. So, before every out-of-town shoot, Manda, his ageing housekeeper and occasional cook, would prepare it for Karan. It was a recipe passed down from his great-grandmother, and the tradition continued through his grandmother, aunts, and even his mother. As a successful heart surgeon, she rarely entered the kitchen, but whenever she did, it was only to layer the chicken biryani.
Everything was cooked separately: fiery pieces of chicken marinated with dry red chillies and cashew paste; hard-boiled eggs and potatoes; semi-cooked basmati rice with peppercorns, cloves, and cinnamon sticks. Also, by the time his mother entered the kitchen, a bowl of freshly chopped coriander, a plate of browned onions, and a vati of lemon water with strands of saffron were ready, prepared by Manda, who was older than his mother.
Though efficient, Manda had yet to master layering a biryani at that time. His mother would pour herself a glass of red wine. Yes, the surgeon knew that white went better with white meat. But the biryani she was about to prepare was so hearty that white was too light. It needed the richness of a full-bodied red.
Then, on the two-in-one, she’d play her favorite song—"Gaata Rahen Mera Dil" by Lata Mangeshkar and Kishore Kumar. Karan loved old Hindi film songs because they reminded him of his sprightly mother. While making biryani, she’d always start with "Gaata Rahen Mera Dil." Even now, the song puts him in the right frame of mind.
Taking a sip of her red wine with one hand, his mother used her other hand to grease the inside of a large kadhai with sazouk toop—homemade ghee. First, she made a bed of rice and sprinkled onions over it. Then, she placed three pieces of chicken at a distance from each other. She filled the gaps with potato slices and halves of eggs. Afterwards, she dusted a generous heap of coriander on top. To finish, she cupped a fistful of saffron lime water and sprinkled it around. The first layer was ready.
His mother would repeat the process until the kadhai was filled to the brim. Putting the lid on the pot, she would take a flat dosa pan and place it on a low flame. Then she would put the kadhai on the pan. By then, Lata Mangeshkar and Kishore Kumar would be singing "Aasma Ne Neeche, Hum Aaj Apne Peeche Pyar ka Jahaan Basaate chalen."
It would take about half an hour for whiffs of steam to escape from under the lid, signalling that the biryani was ready. Layering biryani was an art form, and it had taken Manda years under his mother’s guidance to finally master it.
Despite her failing eyesight and trembling hands, Karan couldn't let go of Manda now. He was willing to overlook the occasional cobwebs or slivers of dust. Even shattering plates did not bother him. As long as he could have his perfectly layered homemade biryani, he was ready to accept Manda’s age-related shortcomings.
No, not because she was the last one remaining in Mumbai or on Earth from his childhood days. Karan had decided that people could live without nonsense like love and togetherness, but not without food.
Food provided Karan with everything his past lovers could not. Food did not find faults; it only brought him happiness. Most importantly, food did not lie or betray. It was much easier to stay in a lifelong relationship with food than with fickle-minded girlfriends who had left him heartbroken.
Just then, Karan heard a crash. Thinking it was another plate and bowl, he ignored it and went into the washroom. Moments later, the sharp smell of burnt onions hit his nostrils.
Concerned, he came out and hurried to the kitchen, shouting, “Manda! Manda!”
Manda stood still, gazing into the kadhai, watching the onions burn. “Manda! Manda,” he called as she kept staring silently. A little too still. When he held her, her fragile body collapsed unconscious onto his muscular shoulders.
Karan turned off the gas and lifted Manda. Placing her on his bed, he quickly dialed 108 for an ambulance and explained that the patient had SCA or Sudden Cardiac Arrest.
Then he called his show producer, Monica, and asked her to meet him at the hospital.
*
Twenty minutes later, the doctors pronounced Manda dead on arrival. Karan was surprised when he burst into tears. This was the first time Monica, his producer, had seen Karan so vulnerable in five years. She reached out and hugged him.
“I am so sorry, Karan. I know Manda was like a mother to you.”
No, she wasn't. Yet Karan could not stop crying. Now that Manda was gone for good, who would make Karan’s perfectly layered chicken biryani?
Karan was not selfish. He was simply honest.
Don’t believe me? Ask any foodie you know—Food or Love? Chances are, they’ll smile and say, Food is Love.
So tell me—what matters most to you: food or love?
September 30, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Motorcycle Diaries: The Mumbai Edition.
The Mumbai sun shone on the fat and fabulous twenty-something Nikhil as he placed a garland of fresh marigolds on the bonnet of his darling Swift Desire. After a traumatic 14-day separation, she was back, glowing with health and vigour. This time, she had exhausted all the insurance. No, no, neither was she old, nor was Nikhil an inept driver. He drove carefully. But as luck would have it, his car was susceptible to accidents caused by reckless Mumbai bikers who somehow found room to speed even in its notorious traffic jams.
There was a spring in his step as he walked along the footpath. A job interview was approaching that day, and the sight of his car was an auspicious sign. Once he secured a job, his nagging father would stop complaining about how useless Nikhil had become. If Nikhil’s father had passed away, Nikhil wouldn’t have bothered with employment. He’d happily drive around the city, eating roadside kebabs and sandwiches and living comfortably off his late father’s dividends.
Just then, Nikhil heard a bike screech into the Pitamber Galli and tear down its narrow, double-parked lane. Nikhil turned to see a scrawny biker lift his bike and ride it on a single wheel. Then, he accelerated, causing the motorcycle to shake unsteadily. Within seconds, the bike was airborne. Nikhil watched in horror as the biker lost control. The motorcycle rammed into the rear window of Nikhil’s car and shattered its glass into shards. Then, the biker somersaulted mid-air and fell on Nikhil.
Had the short, scrawny biker Kobad Kerawala crashed into someone his size, his bones would have shattered into rubble. Luckily, Nikhil’s well-padded, fat-cushioned frame spared Kobad from multiple fractures.
Flat on the ground, Nikhil lifted Kobad like a slim dumbbell and shook him violently.
- What is wrong with you?!
- Huh? What did I do?
Nikhil paused. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was this biker delusional?
- My screen is broken! You ruined my screen!
- I did not do anything. The bike fell on your car. What’s my fault?
Nikhil started to bawl.
- My car. My beautiful car. She is ruined.
Kobad pacified Nikhil.
- Chill. It’s just the window.
Nikhil caught Kobad by his throat.
- Saala, it’s not just any window. It is my car’s window. My beautiful car. She is just back from the garage.
Kobad yanked Nikhil’s grip from his neck and scrambled back to his feet. Nikhil rolled up as well. Kobad walked to the back of Nikhil’s car. His bike had plunged halfway into it.
- This is nothing. Last night, I did a triple backflip on a Range Rover. The roof of the sedan was hollowed out to a hammock.
Nikhil spanked Kobad hard on the head.
- You better pay for this, you ar$$%^le.
- I have no money.
- Then ask your father to pay.
- My father is maha kanjoos. The cheapskate will never pay you.
- Sounds just like mine. You'd better find a way to pay for the damages.
Kobad shrugged. Nikhil whipped a mobile from his pocket.
- Fair enough, I will call the police.
- Aye no no no. No police. No police. Please No. Please… lets…
Before he could finish, Nikhil called ek shunya shunya- one zero zero and promptly informed the Mumbai Police Control room about the accident. Kobad was furious.
- Why do you people always get the police involved? Can’t you just let it go?
- You are mad, or what?
- I did not mean to okay- but then shit happens. Its life…
Kobad kept rambling. Nikhil was frustrated. He had no time for theatrics. He needed to get the money for the damages and hurry to the interview. Under the pressure of proving himself to his dismissive father, Nikhil snapped.
- Just shut up and go f&^k your mother.
Now Kobad stopped begging. His eyes glowered as he shouted
- Don’t you dare say anything about my mother!
- Your mother is the wh^%$e of Mahim.
Without realizing it, Nikhil had touched Kobad’s raw nerve. Fed up with his father, Kobad’s mother had left him. And little Kobad was left behind. All she had taken with her was their pet dog. Not Kobad, but the dog. And Kobad’s father reminds him to this day about the choice ‘that wh&^% of Mahim’ made. He, too, called her that!
But how could Nikhil know? Kobad plunged at Nikhil and tried to scratch his face. Just then, Nikhil heard the loud blare of the police horn. When he looked to the side, an oversized indigo police van approached for the small-sized Kobad.
After the initial round of questions and photographs of the accident, both men were called to the Mahim Police Station. Kobad was forced into the spacious van. Since Nikhil’s car was damaged, he thought it was only fair to get a ride. He followed and joined Kobad.
It was nearly 8:00 A.M. when the night shift officers were relieved from duty.
Nikhil waited for the uniformed police constable to ask him questions. Meanwhile, Kobad stood in the corner, avoiding eye contact.
Just then, a posse of plain-clothed police officers emerged from the chambers. They stopped in their tracks the moment they saw Kobad. Nikhil noticed their shocked faces. One of them, clearly a senior officer, stepped ahead and, looking at Kobad, asked disbelievingly,
- You are back?
Kobad nodded and hung his head low.
- We just let you go an hour ago? What have you done now?
Nikhil stood up. Eager to add his piece, he spoke.
- Sir, he crashed his bike into the windscreen of my car.
The officer blinked. He was stunned for a moment. He looked at the constable, who nodded.
- Same man from yesterday’s Range Rover case.
The officer looked at Kobad and asked,
- Again?
Kobad hung his head low, refusing to look the officer in the eye.
It so happened that Kobad had spent the entire night in the detention room of the Mahim Police station for rash driving. His bike had landed on the roof of a Range Rover. The owner and his wife had stopped for a late-night glass of falooda to cool down after the Dandiyas.
The owner was furious and complained to the police officers. On his part, realising that Kobad was neither drunk nor under substance abuse, the senior police officer on duty did not register the complaint. After a strict warning, he detained Kobad for the night and let him go early in the morning.
Nikhil snorted a chuckle. Bang in the middle of loss caused by the accident and the uncertainty of the pending job interview – life, realised Nikhil, had a sense of humour. And a downright wicked one at that.
The Mumbai sun shone on the fat and fabulous twenty-something Nikhil as he placed a garland of fresh marigolds on the bonnet of his darling Swift Desire. After a traumatic 14-day separation, she was back, glowing with health and vigour. This time, she had exhausted all the insurance. No, no, neither was she old, nor was Nikhil an inept driver. He drove carefully. But as luck would have it, his car was susceptible to accidents caused by reckless Mumbai bikers who somehow found room to speed even in its notorious traffic jams.
There was a spring in his step as he walked along the footpath. A job interview was approaching that day, and the sight of his car was an auspicious sign. Once he secured a job, his nagging father would stop complaining about how useless Nikhil had become. If Nikhil’s father had passed away, Nikhil wouldn’t have bothered with employment. He’d happily drive around the city, eating roadside kebabs and sandwiches and living comfortably off his late father’s dividends.
Just then, Nikhil heard a bike screech into the Pitamber Galli and tear down its narrow, double-parked lane. Nikhil turned to see a scrawny biker lift his bike and ride it on a single wheel. Then, he accelerated, causing the motorcycle to shake unsteadily. Within seconds, the bike was airborne. Nikhil watched in horror as the biker lost control. The motorcycle rammed into the rear window of Nikhil’s car and shattered its glass into shards. Then, the biker somersaulted mid-air and fell on Nikhil.
Had the short, scrawny biker Kobad Kerawala crashed into someone his size, his bones would have shattered into rubble. Luckily, Nikhil’s well-padded, fat-cushioned frame spared Kobad from multiple fractures.
Flat on the ground, Nikhil lifted Kobad like a slim dumbbell and shook him violently.
- What is wrong with you?!
- Huh? What did I do?
Nikhil paused. He couldn't believe what he was hearing. Was this biker delusional?
- My screen is broken! You ruined my screen!
- I did not do anything. The bike fell on your car. What’s my fault?
Nikhil started to bawl.
- My car. My beautiful car. She is ruined.
Kobad pacified Nikhil.
- Chill. It’s just the window.
Nikhil caught Kobad by his throat.
- Saala, it’s not just any window. It is my car’s window. My beautiful car. She is just back from the garage.
Kobad yanked Nikhil’s grip from his neck and scrambled back to his feet. Nikhil rolled up as well. Kobad walked to the back of Nikhil’s car. His bike had plunged halfway into it.
- This is nothing. Last night, I did a triple backflip on a Range Rover. The roof of the sedan was hollowed out to a hammock.
Nikhil spanked Kobad hard on the head.
- You better pay for this, you ar$$%^le.
- I have no money.
- Then ask your father to pay.
- My father is maha kanjoos. The cheapskate will never pay you.
- Sounds just like mine. You'd better find a way to pay for the damages.
Kobad shrugged. Nikhil whipped a mobile from his pocket.
- Fair enough, I will call the police.
- Aye no no no. No police. No police. Please No. Please… lets…
Before he could finish, Nikhil called ek shunya shunya- one zero zero and promptly informed the Mumbai Police Control room about the accident. Kobad was furious.
- Why do you people always get the police involved? Can’t you just let it go?
- You are mad, or what?
- I did not mean to okay- but then shit happens. Its life…
Kobad kept rambling. Nikhil was frustrated. He had no time for theatrics. He needed to get the money for the damages and hurry to the interview. Under the pressure of proving himself to his dismissive father, Nikhil snapped.
- Just shut up and go f&^k your mother.
Now Kobad stopped begging. His eyes glowered as he shouted
- Don’t you dare say anything about my mother!
- Your mother is the wh^%$e of Mahim.
Without realizing it, Nikhil had touched Kobad’s raw nerve. Fed up with his father, Kobad’s mother had left him. And little Kobad was left behind. All she had taken with her was their pet dog. Not Kobad, but the dog. And Kobad’s father reminds him to this day about the choice ‘that wh&^% of Mahim’ made. He, too, called her that!
But how could Nikhil know? Kobad plunged at Nikhil and tried to scratch his face. Just then, Nikhil heard the loud blare of the police horn. When he looked to the side, an oversized indigo police van approached for the small-sized Kobad.
After the initial round of questions and photographs of the accident, both men were called to the Mahim Police Station. Kobad was forced into the spacious van. Since Nikhil’s car was damaged, he thought it was only fair to get a ride. He followed and joined Kobad.
It was nearly 8:00 A.M. when the night shift officers were relieved from duty.
Nikhil waited for the uniformed police constable to ask him questions. Meanwhile, Kobad stood in the corner, avoiding eye contact.
Just then, a posse of plain-clothed police officers emerged from the chambers. They stopped in their tracks the moment they saw Kobad. Nikhil noticed their shocked faces. One of them, clearly a senior officer, stepped ahead and, looking at Kobad, asked disbelievingly,
- You are back?
Kobad nodded and hung his head low.
- We just let you go an hour ago? What have you done now?
Nikhil stood up. Eager to add his piece, he spoke.
- Sir, he crashed his bike into the windscreen of my car.
The officer blinked. He was stunned for a moment. He looked at the constable, who nodded.
- Same man from yesterday’s Range Rover case.
The officer looked at Kobad and asked,
- Again?
Kobad hung his head low, refusing to look the officer in the eye.
It so happened that Kobad had spent the entire night in the detention room of the Mahim Police station for rash driving. His bike had landed on the roof of a Range Rover. The owner and his wife had stopped for a late-night glass of falooda to cool down after the Dandiyas.
The owner was furious and complained to the police officers. On his part, realising that Kobad was neither drunk nor under substance abuse, the senior police officer on duty did not register the complaint. After a strict warning, he detained Kobad for the night and let him go early in the morning.
Nikhil snorted a chuckle. Bang in the middle of loss caused by the accident and the uncertainty of the pending job interview – life, realised Nikhil, had a sense of humour. And a downright wicked one at that.
September 14, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Silence in the Patel flat.
On one hand, Mumbai offers anonymity that allows you to live in blissful ignorance, such as not knowing about a spouse having an affair.
At the same time, the view from your flat is often someone else’s home. In soft focus, everyday life unfolds silently inside the rectangular boxes of Mumbai’s flats.
Life inside the Patel flat was anything but silent. Neighbours could never be sure if the Patels were quarrelling or simply speaking to one another in loud, raspy baritones. As a unit, the Patels believed they would not be heard unless they yelled.
They lived in an old housing colony in the heart of Girgaon. Since it was built before independence, the kitchen was a spacious room with room for a six-seat dining table and a moderately sized ghar-mandir.
One morning, all 5 Patels were in the kitchen.
Wife, Pinal Ben Patel, was at the platform cooking her sweet and spicy Gujarati daal. Husband Humpesh Bhai Patel was stocking freshly bought vegetables inside the refrigerator. His mother, Ba Patel, was reading the first page of Gujarat Samachar. Seven-year-old son Jignesh Kumar Patel was running from the passage to the kitchen and back for no reason, as most children often do. And their ‘popat,’ Jigisha Patel—I mean Jigisha Shah Patel—darted her sharp gaze at each of her family members from inside the cage.
Pinal yelled in her trademark high pitch, “Don’t bring Jigisha into the fight! I keep her in the cage and that is good enough. In my Puppa nu ghar, the great Shah household — she was free as a bird. Just look at her. Maari dikri, ketli quiet chey! My daughter, how quiet is she?”
Humpesh roared back, “Quiet? Tari jem labad chey. She is as sly as you are. When you are not here, she makes so much noise. Akhho diwas kay kay kay. Gives my Ba a headache. Send her back to your Puppa’s house! Aajech. By bapore. Today itself, by afternoon.
Pinal bawled, “Jigisha stays where I do. Why don’t you send Ba away? To an old age home. She is old enough.”
Unaffected, Ba coolly turned the page of Gujarat Samachar. Stricken by grief, Humpesh paused for a beat.
This gave Pinal a boost.
She yelled louder, “Aapno Jignesh needs an extra room. The boy is growing up. He cannot sleep between us.”
The vegetables were stored safely. Humpesh gathered his bearings and wailed loudly. “Why can't he sleep between us? What do we do anyway? And what is so special about having a room? I slept between my parents until I was 14!”
Pinal pointed the ladle at him, “Have you seen how brainless that has made you? Tamara matha maa buddhich nathi ! ”
“Array, if I had brains, would I marry a kutri like you?”
Being an animal lover, Pinal took it as a compliment. “I would rather be a dog than a human being like your mother.” Then, yelling louder, she added, “Who taught you to speak to your wife like that? This Ba ney?”
Unaffected Ba leaned in to read a headline – about a young housewife dying after being slowly poisoned. It seems the mother-in-law added poison to the sweet and spicy signature Gujarati daal for two months.
Humpesh continued to bellow:
- “Don’t say a word about my Ba. Don’t forget you have me because of her.”
-“Exactly why I hate her so much!”
- “Aarey jaa ney Ben! Get lost. Taara Ma ni g@@@d!” Translated it means your mother’s bum.
But the swear word did not affect Pinal. She simply asked,
“Kem?” Ba ni g@@@d nathi?” Why does your mother not have a bum?
To this, Humpesh Bhai Patel had no response. Unaffected, Ba turned the page of Gujarat Samachar to the most important news—The world of the Bombay Stock Exchange. Now with no one to oppose him, Pinal also calmed down. She began to knead the dough for rotla.
“Theek chey. Let Ba stay here. And let's make space for Jignesh in the passage. That passage has nothing but ugly photos of you and your ancestors in Sarigam.”
This time, Ba stood up. She cried out loud, “Chup! Chup! Chup! This house is in my name. So, I will hang as many ugly, uglier, and ugliest pictures of myself, my son, and my ancestors. Those who have a problem can get out!”
Little Jignesh Kumar Patel stopped in his tracks. Luckily, he was in the kitchen. He dared not enter the passage from now on. It was Ba’s.
Pointing her finger at Jigisha the parrot, Ba warned, “Next time your popat does kay kay kay, God promise, I haven’t touched an indu egg in my life – but I am cooking Jigisa -pulao for lunch.”
“Ba!” Little Jignesh Kumar yelled out loud. Pinal and her parrot looked on, their hearts warmed by the boy. Little Jignesh beamed and added, “I love your makhanwala masala. Next time, don’t add paneer then.”
Gritting her teeth, Ba stormed out. The noise from the Patel house hushed to a pin-drop silence. The air was thick with tension. Pinal, Humpesh, Jignesh, and Jigisha exchanged glances. They were wary of breaking the silence. And yet, deep down, they all knew… there would be a next time. There always was one. One more next time.
The End.
On one hand, Mumbai offers anonymity that allows you to live in blissful ignorance, such as not knowing about a spouse having an affair.
At the same time, the view from your flat is often someone else’s home. In soft focus, everyday life unfolds silently inside the rectangular boxes of Mumbai’s flats.
Life inside the Patel flat was anything but silent. Neighbours could never be sure if the Patels were quarrelling or simply speaking to one another in loud, raspy baritones. As a unit, the Patels believed they would not be heard unless they yelled.
They lived in an old housing colony in the heart of Girgaon. Since it was built before independence, the kitchen was a spacious room with room for a six-seat dining table and a moderately sized ghar-mandir.
One morning, all 5 Patels were in the kitchen.
Wife, Pinal Ben Patel, was at the platform cooking her sweet and spicy Gujarati daal. Husband Humpesh Bhai Patel was stocking freshly bought vegetables inside the refrigerator. His mother, Ba Patel, was reading the first page of Gujarat Samachar. Seven-year-old son Jignesh Kumar Patel was running from the passage to the kitchen and back for no reason, as most children often do. And their ‘popat,’ Jigisha Patel—I mean Jigisha Shah Patel—darted her sharp gaze at each of her family members from inside the cage.
Pinal yelled in her trademark high pitch, “Don’t bring Jigisha into the fight! I keep her in the cage and that is good enough. In my Puppa nu ghar, the great Shah household — she was free as a bird. Just look at her. Maari dikri, ketli quiet chey! My daughter, how quiet is she?”
Humpesh roared back, “Quiet? Tari jem labad chey. She is as sly as you are. When you are not here, she makes so much noise. Akhho diwas kay kay kay. Gives my Ba a headache. Send her back to your Puppa’s house! Aajech. By bapore. Today itself, by afternoon.
Pinal bawled, “Jigisha stays where I do. Why don’t you send Ba away? To an old age home. She is old enough.”
Unaffected, Ba coolly turned the page of Gujarat Samachar. Stricken by grief, Humpesh paused for a beat.
This gave Pinal a boost.
She yelled louder, “Aapno Jignesh needs an extra room. The boy is growing up. He cannot sleep between us.”
The vegetables were stored safely. Humpesh gathered his bearings and wailed loudly. “Why can't he sleep between us? What do we do anyway? And what is so special about having a room? I slept between my parents until I was 14!”
Pinal pointed the ladle at him, “Have you seen how brainless that has made you? Tamara matha maa buddhich nathi ! ”
“Array, if I had brains, would I marry a kutri like you?”
Being an animal lover, Pinal took it as a compliment. “I would rather be a dog than a human being like your mother.” Then, yelling louder, she added, “Who taught you to speak to your wife like that? This Ba ney?”
Unaffected Ba leaned in to read a headline – about a young housewife dying after being slowly poisoned. It seems the mother-in-law added poison to the sweet and spicy signature Gujarati daal for two months.
Humpesh continued to bellow:
- “Don’t say a word about my Ba. Don’t forget you have me because of her.”
-“Exactly why I hate her so much!”
- “Aarey jaa ney Ben! Get lost. Taara Ma ni g@@@d!” Translated it means your mother’s bum.
But the swear word did not affect Pinal. She simply asked,
“Kem?” Ba ni g@@@d nathi?” Why does your mother not have a bum?
To this, Humpesh Bhai Patel had no response. Unaffected, Ba turned the page of Gujarat Samachar to the most important news—The world of the Bombay Stock Exchange. Now with no one to oppose him, Pinal also calmed down. She began to knead the dough for rotla.
“Theek chey. Let Ba stay here. And let's make space for Jignesh in the passage. That passage has nothing but ugly photos of you and your ancestors in Sarigam.”
This time, Ba stood up. She cried out loud, “Chup! Chup! Chup! This house is in my name. So, I will hang as many ugly, uglier, and ugliest pictures of myself, my son, and my ancestors. Those who have a problem can get out!”
Little Jignesh Kumar Patel stopped in his tracks. Luckily, he was in the kitchen. He dared not enter the passage from now on. It was Ba’s.
Pointing her finger at Jigisha the parrot, Ba warned, “Next time your popat does kay kay kay, God promise, I haven’t touched an indu egg in my life – but I am cooking Jigisa -pulao for lunch.”
“Ba!” Little Jignesh Kumar yelled out loud. Pinal and her parrot looked on, their hearts warmed by the boy. Little Jignesh beamed and added, “I love your makhanwala masala. Next time, don’t add paneer then.”
Gritting her teeth, Ba stormed out. The noise from the Patel house hushed to a pin-drop silence. The air was thick with tension. Pinal, Humpesh, Jignesh, and Jigisha exchanged glances. They were wary of breaking the silence. And yet, deep down, they all knew… there would be a next time. There always was one. One more next time.
The End.
September 9, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
This happens only in Bollywood
Standing outside a huge door, 26-year-old Pari took a deep breath of courage and rang the bell. It was time to come clean with the woman whose husband Pari had an affair with.
As was typical in the apartments of the wealthy, a gaunt maidservant answered the door.
Pari stammered, "D-didi…Namita madam hain?" unsure how to address Namita, as an elder sister or madam.
"Yes. And your name, please?
Oh, so the servants of the rich spoke English, noted Pari. Still, she felt a punch in her stomach as she blurted out her name. The servant left, and Pari stood at the doorway, looking out into the large hall, which was bigger than the tiny apartment she shared with Rahul. That was Rahul and Namita's investment property.
Pari promised herself that someday she would own a place in Mumbai larger than this. Rahul was not the great love of her life; he was just a stepping stone to boost her Bollywood career.
Dressed in a pale pink chikankari kurta, Namita entered. Wait, she was… smiling! At Pari! Frozen in place, Pari was unsure whether to smile back. Decades younger, slimmer, and with the quintessential Hindi film heroine's fairness, Pari felt awkward under Namita's effortlessly dignified presence.
-Hello, Pari. How gorgeous you look!
Pari tried, but a smile refused to curl up. Blood drained from her face as she noticed Namita's glowing skin.
-Namita, Ma'am, I wanted to have a word with you.
- Call me Namita, please. Come, come in, and we will chat. Would you like chai?
Pari shook her head, no.
- We also have green tea in case you are on a diet.
-No, thank you. I am good.
The well-trained servant entered with a silver tray and set a crystal, diamond-cut glass of water on the center table. Namita asked the servant for her special glass of 'beauty water.'
Then, turning to Pari,
- Have a glass of 'beauty water, ' na? It's lime, jaggery, crushed pudina, and rose petals with a teaspoon of rose water and chia seeds in chilled water. Come, come, we both will have.
Pari was at a loss for words. This woman was offering her 'beauty water' when it was clear that Namita knew about Pari and Rahul's affair.
The whole entertainment world and its gossip influencers had not spared Rahul Juneja when the powerful casting mogul took a liking to the runaway starlet and promoted her wholeheartedly in major studios.
Not only did he champion her cause, but Rahul also became her emotional support in a megalopolis where she knew no one. On the nights when she doubted whether she should have pursued a medical career like everyone in her family instead of fleeing Makhan Nagar, Madhya Pradesh, in search of elusive and fickle stardom, Rahul reignited her faith and dreams.
Soon, he became her financial safety net when she ran out of modeling gigs. And when he suggested that Pari move into his vacant one-bedroom apartment in Lokhandwala, Pari realized it was a big saving, since she would no longer have to pay exorbitant rent in the island city.
- Namita, I … I am very sorry.
- For what?
- For breaking your family…
Namita heaved and spoke,
- That was two years ago, Pari.
- I was young and stupid. I did not realise the consequences.
- What are the consequences?
Was Namita for real? Pari, who broke Namita's family, explained the repercussions of breaking a marriage to the latter.
- Karma. It catches up.
- Really? But I read you are making your debut with Three Khan Productions. That is volumes of good karma, Pari. You are a lovely person.
Pari couldn't believe her ears. Had Namita lost her mind? But no, she seemed perfectly normal otherwise. Pari expected Namita to slap her. It was a widely accepted practice - a wife slapping the woman her husband was having an affair with. Not the husband, but the other woman.
- You know, Rahul has been very aggressive lately, Namita.
- But Pari, tiffs are natural with any couple.
- These are not lovers' tiffs, Namita. He beats me black and blue.
Pari lowered her collar to reveal the bruise on her chest. The servant entered with another silver tray of tall glasses of 'beauty water.'
- Please take a sip, Pari. It will do you good. You have a film coming up,
Said Namita, ignoring Pari's bruise. She gently sipped her beauty water. Pari continued,
- Exactly. Yesterday, he was going to punch my face! I pleaded not my face-
- I am sure he stopped then, Pari. There is a hefty commission at stake, after all.
- Namita, look, I am sorry. I am. And I am leaving. Rahul has turned into a monster.
- But Rahul is obsessive. I don't think getting rid of him would be so easy. He will follow you.
- That's why I am here. I am begging you, Namita, please intervene. Please. I am scared. Especially when he gets drunk.
- I know. It gets crazy when he is around. And when he is drunk, he is a beast.
Saying this, Namita placed her glass of 'beauty water' back on the silver tray. She stood up and glided toward what Pari assumed was the bedroom.
Not knowing what to expect, Pari began breathing deeply to calm herself. She was glad she had gotten the guilt off her chest.
Namita walked back in, this time holding a red velvet case. She opened the box for Pari to see. The chunky pure gold jhumkas, the pair of earrings, were dazzling. Namita handed the box to Pari.
- For you. Keep it.
Pari shook her head. She couldn't accept such an expensive gift! Certainly not from the very woman whose husband Pari was living with.
This time, Namita spoke.
- I got it for my daughter's birthday, but I can always get another set. That flat in Lokhandwala? You can keep that, too. We have wisely invested in many more all over the city. And as for Rahul, he is all yours. Keep him.
Pari was stunned. Namita continued.
- I owe so much to you. My daughter and I were devastated when Rahul left. But after the initial shock had worn off, we realised the house was calm and peaceful. You can keep Rahul, Pari. I shall keep my peace.
Saying this, Namita smiled, picked up her glass of beauty water, and took a long sip. Pari could not come to terms with what was happening. All she could think was, 'No wonder Mumbai was called Maya Nagari - the city of illusions.'
Nothing was as it seemed…
Was she the perpetrator or the victim? Pari did not have an answer . Not now, never.
The End.
Standing outside a huge door, 26-year-old Pari took a deep breath of courage and rang the bell. It was time to come clean with the woman whose husband Pari had an affair with.
As was typical in the apartments of the wealthy, a gaunt maidservant answered the door.
Pari stammered, "D-didi…Namita madam hain?" unsure how to address Namita, as an elder sister or madam.
"Yes. And your name, please?
Oh, so the servants of the rich spoke English, noted Pari. Still, she felt a punch in her stomach as she blurted out her name. The servant left, and Pari stood at the doorway, looking out into the large hall, which was bigger than the tiny apartment she shared with Rahul. That was Rahul and Namita's investment property.
Pari promised herself that someday she would own a place in Mumbai larger than this. Rahul was not the great love of her life; he was just a stepping stone to boost her Bollywood career.
Dressed in a pale pink chikankari kurta, Namita entered. Wait, she was… smiling! At Pari! Frozen in place, Pari was unsure whether to smile back. Decades younger, slimmer, and with the quintessential Hindi film heroine's fairness, Pari felt awkward under Namita's effortlessly dignified presence.
-Hello, Pari. How gorgeous you look!
Pari tried, but a smile refused to curl up. Blood drained from her face as she noticed Namita's glowing skin.
-Namita, Ma'am, I wanted to have a word with you.
- Call me Namita, please. Come, come in, and we will chat. Would you like chai?
Pari shook her head, no.
- We also have green tea in case you are on a diet.
-No, thank you. I am good.
The well-trained servant entered with a silver tray and set a crystal, diamond-cut glass of water on the center table. Namita asked the servant for her special glass of 'beauty water.'
Then, turning to Pari,
- Have a glass of 'beauty water, ' na? It's lime, jaggery, crushed pudina, and rose petals with a teaspoon of rose water and chia seeds in chilled water. Come, come, we both will have.
Pari was at a loss for words. This woman was offering her 'beauty water' when it was clear that Namita knew about Pari and Rahul's affair.
The whole entertainment world and its gossip influencers had not spared Rahul Juneja when the powerful casting mogul took a liking to the runaway starlet and promoted her wholeheartedly in major studios.
Not only did he champion her cause, but Rahul also became her emotional support in a megalopolis where she knew no one. On the nights when she doubted whether she should have pursued a medical career like everyone in her family instead of fleeing Makhan Nagar, Madhya Pradesh, in search of elusive and fickle stardom, Rahul reignited her faith and dreams.
Soon, he became her financial safety net when she ran out of modeling gigs. And when he suggested that Pari move into his vacant one-bedroom apartment in Lokhandwala, Pari realized it was a big saving, since she would no longer have to pay exorbitant rent in the island city.
- Namita, I … I am very sorry.
- For what?
- For breaking your family…
Namita heaved and spoke,
- That was two years ago, Pari.
- I was young and stupid. I did not realise the consequences.
- What are the consequences?
Was Namita for real? Pari, who broke Namita's family, explained the repercussions of breaking a marriage to the latter.
- Karma. It catches up.
- Really? But I read you are making your debut with Three Khan Productions. That is volumes of good karma, Pari. You are a lovely person.
Pari couldn't believe her ears. Had Namita lost her mind? But no, she seemed perfectly normal otherwise. Pari expected Namita to slap her. It was a widely accepted practice - a wife slapping the woman her husband was having an affair with. Not the husband, but the other woman.
- You know, Rahul has been very aggressive lately, Namita.
- But Pari, tiffs are natural with any couple.
- These are not lovers' tiffs, Namita. He beats me black and blue.
Pari lowered her collar to reveal the bruise on her chest. The servant entered with another silver tray of tall glasses of 'beauty water.'
- Please take a sip, Pari. It will do you good. You have a film coming up,
Said Namita, ignoring Pari's bruise. She gently sipped her beauty water. Pari continued,
- Exactly. Yesterday, he was going to punch my face! I pleaded not my face-
- I am sure he stopped then, Pari. There is a hefty commission at stake, after all.
- Namita, look, I am sorry. I am. And I am leaving. Rahul has turned into a monster.
- But Rahul is obsessive. I don't think getting rid of him would be so easy. He will follow you.
- That's why I am here. I am begging you, Namita, please intervene. Please. I am scared. Especially when he gets drunk.
- I know. It gets crazy when he is around. And when he is drunk, he is a beast.
Saying this, Namita placed her glass of 'beauty water' back on the silver tray. She stood up and glided toward what Pari assumed was the bedroom.
Not knowing what to expect, Pari began breathing deeply to calm herself. She was glad she had gotten the guilt off her chest.
Namita walked back in, this time holding a red velvet case. She opened the box for Pari to see. The chunky pure gold jhumkas, the pair of earrings, were dazzling. Namita handed the box to Pari.
- For you. Keep it.
Pari shook her head. She couldn't accept such an expensive gift! Certainly not from the very woman whose husband Pari was living with.
This time, Namita spoke.
- I got it for my daughter's birthday, but I can always get another set. That flat in Lokhandwala? You can keep that, too. We have wisely invested in many more all over the city. And as for Rahul, he is all yours. Keep him.
Pari was stunned. Namita continued.
- I owe so much to you. My daughter and I were devastated when Rahul left. But after the initial shock had worn off, we realised the house was calm and peaceful. You can keep Rahul, Pari. I shall keep my peace.
Saying this, Namita smiled, picked up her glass of beauty water, and took a long sip. Pari could not come to terms with what was happening. All she could think was, 'No wonder Mumbai was called Maya Nagari - the city of illusions.'
Nothing was as it seemed…
Was she the perpetrator or the victim? Pari did not have an answer . Not now, never.
The End.
September 1, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Venus Retrograde in Jogeshwari.
It was not a Mumbai-specific phenomenon. Or maybe it was. Planetary movements were in overdrive, just like Lokhandwala Market at peak hours. Fast-moving planets collided with slow-moving ones. Planet of love, the impulsive Venus, barged into the slow-moving Jupiter, the planet of wisdom. This was like a stubborn little auto rickshaw making a sudden U-turn and then asserting its stature over a rented Audi in Lokhandwala.
When love conflicts with wisdom, chaos ensues. Young lovers were ghosted in the middle of their story. Serious partners blocked their significant others after a meet-the-family dinner. Marriages that lasted eighteen years wavered on the verge of collapse.
And curiously, long-lost ex-lovers were reuniting with partners who were either middle-aged, married, or both. Astrologers on social media had a field day dispensing remedies of all sorts: from burning bay leaves and chewing camphor to writing FLAMES and then striking off one alphabet after another.
The plump and forty-something Persis Mistry was chuffed. The reels of Venus entering Jupiter Retrograde showed celebrity couples, who were estranged in the early 2000s, now crossing paths, and some even reuniting.
It meant that she still had a chance to reignite flames with Fali Doctor…
Back in the mid-90s, Persis and Fali were the ‘it’ couple, or so she thought.
They were neighbours in Dalal Terrace, a modest ground-plus-one stack-up near Jogeshwari station. Parsis are few. The poorer Parsis are even fewer. Which meant Dalal Terrace was the poorest relative of Cusrow Baug and Dadar Parsi Colony.
The building housed just four families: two on the ground floor, two above. Fali lived downstairs with his parents. Persis was right above, with her widowed mother and elder brother, Darab, who insisted on being called Darren after one fateful summer trip to the U.S, post 9/11.
But Darab, I mean Darren, was no threat to mankind. He had surrendered to a life of peace and tranquility. He spent the best years of his youth smoking weed. Recently, it was alcohol. Darren was a peaceful alcoholic who sauntered into the house and stayed in his room listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes and Bach’s Cello Suites.
Now plump and pretty Persis and the scrawny, bewda Darren cohabited amicably in the flat. Persis ran a modest Parsi food tiffin service, which helped the siblings get by. Downstairs, Sohrab Uncle lived all alone after Fali had gone to Paris and Shirin Aunty had passed away.
Unlike Darren, who thrived in solitude, Sohrab Uncle’s loneliness made him bitter. He rebuked Darren for his alcoholism. “That poison will drive you mad one day. Your sister and I will have to admit you to Thane Mental Hospital!”
But Darren was not Sohrab uncle’s pet peeve. His son Fali was. The one who abandoned his family, culture, and cuisine. It angered him to no end that Fali was a Michelin-starred chef in a French fine-dining restaurant.
“Avey, who in their right mind abandons Berry Pulao and Sali Boti for Coq au Vin and Boeuf Bourguignon?… Saala, I can't even pronounce the words… how the hell am I supposed to digest the damn thing?” he would cry every so often.
To rub salt into his wounds, Fali had married a purjaat, a woman outside the community.
But now Venus Retrograde had come to his rescue, too. Fali had been through a divorce. And if that was not enough, he was flying down to Mumbai —or so Sohrab Uncle mentioned to Persis as she ladled generous helpings of Prawn Patiyo into steel lunch dabbas.
“He must be broken, Sohrab Uncle. He will need his father.”
“Who cares about crying over that purjaat. A lot of paperwork needs to be done. I will transfer the flat to his name. And get his power of attorney.”
“I guess that makes sense, Sohrab Uncle.”
It so happened, as was usual with all the residential buildings in Mumbai, that Dalal Terrace was due for redevelopment. And that was good news because the tottering old structure threatened to collapse at any moment.
Also, by the time a spanking new building went up, Sohrab Uncle would have crossed over. Either into the late eighties or to his heavenly abode.
Persis saw this not as a sign but as marching orders from the Universe. Fali was divorced, coming home to Mumbai, and it was Venus Retrograde! The chances of them reuniting were high. Persis had to be her best self.
She took a good look at herself. She had always been pretty. However, over the years, single-handed caregiving for an ailing mother in her twenties, domesticity coupled with bread-winning through the thirties, and the silent stress of the presence of an alcoholic brother, Persis had let herself go. The frizzy mop of grey hair, scarce moustache, and chewed fingernails could be fixed at the local beauty parlour. But that was not the real problem.
It was her largesse. The reason Fali had dumped her. At least that was the excuse he gave her. Because Persis had always been a big girl. Even as a toddler. Or the teenager Fali had fallen in love with.
‘But what is life without that insurmountable challenge to overcome? Women give up so many things for love, can’t I give up my fat?’ Persis thought to herself.
From that day on, like a possessed woman, she focused on walking from Dalal Terrace near Jogeshwari Station to Behram Baug to deliver lunch tiffins. And walked back, braving the traffic, human density, and muggy Mumbai heat. She gave up on her favorite crackling chicken farcha and stuck to healthy Kachumber. And started working out at home using the free tutorials on YouTube videos.
One of the warm-up exercises was jogging on the spot. Persis picked a square foot of tile and diligently started jogging on that spot. As she was new to exercise, she started slowly. As the days passed, her speed gradually increased.
Soon, she was so obsessed with exercise that Persis did not lose a chance to work a muscle out. As she stirred onions, the first step to cook Sali Boti, she did calf stretches for each leg. As she waited for the meat to cook, she twisted her waist. She was going to waste no time in looking her best for the only long-lost love of her life, Fali Doctor.
With all the excitement and over-exercise, Persis started to lose sleep. And was often awake in the wee hours of the morning when even the crazy city had hushed into stillness. One such pre-dawn moment, Persis decided to go to her free YouTube Tutorial.
And started to jog on the spot as her routine warm-up. Weeks into her workout, Persis was now jogging speedily. Impressed by her ability, Persis amped up speed. Fast… fast…fast…fast… fast…fast………….and………….thhaaaddddd!
Whether the tottering Dalal Terrace was in dire need of redevelopment or whether it could not withstand Persis’s bulk on the same spot for weeks, a massive crater was formed when Persis’s floor and Uncle’s ceiling opened up. Just like it happens in mythological serials. And like a divine presence, Persis fell straight down. Seated. Just like a devi from those mythological series. Frozen from the shock, Persis was glued to the floor, motionless.
Was it the alcohol causing the trouble, or a strange sibling soul-bond? Because moments later, Darren woke up with a pounding hangover. He staggered to the fridge for a bottle of water to soothe his throat, caused by severe alcohol dehydration. As he entered the living room, he saw a crater.
Was an overdose of alcohol causing hallucinations? Darren lurched back on his foot. Sohrab uncle’s prophecy was coming true! Darren panicked and cried out loud, “I don’t want to go mad. I will stop drinking alcohol from today. Okay, maybe just a few beers with fried bombils on Sunday, but no more. Oh Khodai, please. Please maro Khodaiji. Help me.”
He cried out loud. So loud that it shook Persis from her frozen trance. She yelled. “Darren! Darren! Darren!”
Darren pasted his palms to his ears and wailed away, “I can now hear voices. Oh, Khodaiji, make this stop. Make the voices go. No beer with fried boomla on Sunday, even, I promise.”
Despite the prayers, he continued to hear someone call out his name in pitch darkness. The decibel only increased with every passing second. Perhaps Khodaiji decided to put some sense into Darren. That’s when Darren paused for a beat and listened. It was Persis calling out his name.
So he looked around their pokey two-bedroom flat. But Persis was nowhere to be found. Her call for help rang through the darkness. In his senses by now, Darren gingerly tiptoed towards the crater and looked in.
There she was! His sister was crying out his name. Persis stopped the minute she saw Darren. “Just ring Sohrab Uncle’s bell. I can't get up.”
*
Drops of spit flew out of Sohrab Uncle’s denture-less, gummy mouth and landed on Darren’s beautiful face,
“ See, I told you. That daaru will drive you mad one day!”
“No, uncle. Really. My sister is in your house. Just open the other room. She will be there.”
“Gadedha!”
“Uncle, I accept I am a fool. But please open the other room door and check na. If not, then take me to a mental hospital. Okay?”
Sohrab Uncle stared into Darren’s eyes for a moment and relaxed. He walked to the second bedroom and unlatched it. And there she was – sitting among the debris. The beam had collapsed.
The two men helped Persis stand up. She checked herself for bruises and fractures, as was expected given the nature of the accident.
*
When the doctor from Behram Baug examined her full-body X-ray that evening, he was just as shocked as she was. No fractures at all. Persis had fallen on her bum. Its mass had cushioned her fall. That was the only logical explanation.
When she stepped out of his dispensary, Persis hailed an autorickshaw. No more stressing over exercise. Her large body proved to be her best friend. And a loyal one too. Unlike Fali.
‘Fali who? At least Farcha would not leave me for a purjaat,’ thought Persis.
That night, Persis fried chicken Farcha for herself and bombils for Darren. And ate heartily after days. All was well in her little large world.
The End
It was not a Mumbai-specific phenomenon. Or maybe it was. Planetary movements were in overdrive, just like Lokhandwala Market at peak hours. Fast-moving planets collided with slow-moving ones. Planet of love, the impulsive Venus, barged into the slow-moving Jupiter, the planet of wisdom. This was like a stubborn little auto rickshaw making a sudden U-turn and then asserting its stature over a rented Audi in Lokhandwala.
When love conflicts with wisdom, chaos ensues. Young lovers were ghosted in the middle of their story. Serious partners blocked their significant others after a meet-the-family dinner. Marriages that lasted eighteen years wavered on the verge of collapse.
And curiously, long-lost ex-lovers were reuniting with partners who were either middle-aged, married, or both. Astrologers on social media had a field day dispensing remedies of all sorts: from burning bay leaves and chewing camphor to writing FLAMES and then striking off one alphabet after another.
The plump and forty-something Persis Mistry was chuffed. The reels of Venus entering Jupiter Retrograde showed celebrity couples, who were estranged in the early 2000s, now crossing paths, and some even reuniting.
It meant that she still had a chance to reignite flames with Fali Doctor…
Back in the mid-90s, Persis and Fali were the ‘it’ couple, or so she thought.
They were neighbours in Dalal Terrace, a modest ground-plus-one stack-up near Jogeshwari station. Parsis are few. The poorer Parsis are even fewer. Which meant Dalal Terrace was the poorest relative of Cusrow Baug and Dadar Parsi Colony.
The building housed just four families: two on the ground floor, two above. Fali lived downstairs with his parents. Persis was right above, with her widowed mother and elder brother, Darab, who insisted on being called Darren after one fateful summer trip to the U.S, post 9/11.
But Darab, I mean Darren, was no threat to mankind. He had surrendered to a life of peace and tranquility. He spent the best years of his youth smoking weed. Recently, it was alcohol. Darren was a peaceful alcoholic who sauntered into the house and stayed in his room listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes and Bach’s Cello Suites.
Now plump and pretty Persis and the scrawny, bewda Darren cohabited amicably in the flat. Persis ran a modest Parsi food tiffin service, which helped the siblings get by. Downstairs, Sohrab Uncle lived all alone after Fali had gone to Paris and Shirin Aunty had passed away.
Unlike Darren, who thrived in solitude, Sohrab Uncle’s loneliness made him bitter. He rebuked Darren for his alcoholism. “That poison will drive you mad one day. Your sister and I will have to admit you to Thane Mental Hospital!”
But Darren was not Sohrab uncle’s pet peeve. His son Fali was. The one who abandoned his family, culture, and cuisine. It angered him to no end that Fali was a Michelin-starred chef in a French fine-dining restaurant.
“Avey, who in their right mind abandons Berry Pulao and Sali Boti for Coq au Vin and Boeuf Bourguignon?… Saala, I can't even pronounce the words… how the hell am I supposed to digest the damn thing?” he would cry every so often.
To rub salt into his wounds, Fali had married a purjaat, a woman outside the community.
But now Venus Retrograde had come to his rescue, too. Fali had been through a divorce. And if that was not enough, he was flying down to Mumbai —or so Sohrab Uncle mentioned to Persis as she ladled generous helpings of Prawn Patiyo into steel lunch dabbas.
“He must be broken, Sohrab Uncle. He will need his father.”
“Who cares about crying over that purjaat. A lot of paperwork needs to be done. I will transfer the flat to his name. And get his power of attorney.”
“I guess that makes sense, Sohrab Uncle.”
It so happened, as was usual with all the residential buildings in Mumbai, that Dalal Terrace was due for redevelopment. And that was good news because the tottering old structure threatened to collapse at any moment.
Also, by the time a spanking new building went up, Sohrab Uncle would have crossed over. Either into the late eighties or to his heavenly abode.
Persis saw this not as a sign but as marching orders from the Universe. Fali was divorced, coming home to Mumbai, and it was Venus Retrograde! The chances of them reuniting were high. Persis had to be her best self.
She took a good look at herself. She had always been pretty. However, over the years, single-handed caregiving for an ailing mother in her twenties, domesticity coupled with bread-winning through the thirties, and the silent stress of the presence of an alcoholic brother, Persis had let herself go. The frizzy mop of grey hair, scarce moustache, and chewed fingernails could be fixed at the local beauty parlour. But that was not the real problem.
It was her largesse. The reason Fali had dumped her. At least that was the excuse he gave her. Because Persis had always been a big girl. Even as a toddler. Or the teenager Fali had fallen in love with.
‘But what is life without that insurmountable challenge to overcome? Women give up so many things for love, can’t I give up my fat?’ Persis thought to herself.
From that day on, like a possessed woman, she focused on walking from Dalal Terrace near Jogeshwari Station to Behram Baug to deliver lunch tiffins. And walked back, braving the traffic, human density, and muggy Mumbai heat. She gave up on her favorite crackling chicken farcha and stuck to healthy Kachumber. And started working out at home using the free tutorials on YouTube videos.
One of the warm-up exercises was jogging on the spot. Persis picked a square foot of tile and diligently started jogging on that spot. As she was new to exercise, she started slowly. As the days passed, her speed gradually increased.
Soon, she was so obsessed with exercise that Persis did not lose a chance to work a muscle out. As she stirred onions, the first step to cook Sali Boti, she did calf stretches for each leg. As she waited for the meat to cook, she twisted her waist. She was going to waste no time in looking her best for the only long-lost love of her life, Fali Doctor.
With all the excitement and over-exercise, Persis started to lose sleep. And was often awake in the wee hours of the morning when even the crazy city had hushed into stillness. One such pre-dawn moment, Persis decided to go to her free YouTube Tutorial.
And started to jog on the spot as her routine warm-up. Weeks into her workout, Persis was now jogging speedily. Impressed by her ability, Persis amped up speed. Fast… fast…fast…fast… fast…fast………….and………….thhaaaddddd!
Whether the tottering Dalal Terrace was in dire need of redevelopment or whether it could not withstand Persis’s bulk on the same spot for weeks, a massive crater was formed when Persis’s floor and Uncle’s ceiling opened up. Just like it happens in mythological serials. And like a divine presence, Persis fell straight down. Seated. Just like a devi from those mythological series. Frozen from the shock, Persis was glued to the floor, motionless.
Was it the alcohol causing the trouble, or a strange sibling soul-bond? Because moments later, Darren woke up with a pounding hangover. He staggered to the fridge for a bottle of water to soothe his throat, caused by severe alcohol dehydration. As he entered the living room, he saw a crater.
Was an overdose of alcohol causing hallucinations? Darren lurched back on his foot. Sohrab uncle’s prophecy was coming true! Darren panicked and cried out loud, “I don’t want to go mad. I will stop drinking alcohol from today. Okay, maybe just a few beers with fried bombils on Sunday, but no more. Oh Khodai, please. Please maro Khodaiji. Help me.”
He cried out loud. So loud that it shook Persis from her frozen trance. She yelled. “Darren! Darren! Darren!”
Darren pasted his palms to his ears and wailed away, “I can now hear voices. Oh, Khodaiji, make this stop. Make the voices go. No beer with fried boomla on Sunday, even, I promise.”
Despite the prayers, he continued to hear someone call out his name in pitch darkness. The decibel only increased with every passing second. Perhaps Khodaiji decided to put some sense into Darren. That’s when Darren paused for a beat and listened. It was Persis calling out his name.
So he looked around their pokey two-bedroom flat. But Persis was nowhere to be found. Her call for help rang through the darkness. In his senses by now, Darren gingerly tiptoed towards the crater and looked in.
There she was! His sister was crying out his name. Persis stopped the minute she saw Darren. “Just ring Sohrab Uncle’s bell. I can't get up.”
*
Drops of spit flew out of Sohrab Uncle’s denture-less, gummy mouth and landed on Darren’s beautiful face,
“ See, I told you. That daaru will drive you mad one day!”
“No, uncle. Really. My sister is in your house. Just open the other room. She will be there.”
“Gadedha!”
“Uncle, I accept I am a fool. But please open the other room door and check na. If not, then take me to a mental hospital. Okay?”
Sohrab Uncle stared into Darren’s eyes for a moment and relaxed. He walked to the second bedroom and unlatched it. And there she was – sitting among the debris. The beam had collapsed.
The two men helped Persis stand up. She checked herself for bruises and fractures, as was expected given the nature of the accident.
*
When the doctor from Behram Baug examined her full-body X-ray that evening, he was just as shocked as she was. No fractures at all. Persis had fallen on her bum. Its mass had cushioned her fall. That was the only logical explanation.
When she stepped out of his dispensary, Persis hailed an autorickshaw. No more stressing over exercise. Her large body proved to be her best friend. And a loyal one too. Unlike Fali.
‘Fali who? At least Farcha would not leave me for a purjaat,’ thought Persis.
That night, Persis fried chicken Farcha for herself and bombils for Darren. And ate heartily after days. All was well in her little large world.
The End
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Venus Retrograde in Jogeshwari.
It was not a Mumbai-specific phenomenon. Or maybe it was. Planetary movements were in overdrive, just like Lokhandwala Market at peak hours. Fast-moving planets collided with slow-moving ones. Planet of love, the impulsive Venus, barged into the slow-moving Jupiter, the planet of wisdom. This was like a stubborn little auto rickshaw making a sudden U-turn and then asserting its stature over a rented Audi in Lokhandwala.
When love conflicts with wisdom, chaos ensues. Young lovers were ghosted in the middle of their story. Serious partners blocked their significant others after a meet-the-family dinner. Marriages that lasted eighteen years wavered on the verge of collapse.
And curiously, long-lost ex-lovers were reuniting with partners who were either middle-aged, married, or both. Astrologers on social media had a field day dispensing remedies of all sorts: from burning bay leaves and chewing camphor to writing FLAMES and then striking off one alphabet after another.
The plump and forty-something Persis Mistry was chuffed. The reels of Venus entering Jupiter Retrograde showed celebrity couples, who were estranged in the early 2000s, now crossing paths, and some even reuniting.
It meant that she still had a chance to reignite flames with Fali Doctor…
Back in the mid-90s, Persis and Fali were the ‘it’ couple, or so she thought.
They were neighbours in Dalal Terrace, a modest ground-plus-one stack-up near Jogeshwari station. Parsis are few. The poorer Parsis are even fewer. Which meant Dalal Terrace was the poorest relative of Cusrow Baug and Dadar Parsi Colony.
The building housed just four families: two on the ground floor, two above. Fali lived downstairs with his parents. Persis was right above, with her widowed mother and elder brother, Darab, who insisted on being called Darren after one fateful summer trip to the U.S, post 9/11.
But Darab, I mean Darren, was no threat to mankind. He had surrendered to a life of peace and tranquility. He spent the best years of his youth smoking weed. Recently, it was alcohol. Darren was a peaceful alcoholic who sauntered into the house and stayed in his room listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes and Bach’s Cello Suites.
Now plump and pretty Persis and the scrawny, bewda Darren cohabited amicably in the flat. Persis ran a modest Parsi food tiffin service, which helped the siblings get by. Downstairs, Sohrab Uncle lived all alone after Fali had gone to Paris and Shirin Aunty had passed away.
Unlike Darren, who thrived in solitude, Sohrab Uncle’s loneliness made him bitter. He rebuked Darren for his alcoholism. “That poison will drive you mad one day. Your sister and I will have to admit you to Thane Mental Hospital!”
But Darren was not Sohrab uncle’s pet peeve. His son Fali was. The one who abandoned his family, culture, and cuisine. It angered him to no end that Fali was a Michelin-starred chef in a French fine-dining restaurant.
“Avey, who in their right mind abandons Berry Pulao and Sali Boti for Coq au Vin and Boeuf Bourguignon?… Saala, I can't even pronounce the words… how the hell am I supposed to digest the damn thing?” he would cry every so often.
To rub salt into his wounds, Fali had married a purjaat, a woman outside the community.
But now Venus Retrograde had come to his rescue, too. Fali had been through a divorce. And if that was not enough, he was flying down to Mumbai —or so Sohrab Uncle mentioned to Persis as she ladled generous helpings of Prawn Patiyo into steel lunch dabbas.
“He must be broken, Sohrab Uncle. He will need his father.”
“Who cares about crying over that purjaat. A lot of paperwork needs to be done. I will transfer the flat to his name. And get his power of attorney.”
“I guess that makes sense, Sohrab Uncle.”
It so happened, as was usual with all the residential buildings in Mumbai, that Dalal Terrace was due for redevelopment. And that was good news because the tottering old structure threatened to collapse at any moment.
Also, by the time a spanking new building went up, Sohrab Uncle would have crossed over. Either into the late eighties or to his heavenly abode.
Persis saw this not as a sign but as marching orders from the Universe. Fali was divorced, coming home to Mumbai, and it was Venus Retrograde! The chances of them reuniting were high. Persis had to be her best self.
She took a good look at herself. She had always been pretty. However, over the years, single-handed caregiving for an ailing mother in her twenties, domesticity coupled with bread-winning through the thirties, and the silent stress of the presence of an alcoholic brother, Persis had let herself go. The frizzy mop of grey hair, scarce moustache, and chewed fingernails could be fixed at the local beauty parlour. But that was not the real problem.
It was her largesse. The reason Fali had dumped her. At least that was the excuse he gave her. Because Persis had always been a big girl. Even as a toddler. Or the teenager Fali had fallen in love with.
‘But what is life without that insurmountable challenge to overcome? Women give up so many things for love, can’t I give up my fat?’ Persis thought to herself.
From that day on, like a possessed woman, she focused on walking from Dalal Terrace near Jogeshwari Station to Behram Baug to deliver lunch tiffins. And walked back, braving the traffic, human density, and muggy Mumbai heat. She gave up on her favorite crackling chicken farcha and stuck to healthy Kachumber. And started working out at home using the free tutorials on YouTube videos.
One of the warm-up exercises was jogging on the spot. Persis picked a square foot of tile and diligently started jogging on that spot. As she was new to exercise, she started slowly. As the days passed, her speed gradually increased.
Soon, she was so obsessed with exercise that Persis did not lose a chance to work a muscle out. As she stirred onions, the first step to cook Sali Boti, she did calf stretches for each leg. As she waited for the meat to cook, she twisted her waist. She was going to waste no time in looking her best for the only long-lost love of her life, Fali Doctor.
With all the excitement and over-exercise, Persis started to lose sleep. And was often awake in the wee hours of the morning when even the crazy city had hushed into stillness. One such pre-dawn moment, Persis decided to go to her free YouTube Tutorial.
And started to jog on the spot as her routine warm-up. Weeks into her workout, Persis was now jogging speedily. Impressed by her ability, Persis amped up speed. Fast… fast…fast…fast… fast…fast………….and………….thhaaaddddd!
Whether the tottering Dalal Terrace was in dire need of redevelopment or whether it could not withstand Persis’s bulk on the same spot for weeks, a massive crater was formed when Persis’s floor and Uncle’s ceiling opened up. Just like it happens in mythological serials. And like a divine presence, Persis fell straight down. Seated. Just like a devi from those mythological series. Frozen from the shock, Persis was glued to the floor, motionless.
Was it the alcohol causing the trouble, or a strange sibling soul-bond? Because moments later, Darren woke up with a pounding hangover. He staggered to the fridge for a bottle of water to soothe his throat, caused by severe alcohol dehydration. As he entered the living room, he saw a crater.
Was an overdose of alcohol causing hallucinations? Darren lurched back on his foot. Sohrab uncle’s prophecy was coming true! Darren panicked and cried out loud, “I don’t want to go mad. I will stop drinking alcohol from today. Okay, maybe just a few beers with fried bombils on Sunday, but no more. Oh Khodai, please. Please maro Khodaiji. Help me.”
He cried out loud. So loud that it shook Persis from her frozen trance. She yelled. “Darren! Darren! Darren!”
Darren pasted his palms to his ears and wailed away, “I can now hear voices. Oh, Khodaiji, make this stop. Make the voices go. No beer with fried boomla on Sunday, even, I promise.”
Despite the prayers, he continued to hear someone call out his name in pitch darkness. The decibel only increased with every passing second. Perhaps Khodaiji decided to put some sense into Darren. That’s when Darren paused for a beat and listened. It was Persis calling out his name.
So he looked around their pokey two-bedroom flat. But Persis was nowhere to be found. Her call for help rang through the darkness. In his senses by now, Darren gingerly tiptoed towards the crater and looked in.
There she was! His sister was crying out his name. Persis stopped the minute she saw Darren. “Just ring Sohrab Uncle’s bell. I can't get up.”
*
Drops of spit flew out of Sohrab Uncle’s denture-less, gummy mouth and landed on Darren’s beautiful face,
“ See, I told you. That daaru will drive you mad one day!”
“No, uncle. Really. My sister is in your house. Just open the other room. She will be there.”
“Gadedha!”
“Uncle, I accept I am a fool. But please open the other room door and check na. If not, then take me to a mental hospital. Okay?”
Sohrab Uncle stared into Darren’s eyes for a moment and relaxed. He walked to the second bedroom and unlatched it. And there she was – sitting among the debris. The beam had collapsed.
The two men helped Persis stand up. She checked herself for bruises and fractures, as was expected given the nature of the accident.
*
When the doctor from Behram Baug examined her full-body X-ray that evening, he was just as shocked as she was. No fractures at all. Persis had fallen on her bum. Its mass had cushioned her fall. That was the only logical explanation.
When she stepped out of his dispensary, Persis hailed an autorickshaw. No more stressing over exercise. Her large body proved to be her best friend. And a loyal one too. Unlike Fali.
‘Fali who? At least Farcha would not leave me for a purjaat,’ thought Persis.
That night, Persis fried chicken Farcha for herself and bombils for Darren. And ate heartily after days. All was well in her little large world.
The End
It was not a Mumbai-specific phenomenon. Or maybe it was. Planetary movements were in overdrive, just like Lokhandwala Market at peak hours. Fast-moving planets collided with slow-moving ones. Planet of love, the impulsive Venus, barged into the slow-moving Jupiter, the planet of wisdom. This was like a stubborn little auto rickshaw making a sudden U-turn and then asserting its stature over a rented Audi in Lokhandwala.
When love conflicts with wisdom, chaos ensues. Young lovers were ghosted in the middle of their story. Serious partners blocked their significant others after a meet-the-family dinner. Marriages that lasted eighteen years wavered on the verge of collapse.
And curiously, long-lost ex-lovers were reuniting with partners who were either middle-aged, married, or both. Astrologers on social media had a field day dispensing remedies of all sorts: from burning bay leaves and chewing camphor to writing FLAMES and then striking off one alphabet after another.
The plump and forty-something Persis Mistry was chuffed. The reels of Venus entering Jupiter Retrograde showed celebrity couples, who were estranged in the early 2000s, now crossing paths, and some even reuniting.
It meant that she still had a chance to reignite flames with Fali Doctor…
Back in the mid-90s, Persis and Fali were the ‘it’ couple, or so she thought.
They were neighbours in Dalal Terrace, a modest ground-plus-one stack-up near Jogeshwari station. Parsis are few. The poorer Parsis are even fewer. Which meant Dalal Terrace was the poorest relative of Cusrow Baug and Dadar Parsi Colony.
The building housed just four families: two on the ground floor, two above. Fali lived downstairs with his parents. Persis was right above, with her widowed mother and elder brother, Darab, who insisted on being called Darren after one fateful summer trip to the U.S, post 9/11.
But Darab, I mean Darren, was no threat to mankind. He had surrendered to a life of peace and tranquility. He spent the best years of his youth smoking weed. Recently, it was alcohol. Darren was a peaceful alcoholic who sauntered into the house and stayed in his room listening to Chopin’s Nocturnes and Bach’s Cello Suites.
Now plump and pretty Persis and the scrawny, bewda Darren cohabited amicably in the flat. Persis ran a modest Parsi food tiffin service, which helped the siblings get by. Downstairs, Sohrab Uncle lived all alone after Fali had gone to Paris and Shirin Aunty had passed away.
Unlike Darren, who thrived in solitude, Sohrab Uncle’s loneliness made him bitter. He rebuked Darren for his alcoholism. “That poison will drive you mad one day. Your sister and I will have to admit you to Thane Mental Hospital!”
But Darren was not Sohrab uncle’s pet peeve. His son Fali was. The one who abandoned his family, culture, and cuisine. It angered him to no end that Fali was a Michelin-starred chef in a French fine-dining restaurant.
“Avey, who in their right mind abandons Berry Pulao and Sali Boti for Coq au Vin and Boeuf Bourguignon?… Saala, I can't even pronounce the words… how the hell am I supposed to digest the damn thing?” he would cry every so often.
To rub salt into his wounds, Fali had married a purjaat, a woman outside the community.
But now Venus Retrograde had come to his rescue, too. Fali had been through a divorce. And if that was not enough, he was flying down to Mumbai —or so Sohrab Uncle mentioned to Persis as she ladled generous helpings of Prawn Patiyo into steel lunch dabbas.
“He must be broken, Sohrab Uncle. He will need his father.”
“Who cares about crying over that purjaat. A lot of paperwork needs to be done. I will transfer the flat to his name. And get his power of attorney.”
“I guess that makes sense, Sohrab Uncle.”
It so happened, as was usual with all the residential buildings in Mumbai, that Dalal Terrace was due for redevelopment. And that was good news because the tottering old structure threatened to collapse at any moment.
Also, by the time a spanking new building went up, Sohrab Uncle would have crossed over. Either into the late eighties or to his heavenly abode.
Persis saw this not as a sign but as marching orders from the Universe. Fali was divorced, coming home to Mumbai, and it was Venus Retrograde! The chances of them reuniting were high. Persis had to be her best self.
She took a good look at herself. She had always been pretty. However, over the years, single-handed caregiving for an ailing mother in her twenties, domesticity coupled with bread-winning through the thirties, and the silent stress of the presence of an alcoholic brother, Persis had let herself go. The frizzy mop of grey hair, scarce moustache, and chewed fingernails could be fixed at the local beauty parlour. But that was not the real problem.
It was her largesse. The reason Fali had dumped her. At least that was the excuse he gave her. Because Persis had always been a big girl. Even as a toddler. Or the teenager Fali had fallen in love with.
‘But what is life without that insurmountable challenge to overcome? Women give up so many things for love, can’t I give up my fat?’ Persis thought to herself.
From that day on, like a possessed woman, she focused on walking from Dalal Terrace near Jogeshwari Station to Behram Baug to deliver lunch tiffins. And walked back, braving the traffic, human density, and muggy Mumbai heat. She gave up on her favorite crackling chicken farcha and stuck to healthy Kachumber. And started working out at home using the free tutorials on YouTube videos.
One of the warm-up exercises was jogging on the spot. Persis picked a square foot of tile and diligently started jogging on that spot. As she was new to exercise, she started slowly. As the days passed, her speed gradually increased.
Soon, she was so obsessed with exercise that Persis did not lose a chance to work a muscle out. As she stirred onions, the first step to cook Sali Boti, she did calf stretches for each leg. As she waited for the meat to cook, she twisted her waist. She was going to waste no time in looking her best for the only long-lost love of her life, Fali Doctor.
With all the excitement and over-exercise, Persis started to lose sleep. And was often awake in the wee hours of the morning when even the crazy city had hushed into stillness. One such pre-dawn moment, Persis decided to go to her free YouTube Tutorial.
And started to jog on the spot as her routine warm-up. Weeks into her workout, Persis was now jogging speedily. Impressed by her ability, Persis amped up speed. Fast… fast…fast…fast… fast…fast………….and………….thhaaaddddd!
Whether the tottering Dalal Terrace was in dire need of redevelopment or whether it could not withstand Persis’s bulk on the same spot for weeks, a massive crater was formed when Persis’s floor and Uncle’s ceiling opened up. Just like it happens in mythological serials. And like a divine presence, Persis fell straight down. Seated. Just like a devi from those mythological series. Frozen from the shock, Persis was glued to the floor, motionless.
Was it the alcohol causing the trouble, or a strange sibling soul-bond? Because moments later, Darren woke up with a pounding hangover. He staggered to the fridge for a bottle of water to soothe his throat, caused by severe alcohol dehydration. As he entered the living room, he saw a crater.
Was an overdose of alcohol causing hallucinations? Darren lurched back on his foot. Sohrab uncle’s prophecy was coming true! Darren panicked and cried out loud, “I don’t want to go mad. I will stop drinking alcohol from today. Okay, maybe just a few beers with fried bombils on Sunday, but no more. Oh Khodai, please. Please maro Khodaiji. Help me.”
He cried out loud. So loud that it shook Persis from her frozen trance. She yelled. “Darren! Darren! Darren!”
Darren pasted his palms to his ears and wailed away, “I can now hear voices. Oh, Khodaiji, make this stop. Make the voices go. No beer with fried boomla on Sunday, even, I promise.”
Despite the prayers, he continued to hear someone call out his name in pitch darkness. The decibel only increased with every passing second. Perhaps Khodaiji decided to put some sense into Darren. That’s when Darren paused for a beat and listened. It was Persis calling out his name.
So he looked around their pokey two-bedroom flat. But Persis was nowhere to be found. Her call for help rang through the darkness. In his senses by now, Darren gingerly tiptoed towards the crater and looked in.
There she was! His sister was crying out his name. Persis stopped the minute she saw Darren. “Just ring Sohrab Uncle’s bell. I can't get up.”
*
Drops of spit flew out of Sohrab Uncle’s denture-less, gummy mouth and landed on Darren’s beautiful face,
“ See, I told you. That daaru will drive you mad one day!”
“No, uncle. Really. My sister is in your house. Just open the other room. She will be there.”
“Gadedha!”
“Uncle, I accept I am a fool. But please open the other room door and check na. If not, then take me to a mental hospital. Okay?”
Sohrab Uncle stared into Darren’s eyes for a moment and relaxed. He walked to the second bedroom and unlatched it. And there she was – sitting among the debris. The beam had collapsed.
The two men helped Persis stand up. She checked herself for bruises and fractures, as was expected given the nature of the accident.
*
When the doctor from Behram Baug examined her full-body X-ray that evening, he was just as shocked as she was. No fractures at all. Persis had fallen on her bum. Its mass had cushioned her fall. That was the only logical explanation.
When she stepped out of his dispensary, Persis hailed an autorickshaw. No more stressing over exercise. Her large body proved to be her best friend. And a loyal one too. Unlike Fali.
‘Fali who? At least Farcha would not leave me for a purjaat,’ thought Persis.
That night, Persis fried chicken Farcha for herself and bombils for Darren. And ate heartily after days. All was well in her little large world.
The End
August 18, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Hair Dye
9, 8…7…6, 5… The lift was moving down slowly as if it were on holiday. There was no rush for time.
Chitra was in a rush. She had to pick up her brother-in-law and his wife from the airport. And there were just two hours left. It was not just about the notorious Mumbai traffic. Chitra had to get stuff done before they arrived.
Clutching her sling with one hand, Chitra impatiently held the crown of her salt and pepper head with the other. How she wished she had her old driver back. Chitra dismissed the thought the moment it flitted in. ‘No point looking back’, she thought to herself.
The lift glided down at a snail's pace. Chitra slid its iron gates open. And just as she stepped in, a body stumbled on her back, lurching her ahead. “Sory. Sory. Sory,” she heard as she (Chitra) held onto the steel bars to avoid a nasty fall. However, her sling bag fell to the floor, and its contents splayed out: rubber gloves, napkins, a jar of petroleum jelly, a hair colouring brush, clips, and a hair dye kit.
The woman who had stumbled into her was the skin-and-bones, energetic 75-year-old Bena Shah. The septuagenarian lunged down like an acrobat to pick up the supplies.
Handing them to her, she smiled—“Good, good. Now you must start to take care of the hairs. So, what if you are widow?”
Chitra looked down silently. That was the best part of widowhood—she didn't have to exchange pleasantries, and it suited her.
Unlike whisky, which left a musky scent on the body, wine had no such qualities. All she needed to do was keep her lips sealed, and her secret would remain safe. Bena Shah kept babbling about how Chitra had every right to participate actively in daily life once again.
“Come no, for Satsang,” she said cheerfully.
When the lift stopped on the 4th floor, she gently patted Chitra on her shoulder and smiled sadly. “Come home if you feel lonely. I also miss my husband,” she said and stepped out. She kept waving to Chitra until the lift crawled up and Chitra was out of sight.
Alone now, Chitra heaved a sigh and dipped her hands into the sling searching for her set of keys. She had completely forgotten about her brother and sister-in-law until they called before leaving for Delhi Airport. That’s when she left her recently re-united school friend and her fourth glass of wine unattended to rush home.
The moment she entered the flat, out of pure muscle memory, she slipped out of her loafers.
Then, she tugged the salt-and-pepper wig off her scalp, freeing a jet-black, lustrous mop of hair. Yes, Chitra wore a wig, but more on that later.
Then, as was usual, Chitra looked at the photograph of her handsome late husband hanging on the wall. She pointed her middle finger at him.
Next, ran into the bathroom and opened the shower. Swiftly, rinsed her shoulder-length hair and then fastened it to a towel. Opening the jar of petroleum jelly, she whisked out a thick slick. First, rubbed some on her forehead and eyebrows. And the rest of it on the side and back of her neck and shoulders. She flanked a napkin over her shoulders like armour.
Chitra was set for her first hair dye. She was going to streak a jet-black mane to grey.
Weeks ago, her brother-in-law called to inform her that he and his wife would come 3 days before the husband’s barsi, marking his first death anniversary. That was when Chitra thought of colouring her black hair grey. But the moment he hung up, she forgot all about it. And got busy. Living. Food, friendship and occasional wine kept her in good stead. Most importantly she laughed.
Not in front of the neighbours though. In and out of Victory House Co-operative Society she was quiet and forlorn, the way a widow in mourning was expected to be. After all, what would people say? Husband died and the wife was happy?
Chitra wore a salt-and-pepper wig to showcase her grief as she left the building. Or if the neighbours dropped in. But to wear one 24/7 in a one-bedroom hall kitchen apartment in Mumbai in front of her in-laws would be tedious.
She hastily sectioned her hair and fastened it with clips. Then picked up the bleach- brush and started to bleach sections of hair.
She had to bleach them first and then colour them white. Being a first-timer helped. That way the grey in her hair would look messy and not salon-sleek.
When he was alive, her good-looking husband was an all-inclusive package. Be it compulsive womanising in the early years, the mounting debts in the later ones and the subsequent alcoholism that followed– her husband had left no stone unturned to make sure that Chitra had not only paid for his debts but her bad karmas from every past life.
Human experiences previously unknown to Chitra, showed up. Guests like palpitations, panic attacks, and anxiety overstayed their welcome. A disinterest in food made her shed like an avalanche- weight as well as hair.
One evening, she found herself on the terrace of Victory House's 15th floor, contemplating which side to jump from. One side overlooked the narrow Pitamber Lane, where trucks passed by. Falling and then being run over would be grotesque. Chitra winced at the thought and looked to the other side. The empty building site seemed a good place to take the plunge.
Just then, skin-and-bones Bena Shah began her evening walk. If I fall on Bena Shah, the old lady will be flattened to the ground like a sticker. People will wonder why I would kill the poor old lady. The thought of what people might say and the ridiculous image of Bena Shah’s sticker permanently imprinted on the Victory House courtyard made Chitra change her mind. Plan cancelled.
She had an uneasy sleep. And woke up with a head of white hair. Overnight.
Hair was her pride. She decided to leave. Spoke to her mother and brother. Both seemed sceptical. After all, the brother had a family of 4 besides the mother. Where was the room for another human body in the matchbox side apartments of Mumbai? Chitra realized that it was not the physical space they lacked.
Then, the heavy drinking took a toll and the husband was diagnosed with advanced cirrhosis of the liver.
The liver is a regenerative organ, but given the years of heavy drinking- his was a hopeless case. What would people say? The wife abandoned an unwell husband. Painted in a corner, Chitra had no option but to stay.
The bleach was applied. Now Chitra had to wait. For 15 minutes.
Nothing had prepared her for caregiving. Reluctant caregiving is like solitary confinement. You want to scream shout bang your head to the wall – and yet you’d be unheard. Ungrateful, ill-tempered and foul-mouthed – the husband was such an impatient patient that when he breathed his last- Chitra heaved her first sigh of relief. Suddenly she felt light. Like a weight had been lifted off her shoulder.
And just like that her body started to change.
She had a peaceful glow on her face. With no anxiety and palpitations suddenly 5 years were taken off her face. And within a month of death, her hair turned from grey to jet black. Just like it used to be. Edging towards her 50s, Chitra had not looked this poised and elegant even in her 20s. There is beauty in freedom, you know.
While on the one hand, Chitra felt great, on the other, she wondered what people might think of her. A widow was supposed to be sad.
But that was not Chitra’s truth. Marriage had shackled her, while widowhood had set her free. And yet, Chitra covered her happiness with a wig.
And now she was dyeing her hair grey for the husband’s barsi. Only because wearing a wig all the time would be cumbersome. Chitra stared at her reflection. Her black hair had taken on a bronze tone now. It reminded her of the morning she had woken up with a head of white frizz. And she did not like the sight back then. Nor did she like it now.
What will people think? This had governed her life. But did people in Mumbai have the time to think of her? And even if they did, how long would she live caved in?
She wanted her black hair back. Now.
But how?!
*
Minutes later, she was facing Bena Shah without her wig. Handing the house keys to Bena, Chitra said, “Please give them to my brother-in-law and his wife.” Bena stared at her head of bleached hair. Chitra knew it looked strange, but it was just a matter of time.
As she pressed the lift button, Chitra made an appointment with a swanky hair studio. They promised to fix her hair to its original raven black. Next, she requested pedicure and manicure services as well.
Chitra stepped into the lift and firmly shut its iron gates. She made a mental note of the local parlour that offered hair and make-up looks depending on the occasion. Wedding, Karva Chauth, and Chautha… Yes, there was a look for women who wanted to look well turned out for mourning. It involved a straight blow-dry and nude make-up with brown accents.
Chitra was going to be herself from now on. No more hiding. And to her, it meant looking stunning on the first barsi of the dead husband.
The lift descended slowly. This time, Chitra was in no hurry.
The End
9, 8…7…6, 5… The lift was moving down slowly as if it were on holiday. There was no rush for time.
Chitra was in a rush. She had to pick up her brother-in-law and his wife from the airport. And there were just two hours left. It was not just about the notorious Mumbai traffic. Chitra had to get stuff done before they arrived.
Clutching her sling with one hand, Chitra impatiently held the crown of her salt and pepper head with the other. How she wished she had her old driver back. Chitra dismissed the thought the moment it flitted in. ‘No point looking back’, she thought to herself.
The lift glided down at a snail's pace. Chitra slid its iron gates open. And just as she stepped in, a body stumbled on her back, lurching her ahead. “Sory. Sory. Sory,” she heard as she (Chitra) held onto the steel bars to avoid a nasty fall. However, her sling bag fell to the floor, and its contents splayed out: rubber gloves, napkins, a jar of petroleum jelly, a hair colouring brush, clips, and a hair dye kit.
The woman who had stumbled into her was the skin-and-bones, energetic 75-year-old Bena Shah. The septuagenarian lunged down like an acrobat to pick up the supplies.
Handing them to her, she smiled—“Good, good. Now you must start to take care of the hairs. So, what if you are widow?”
Chitra looked down silently. That was the best part of widowhood—she didn't have to exchange pleasantries, and it suited her.
Unlike whisky, which left a musky scent on the body, wine had no such qualities. All she needed to do was keep her lips sealed, and her secret would remain safe. Bena Shah kept babbling about how Chitra had every right to participate actively in daily life once again.
“Come no, for Satsang,” she said cheerfully.
When the lift stopped on the 4th floor, she gently patted Chitra on her shoulder and smiled sadly. “Come home if you feel lonely. I also miss my husband,” she said and stepped out. She kept waving to Chitra until the lift crawled up and Chitra was out of sight.
Alone now, Chitra heaved a sigh and dipped her hands into the sling searching for her set of keys. She had completely forgotten about her brother and sister-in-law until they called before leaving for Delhi Airport. That’s when she left her recently re-united school friend and her fourth glass of wine unattended to rush home.
The moment she entered the flat, out of pure muscle memory, she slipped out of her loafers.
Then, she tugged the salt-and-pepper wig off her scalp, freeing a jet-black, lustrous mop of hair. Yes, Chitra wore a wig, but more on that later.
Then, as was usual, Chitra looked at the photograph of her handsome late husband hanging on the wall. She pointed her middle finger at him.
Next, ran into the bathroom and opened the shower. Swiftly, rinsed her shoulder-length hair and then fastened it to a towel. Opening the jar of petroleum jelly, she whisked out a thick slick. First, rubbed some on her forehead and eyebrows. And the rest of it on the side and back of her neck and shoulders. She flanked a napkin over her shoulders like armour.
Chitra was set for her first hair dye. She was going to streak a jet-black mane to grey.
Weeks ago, her brother-in-law called to inform her that he and his wife would come 3 days before the husband’s barsi, marking his first death anniversary. That was when Chitra thought of colouring her black hair grey. But the moment he hung up, she forgot all about it. And got busy. Living. Food, friendship and occasional wine kept her in good stead. Most importantly she laughed.
Not in front of the neighbours though. In and out of Victory House Co-operative Society she was quiet and forlorn, the way a widow in mourning was expected to be. After all, what would people say? Husband died and the wife was happy?
Chitra wore a salt-and-pepper wig to showcase her grief as she left the building. Or if the neighbours dropped in. But to wear one 24/7 in a one-bedroom hall kitchen apartment in Mumbai in front of her in-laws would be tedious.
She hastily sectioned her hair and fastened it with clips. Then picked up the bleach- brush and started to bleach sections of hair.
She had to bleach them first and then colour them white. Being a first-timer helped. That way the grey in her hair would look messy and not salon-sleek.
When he was alive, her good-looking husband was an all-inclusive package. Be it compulsive womanising in the early years, the mounting debts in the later ones and the subsequent alcoholism that followed– her husband had left no stone unturned to make sure that Chitra had not only paid for his debts but her bad karmas from every past life.
Human experiences previously unknown to Chitra, showed up. Guests like palpitations, panic attacks, and anxiety overstayed their welcome. A disinterest in food made her shed like an avalanche- weight as well as hair.
One evening, she found herself on the terrace of Victory House's 15th floor, contemplating which side to jump from. One side overlooked the narrow Pitamber Lane, where trucks passed by. Falling and then being run over would be grotesque. Chitra winced at the thought and looked to the other side. The empty building site seemed a good place to take the plunge.
Just then, skin-and-bones Bena Shah began her evening walk. If I fall on Bena Shah, the old lady will be flattened to the ground like a sticker. People will wonder why I would kill the poor old lady. The thought of what people might say and the ridiculous image of Bena Shah’s sticker permanently imprinted on the Victory House courtyard made Chitra change her mind. Plan cancelled.
She had an uneasy sleep. And woke up with a head of white hair. Overnight.
Hair was her pride. She decided to leave. Spoke to her mother and brother. Both seemed sceptical. After all, the brother had a family of 4 besides the mother. Where was the room for another human body in the matchbox side apartments of Mumbai? Chitra realized that it was not the physical space they lacked.
Then, the heavy drinking took a toll and the husband was diagnosed with advanced cirrhosis of the liver.
The liver is a regenerative organ, but given the years of heavy drinking- his was a hopeless case. What would people say? The wife abandoned an unwell husband. Painted in a corner, Chitra had no option but to stay.
The bleach was applied. Now Chitra had to wait. For 15 minutes.
Nothing had prepared her for caregiving. Reluctant caregiving is like solitary confinement. You want to scream shout bang your head to the wall – and yet you’d be unheard. Ungrateful, ill-tempered and foul-mouthed – the husband was such an impatient patient that when he breathed his last- Chitra heaved her first sigh of relief. Suddenly she felt light. Like a weight had been lifted off her shoulder.
And just like that her body started to change.
She had a peaceful glow on her face. With no anxiety and palpitations suddenly 5 years were taken off her face. And within a month of death, her hair turned from grey to jet black. Just like it used to be. Edging towards her 50s, Chitra had not looked this poised and elegant even in her 20s. There is beauty in freedom, you know.
While on the one hand, Chitra felt great, on the other, she wondered what people might think of her. A widow was supposed to be sad.
But that was not Chitra’s truth. Marriage had shackled her, while widowhood had set her free. And yet, Chitra covered her happiness with a wig.
And now she was dyeing her hair grey for the husband’s barsi. Only because wearing a wig all the time would be cumbersome. Chitra stared at her reflection. Her black hair had taken on a bronze tone now. It reminded her of the morning she had woken up with a head of white frizz. And she did not like the sight back then. Nor did she like it now.
What will people think? This had governed her life. But did people in Mumbai have the time to think of her? And even if they did, how long would she live caved in?
She wanted her black hair back. Now.
But how?!
*
Minutes later, she was facing Bena Shah without her wig. Handing the house keys to Bena, Chitra said, “Please give them to my brother-in-law and his wife.” Bena stared at her head of bleached hair. Chitra knew it looked strange, but it was just a matter of time.
As she pressed the lift button, Chitra made an appointment with a swanky hair studio. They promised to fix her hair to its original raven black. Next, she requested pedicure and manicure services as well.
Chitra stepped into the lift and firmly shut its iron gates. She made a mental note of the local parlour that offered hair and make-up looks depending on the occasion. Wedding, Karva Chauth, and Chautha… Yes, there was a look for women who wanted to look well turned out for mourning. It involved a straight blow-dry and nude make-up with brown accents.
Chitra was going to be herself from now on. No more hiding. And to her, it meant looking stunning on the first barsi of the dead husband.
The lift descended slowly. This time, Chitra was in no hurry.
The End
August 9, 2025
Madness In Mumbai - Short Stories
Who will love Bartha Rowla?
“In 20 years of my practice, not once have I filed a bail petition for the person I have sent into police custody,” said the shocked lawyer to Suman Das.
They were outside the Byculla Women’s Correctional Facility waiting for Suman’s former house help, Bartha Rowla.
"You do not understand, Advocate Gokhale. I am sure Bartha went crazy in the head because of that lover of hers. Before she met him, she was a great help. She took such good care of my newborn daughter and the entire house that I was able to start my digital channel and turn it into a huge success."
And now Suman needed Bartha more than ever. She had bagged the prestigious opportunity to cover celebrity fashion at the Cannes Film Festival for a news portal. It was going to be her first trip abroad! Plus, everything was paid for.
The only issue was that her mother was in the US, and Suman couldn't think of anyone more capable than Bartha to leave her daughter with.
‘And everyone makes mistakes,’ she thought.
Suman remembered that as a child, she had stolen chocolates from a candy store. What if her mother had not forgiven her? What if the store owner had shamed her? What if they kept reminding her of the mistake? How heartbreaking that would be.
The display of human compassion and forgiveness made Suman a kind-hearted person. Bartha deserved a second chance, and Suman needed to be stress-free during her international shoot. Both women needed each other, Suman thought.
-“Do not forget all your jewelry, and 50,000 rupees in cash was available to his band of robbers because she gave him entry into the house. Thank God your daughter was in school.”
- “Bartha would not harm my daughter,” Suman stated firmly. “And besides, people do crazy things in love. That man lured Bartha with roadside spicy Triple Shezwan Rice bathed in extra red chilly sauce.”
Advocate Gokhale rolled his eyes. This was an employer discussing what her errant servant’s boyfriend fed her, with the passion of an Instagram foodie.
“What hope could that woman have to be loved by a man? She was honey-trapped. Just look at her!” Suman said, pointing to the gate.
A small woman, no taller than three feet, appeared. Stone-faced, she walked toward the gates. Just then, three African inmates approached her and handed her a violet bar of Cadbury chocolate. A toothy grin lit up Bartha’s face. Her yellow teeth gleamed like gold against her dark complexion. The inmates patted her stiff, frizzy hair and then said goodbye.
Out of the precincts of Byculla Women’s Correctional Facility, Bartha walked past Suman and headed straight for the car. She opened the door of the Creta and climbed inside, giving the driver a slight nod of acknowledgment.
Advocate Gokhale turned to look at a shocked Suman. “No hello? No, sorry, no thank you? After all you have done for her?” Crestfallen, Suman mumbled a thank you to her lawyer and walked to her car.
*
The drive from Byculla to Andheri is unbearable. But it was the silence inside the air-conditioned sedan that was suffocating Suman. Bartha stared ahead unmoving. Her black lips remained sealed. Had Bartha been assaulted in prison? Was that the reason she was so closed-off? But no, she was friendly with the African inmates.
What had Suman done wrong? Even when Bartha was working for her, she was treated very well. She received a good salary, one day off a week, and Bartha got extra cash and two bottles of beer after cooking for a house party.
Suman could not control herself and asked,
- How are you, Bartha?
- Very good.
A pocket of silence.
- How were the last 6 months, Bartha?
- Very good. Why did you have to get me out?
Suman was unsure if she had heard it right.
- Do you mean you liked it in jail?
- Of course! It was wonderful.
- How?
- I did not have to work. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served on time. And I was treated so well by the Black Mommas…
- By whom?
And the more Suman asked, the more she was shocked by the quirky nature of fate.
So, when Bartha was transferred to Byculla Women’s Jail after her arrest, the officer responsible for assigning barracks looked at Bartha Rowla’s case files. Although Bartha Rowla came from a nomadic tribe of tea pickers near Siliguri in Northern West Bengal, her name was unfamiliar and difficult to pronounce.
The officer examined Bartha’s small black frame and assigned her to the Black Momma Barrack, where she thought she belonged.
When Bartha entered her assigned station, she saw African female detainees who resembled her, but they were much taller and larger. Drug peddlers, money launderers, and counterfeiters: they came from Nigeria, Tanzania, Uganda, Kenya, Venezuela, and Bolivia. Believing she was one of them, the prisoners greeted Bartha with a full cigarette and a stiff shot of Old Monk rum.
When Big Momma, the undisputed leader of the African under-trials, saw Bartha, her eyes welled with tears. Big Momma was convinced that, as a child, Bartha was kidnapped from an African shanty in Andheri. Decades ago, Big Momma's sister, a drug peddler, had given birth to a little person in Mumbai who later went missing. Now, Big Momma believed that girl was Bartha. On her part, Bartha made no effort to clear up this misconception.
Generous Big Momma made sure Bartha enjoyed the mutton biryani and chicken curry they had for dinner twice a week. With a never-ending supply of love, cigarettes, and Old Monk rum in the Black Momma Barrack of Byculla Women’s Prison, Bartha Rowla was finally free.
Then Suman Das bailed her out. Now she was about to face long hours of housework, which Bartha was least interested in.
The End .
“In 20 years of my practice, not once have I filed a bail petition for the person I have sent into police custody,” said the shocked lawyer to Suman Das.
They were outside the Byculla Women’s Correctional Facility waiting for Suman’s former house help, Bartha Rowla.
"You do not understand, Advocate Gokhale. I am sure Bartha went crazy in the head because of that lover of hers. Before she met him, she was a great help. She took such good care of my newborn daughter and the entire house that I was able to start my digital channel and turn it into a huge success."
And now Suman needed Bartha more than ever. She had bagged the prestigious opportunity to cover celebrity fashion at the Cannes Film Festival for a news portal. It was going to be her first trip abroad! Plus, everything was paid for.
The only issue was that her mother was in the US, and Suman couldn't think of anyone more capable than Bartha to leave her daughter with.
‘And everyone makes mistakes,’ she thought.
Suman remembered that as a child, she had stolen chocolates from a candy store. What if her mother had not forgiven her? What if the store owner had shamed her? What if they kept reminding her of the mistake? How heartbreaking that would be.
The display of human compassion and forgiveness made Suman a kind-hearted person. Bartha deserved a second chance, and Suman needed to be stress-free during her international shoot. Both women needed each other, Suman thought.
-“Do not forget all your jewelry, and 50,000 rupees in cash was available to his band of robbers because she gave him entry into the house. Thank God your daughter was in school.”
- “Bartha would not harm my daughter,” Suman stated firmly. “And besides, people do crazy things in love. That man lured Bartha with roadside spicy Triple Shezwan Rice bathed in extra red chilly sauce.”
Advocate Gokhale rolled his eyes. This was an employer discussing what her errant servant’s boyfriend fed her, with the passion of an Instagram foodie.
“What hope could that woman have to be loved by a man? She was honey-trapped. Just look at her!” Suman said, pointing to the gate.
A small woman, no taller than three feet, appeared. Stone-faced, she walked toward the gates. Just then, three African inmates approached her and handed her a violet bar of Cadbury chocolate. A toothy grin lit up Bartha’s face. Her yellow teeth gleamed like gold against her dark complexion. The inmates patted her stiff, frizzy hair and then said goodbye.
Out of the precincts of Byculla Women’s Correctional Facility, Bartha walked past Suman and headed straight for the car. She opened the door of the Creta and climbed inside, giving the driver a slight nod of acknowledgment.
Advocate Gokhale turned to look at a shocked Suman. “No hello? No, sorry, no thank you? After all you have done for her?” Crestfallen, Suman mumbled a thank you to her lawyer and walked to her car.
*
The drive from Byculla to Andheri is unbearable. But it was the silence inside the air-conditioned sedan that was suffocating Suman. Bartha stared ahead unmoving. Her black lips remained sealed. Had Bartha been assaulted in prison? Was that the reason she was so closed-off? But no, she was friendly with the African inmates.
What had Suman done wrong? Even when Bartha was working for her, she was treated very well. She received a good salary, one day off a week, and Bartha got extra cash and two bottles of beer after cooking for a house party.
Suman could not control herself and asked,
- How are you, Bartha?
- Very good.
A pocket of silence.
- How were the last 6 months, Bartha?
- Very good. Why did you have to get me out?
Suman was unsure if she had heard it right.
- Do you mean you liked it in jail?
- Of course! It was wonderful.
- How?
- I did not have to work. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner were served on time. And I was treated so well by the Black Mommas…
- By whom?
And the more Suman asked, the more she was shocked by the quirky nature of fate.
So, when Bartha was transferred to Byculla Women’s Jail after her arrest, the officer responsible for assigning barracks looked at Bartha Rowla’s case files. Although Bartha Rowla came from a nomadic tribe of tea pickers near Siliguri in Northern West Bengal, her name was unfamiliar and difficult to pronounce.
The officer examined Bartha’s small black frame and assigned her to the Black Momma Barrack, where she thought she belonged.
When Bartha entered her assigned station, she saw African female detainees who resembled her, but they were much taller and larger. Drug peddlers, money launderers, and counterfeiters: they came from Nigeria, Tanzania, Uganda, Kenya, Venezuela, and Bolivia. Believing she was one of them, the prisoners greeted Bartha with a full cigarette and a stiff shot of Old Monk rum.
When Big Momma, the undisputed leader of the African under-trials, saw Bartha, her eyes welled with tears. Big Momma was convinced that, as a child, Bartha was kidnapped from an African shanty in Andheri. Decades ago, Big Momma's sister, a drug peddler, had given birth to a little person in Mumbai who later went missing. Now, Big Momma believed that girl was Bartha. On her part, Bartha made no effort to clear up this misconception.
Generous Big Momma made sure Bartha enjoyed the mutton biryani and chicken curry they had for dinner twice a week. With a never-ending supply of love, cigarettes, and Old Monk rum in the Black Momma Barrack of Byculla Women’s Prison, Bartha Rowla was finally free.
Then Suman Das bailed her out. Now she was about to face long hours of housework, which Bartha was least interested in.
The End .
