Blue

They sang for her, all the twelve girls in unison. The high pitched singing resonated within the four walls of the dining hall. She could see all of them seated around the mahogany table. But they could never see each other. Some tapped their fingers on the table in rhythm to the song while a few blinked continuously and smiled at an imaginary face. She stood facing them and watched as they completed the song and clapped their hands in joy. The cake looked rich, covered with strawberries and cream.  It better taste good too. She thought.


“Wait!! Before we cut the cake, I have a question for you!” squealed Rani, the youngest. “ Madame, What is the color of your dress today?


 “Blue” said She.


“It’s my favorite color too!”“ the younger girl beamed.


 “Then that makes the two of us” She said. Their insight into an unseen world never ceased to amaze her.


“My sister tells me that It is the color of the waves. I love when they splash against my legs. You know, the sand becomes so soft and ticklish! It makes me laugh. Is that why Blue is also your favorite color?”


 Humbled and awestruck, she replied, “Yes, it is."

The Craving

“Vermillion.  That is the color.  Not red, no, …definitely not an orange.”  Amma liked to draw attention to the nuances while narrating a recipe.  She would dip her index finger into the thick paste and show it to her elder daughter. “Once you have ground all the ingredients, this should be the color.”

 

As a child, Lata always looked forward to Wednesdays.  She would wait for school to end and walk back home twice as fast longing to taste her mother’s signature dish –  crispy fried sardines.  The wafting aroma of sardines dowsed in oil was the first to greet on her on most Wednesdays and she would run into the kitchen breathing the warm goodness of her mother’s cooking. 

But that was more than two decades ago.  

The clock above her office desk showed five minutes to four.  Oddly, everyone seemed (atleast pretended) to be busy at work and the only sounds in the room emanated from a few stubborn typewriters and a rickety old fan. Lata fidgeted in her seat, distracted and restless. Ever since the cookery show last evening on Doordarshan, all she could think of was frying sardines just like how Amma used to.  Numerous office files lay scattered on her desk screaming for attention as Lata toyed with the idea of cooking the dish that same evening. 

The  clock struck 4 and her colleagues rose for their regular chai and cigarette fix. Oblivious of her surrounding, Lata started at the keys of her typewriter, mentally making a list of all the ingredients for the nth time. Sardines, Pearl onions, Ginger, Garlic, Pepper, Chilly, Turmeric.......

Lata closed her eyes and visualized the scene again.  Sardines drowned in vermillion paste... the spluttering of oil getting louder each time the fishes were flipped over ... Amma narrating the recipe holding the steel spatula in her hand....  Lata loved the smell of fried fish unlike her sister. No sooner had her mother put them on a platter, her young and greedy fingers would reach for them.  “They are hot!!!... Have some patience child” Amma’s oily hands would reach for Lata to reprimand. 

Her mind refused to concentrate on anything else.  When she closed her eyes, the image of a plantain leaf laden with rice and fish fry tickled her taste buds. Her heart longed to savour every single bite and the imagination only seemed to heighten the craving.  She opened her eyes and it was twenty minutes past four. Lata gulped down a glass of water and shifted in her seat, trying to focus on the sheet of paper which stared back at her half typed.  She looked at it for another 30 seconds and then abandoned it with a shrug. Lata glanced at the wall calendar and smiled to herself. Wednesday! It is a sign!

She had bought exactly four pieces of sardines from the local fish market the previous evening thinking she would fry them the following Sunday. Hari preferred to eat them during the weekends, that too maybe twice or thrice a month.  As much as he loved seafood, her husband preferred to stick to a monthly budget.

Lata looked at her colleague Shyama who sat typing furiously at the opposite table. Then she turned to look at manager, whose cabin was diagonally opposite to her desk.  Thankful that no one was watching her, Lata rose from her chair and walked composedly towards the door. The bus too was on time. Perfect!   

On reaching her house, she turned the lock as fast as she could, threw the umbrella and her purse onto the sofa and rushed to the kitchen.  Pleased that her plan was about to bear fruit, Lata arranged all the ingredients and quickly got started on her soul food.  

Two hours had passed when Lata heard voices outside.  One belonged to her husband and other did not even sound vaguely familiar. She opened the door to face her husband and the guest. "Ah Lata good you reached early ,  see who has decided to join us for dinner .” Her husband announced cheerfully. She greeted the men with a meek smile, the picture of her perfect evening steadily diminishing to a blur. 

“You are frying fish??!”. Her husband puckered up his nose and sat down on the sofa beaming.  He turned to his colleague, “Today is your lucky day Ravi….my wife makes excellent sardines. In fact I am famished, shall we talk as we eat?”

Lata fingers played with rivets of the sofa, her discontent growing. Her thoughts of savoring every bite suddenly seemed so futile and her plans was thwarted in seconds.  Trying not to let the disappointment show, she quickly composed herself and decided to make polite conversation with her guest. Lata prayed that her body language did not make him feel uninvited.  “Glad you came by Ravi. Please make yourself at home. I will set the table right away.”

As she carried the plate of fried sardines to the table, she was reminded of the squabbles with her sister for a bigger piece. A lump formed in her throat as she looked at the four pieces of neatly arranged fishes on a clean white plate. 

Grow up foolish woman! The words in her head repeated.

Her husband and his guest sat down at the table and leered at the plate of seafood placed in front of them.  She smiled at both the men again and chose her next words purposefully.“Let me serve you some fish first”

The men looked famished and seemed to be oblivious of her while they ate their meal quietly.  Obviously neither of them cared for a discussion of any sort while relishing a home cooked meal. Lata leafed through a magazine trying to distract herself. 

The guest was the first to speak after licking his fingers clean. “Simply delicious, Lata. You have no idea how much I have been craving for fried fish……...”

The lump in her throat suddenly felt bigger. She swallowed hard before uttering the words.

“ I can only imagine….”

Something Small

Exhaustion or Laziness.  These are my two most important reasons to NOT write. And of course some other lame responses like “no mood” or “no ideas” also feature now and then whenever anyone broaches the topic.

Writing stories according to me always meant a few thousand words till I chanced upon this site.  Quite kicked by the fact that I must conjure up a plot in 140 characters, I decided to give it a shot.  

And a pint-sized love story was born.  

Small joys of life :)

Off the hook

Jhanvi tapped her fingers on the table top and looked towards the door once again. No sign of RK. The impatience was beginning to show. She fidgeted in her seat and flipped the pages of the magazine for the third time. He was supposed to meet her at 4 and it was 4: 25 in her watch.

Maybe I should just leave.

She got up and waved at the waiter. Just then, the music in the room changed and Jhanvi recognized the song immediately. Surprisingly, she did not feel any sense of discomfort unlike that evening, a year ago.

---------------------------

*Off the hook, with the cutz, that's right
I'm feel'n loose cuz it sounds so tight
We rock da spot till the very end
And make sure that you're there when we do it again


The lead singer’s voice rose above the chatter and clanking of frothy beer mugs, and it was giving Jhanvi a headache. But she tried her best to keep a straight face and not let the discomfort show in front of her husband’s friends. It was a big night of celebration for RK.

“Tanya! Been ages…!” Jhanvi heard her husband greeting one of his friends. She smiled at Tanya followed by a polite hello. RK of course made a feeble introduction of his wife to all his friends. Jhanvi realized that no matter how hard she tried, the cracks in their relationship always remained visible to everyone, strangers included.

The loud music continued and people began to trickle in. Her husband was obviously more popular than Jhanvi could ever imagine. She exchanged customary hi-hellos with some of RK’s friends, just a handful who she knew. According to him, Jhanvi was a misfit at any party. She did not drink nor did she smoke. And of course, she did not know how to “mingle”. He had lit a cigarette for her once. “You must try these things sometimes. It is no big deal” he had said.

Three hours later and unable to sleep, Jhanvi switched on the TV and switched channels furiously, while her mind raced back to the events of the night. She popped in a tablet hoping the nagging pain would subside. RK slept peacefully in the next room with his shoes on. After a while, she switched off the TV and contemplated on whether to read or check her mail. Her thoughts were interrupted by a beep. RK had thrown his phone on the sofa in a state of complete drunkenness. The phone blinked continuously and on any other day, she would have chosen to ignore it. But somehow that night she felt she had the right – to know. Jhanvi made sure that RK was fast asleep before she picked up his phone.

A feeling of resentment engulfed her as she read the lines that appeared on the screen.

“We should do this more often. Tonight’s party was totally off the hook! *wink*”

------------------------------------------

Jhanvi remembered the next day clearly. RK had refused to speak to her after she had confronted him. The next two weeks had been miserable. But all that was a year ago. She sighed with relief and let the thoughts drift away. Things were slowly coming back to normal. He had promised that he won’t hurt her again.

That’s when she heard his voice.

“ Sorry.. Got stuck in a meeting. I need to leave tonight at 10 to Hyderabad... The Director wants me to travel with him for a client meeting.”

She concealed her disappointment. The last few months together had been peaceful and she did not want to rock the boat. Pleased that his wife had chosen to tacitly agree, RK smiled. “ Let me join you in a minute. Meanwhile see what you want to drink.” He walked towards the men’s room and Jhanvi turned her attention to the menu half-heartedly.

As she leafed through the pages, the waiter approached her holding something familiar. “Mam, I think this fell out of Sir’s bag. I found it near the door.”

The waiter handed over RK’s notepad and Jhanvi eyes immediately fell on the two chits of paper which had slipped out. Crumpled at the edges, they seemed to have been hastily tucked into the book. The dates printed in big bold letters stared back at her.

But she did not remember making any plans for that evening.

He just said he is traveling.

Jhanvi narrowed her eyes to get a closer look at the rest of the printed matter.

Atonement
10: 45 pm
Screen 2; Row K – 14, 15




*Lyrics of the song "off the hook" by P.O.D

Voices

(As published in the magazine Helter Skelter, based on a theme.)

“I never thought that scoundrel would do this to his only son…..” Gaurav’s grandfather’s voice trailed off and the old man could not bring himself to complete the sentence. The rising anger was accompanied by grief and helplessness. Tears flowed down his cheeks and he did nothing to stop them. His grandson lay in front of him fast asleep. The plasters covered his head and an eye as well.

Harshvardhan Jadhav had tried his best to stay strong for the sake of his ailing daughter but the sight of his only grandson, beaten up and bruised, tore him apart and he could not control his emotions any longer.

Preeti immediately rose from her chair and placed her hand on his shoulder. “Uncle… it is alright. Gaurav is fine now and soon he will be back to normal. His father is behind bars. You don’t have to worry about anything. We are here for you.” Her colleague and friend Mala also sat next to the elderly gentleman and tried to pacify him.

“Imagine if you had not called the police on time……” the old man continued in between his sobs… “I would have lost my grandson. I don’t know how to thank you beti. You saved his life. I just hope Tanuja gets better soon. I have not told her about Gaurav yet.”

Preeti wanted him to know that it was his grandson’s presence of mind that played a bigger role.....

Read the complete story here.

Her

Their relationship goes back many many years and it was one that Mariam deeply treasured. Somehow around her Mariam always felt livelier and prayed that the time would stand still. No one complained about their whereabouts except for Mrs. Angela, the grumpy neighbor. Every time Mrs. Angela caught Mariam and her together, she would complain to Mariam’s mother. “You should tell your daughter to stop this nonsense and go inside. Ridiculous!” Her mother used to give into Mariam’s games initially, but after a while Mariam realized that Mamma had begun to take Mrs. Angela’s side.

Mariam always took time to warm up to others, especially children her age. But with her, age was never an concern. Mariam remembered the first time she met her, she was wearing a frock, lilac in colour. It was also Mariam’s favourite flower. If it were not for her, Mariam would never have mastered the art of making paper boats nor discovered the joy of splashing in puddles.

It was the month of June and Mariam had been unwell and her mother had forbidden Mariam to meet her. On a Sunday afternoon, she arrived and Mariam snuck out to meet her. Only Pepper, Mrs. Angela’s cat noticed her slipping out into the open courtyard, where she waited for her, impatiently. While Mariam tiptoed outside the room, she was careful not to wake her grandfather who was comfortably settled in his arm chair, enjoying his siesta. Mariam knew that it would only be a few minutes before her Grandpa and Mamma were out looking for her. But the joy of doing something secretively overwhelmed Mariam. Later that day, Mamma was furious and ensured that Mariam went to bed early.

Every time she came to visit, she would bring along a surprise, something that was meant only for Mariam. Each time the urchins from the neighboring street befriended her, Mariam would feel a tad jealous. But somehow as the years went by, fingers were pointed at Mariam and some even called her a nut-case. Things began to get worse. A strange void started to accompany her. Once on their way back from the Doctor’s clinic, Mamma had hugged Mariam so tight that she could feel her mother’s body shaking as she sobbed. That was the last thing Mariam remembered about Mamma. Mariam never understood why suddenly everyone had become so silent and gloomy around her. Except for her, of course.

On her wedding day too, Mariam waited for her eagerly with fond memories, but somehow she never came. Her relatives were of course relieved. Even as she bade farewell to her favorite flowers, she prayed that she would visit her at her husband’s house. She missed her terribly, and somehow on that day, more than ever. Two weeks into the marriage and the husband also seemed to abhor her presence.

Many decades had passed since that day but still the memories remained etched in Mariam’s mind. But right now all Mariam could think of was meeting her again, all the more because her visits had become very rare to that side of town. She looked up at the sky from her tiny window and called to her roommate Ammu. “Ammu, come quickly.. see she has come …after so long…. I am going out to meet her….”

Mariam’s voice woke Ali, the caretaker, who had fallen asleep in his chair. The same chair which had held his weight ever since the institution was built. He scanned the verandah and the adjoining rooms. “Who could be shouting at this hour” he told himself.

Clearly it was coming from the second floor, B ward where Mariam, one of the earliest members of the Vridhalay was housed. She was pointing to the sky and talking aloud excitedly. He decided to step out to take a better look at what the manic 72 year old woman was pointing to.

The minute his eyes met the dark clouds above, Ali felt the first drop fall on his wrinkled forehead.

“Damn this wretched rain” he grumbled as he swiftly rushed inside for cover.

Meeting Morris Rider

“Can you imagine….the dog is called Morris Rider!!?” exclaimed Father as he put the phone down. He had just spoken to his brother who was sending him a Labrador pup all the way from Delhi. “Morris is being brought from Delhi by Mr D’Silva and his son Peter.”

Son was obviously thrilled at the news of a pet coming home, but at the same time a tad confused about the name. Err.. Morris Rider? Sounded like a vintage car to him, but he decided not to be a kill joy.

“Dad, the pup was reared by an Anglo Indian family, that explains the name I feel. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. Mr D’Silva and son will leave the following day and we can change his name.”

“Yes. I agree…. It is not a big deal.” Father dropped the subject.

Mother chose not to comment. The news of a pet joining their family, one which had a name as exotic as Morris Rider definitely added to the excitement and of course, amusement. That seemed sufficient for her.

The next day Father and Son woke up ahead of their alarms, dressed and got ready in time to meet Morris Rider. They reached the station way in advance and Father made the third phone call to Mr D’Silva, while the Son kept asking the station master for the nth time when the train from Delhi would reach. Patience was clearly not a family virtue and Morris Rider may have to live with that.

Finally the much awaited train reached the station and Mr D’Silva, Peter and of course another VIP got off the compartment to be greeted by Father and Son in much joy.

“Good Morning, Mr Bakshi. It is a pleasure to meet you finally. Your brother talks very highly of you.”

Mr D’Silva’s husky voice made some of the co-passengers turn around and his son, a gawky 18 year old stood next to him shifting his weight from one feet to the other. It was obvious that Peter was dragged by his father to deliver Morris Rider into safe hands.

“Pleased to meet you too Mr D’Silva. How was your journey? Come, let me take you all home for some excellent breakfast. Btw how is our champ doing?” Father was waiting to catch a good look.

“Oh he is great. He did not cause any trouble during the journey. He is a very friendly dog I tell u!”

“Labs are always friendly dad” quipped Peter.

Mr D’Silva ignored his son’s comments and followed Father to the car. He slipped into the seat next to Father and Son chose to sit behind with Peter with the pup's cage on his lap. It looked like a bird cage to Son, but he decided not to start a discussion around it.

The team was home in less than half an hour and Morris Rider had already started whining on the way.

“I think he is hungry… he has not had his morning milk” Peter remarked.

“Sure, Sure.. we will feed him right away” Father called out to Mother and both Mother and Son were busy with Morris Rider. He was quite a looker, unbelievably cute and cuddly for a 3 month old Labrador pup. He was famished after a long train journey and finished the milk in no time. Then he hopped around Mother, till she raised her voice to indicate there was no more food coming his way.

Most mothers typically try to be stern with their off springs and this one somehow decided to treat Morris Rider the same way as well. She kept yelling “Sit Sit.. …….SIT.”

Father heard this and ran to the kitchen “For heaven’s sake, stop it woman!.... Morris is just 3 months old. He cannot be trained at this age… for now you can shout at your son. Not the pup!”

Mother almost had a quick retort coming, but on seeing Mr D’Silva and Peter, she immediately changed her mind and kept quiet.

Son noticed that Peter was trying to control his laughter, ….maybe he has never seen anyone getting shouted at? Or maybe Father was being too protective about Morris Rider? Mr D’Silva kept a straight face and seemed quite embarrassed. Son realized that maybe he was feeling a little odd to be witnessing a family squabble, and that too for something so silly.

After a heavy meal, Father was in high spirits and so was Morris Rider. Mr D’Silva and the son watched the duo as they played.

Father would pretend like he was running, trying to move around the room, making rapid movements to catch Morris Rider’s attention. The Son was feeling a tad jealous that Morris Rider had not yet warmed up to him.

“Morrsis.. Morris… come here..” Father called out.

Morris Rider would take a few steps and then stop and wag his tiny tail and let out a small bark.

“Hahaha! Morris is so cute no..” gushed Mother

Father continued “ Morris… come to me.. now.. ….... that’s my boy ....good boy Morris!” Father took him in his lap and patted the wriggling pup. Morris Rider seemed to say “Let me GO ……..!”

Mr D’Silva sat quietly all through this public display of love and affection and Son also noticed that every time Father called out to Morris Rider, Mr D”Silva would shift uncomfortably in his chair, his face reddening. Peter had risen from his chair and excused himself with a big grin on his face.

The Son knew there was something going on, but once again dismissed it off as something trivial.

The day passed by rather quickly and most of the time the family would play with their new found friend , Morris Rider or watch TV in between. Mr D’Silva made a few phone calls and in between discussed the global economy with Father. Peter could not care less. The guests retired to sleep as early as 8 pm.

Son remembered reading in of his Enid Blyton novels about how Julian, Dick, Anne, George and even Timmy the dog would have their supper at 7.00 pm and go to sleep by 8.30 pm, unless of course they were out exploring a secret passage and snooping around with their flash lights. Then he stopped, he didn’t know why he was suddenly reminded of Enid Blyton. It could also be because that was the only book he had read about foreigners, phirangs as his mother referred to them. "Anglo Indians are lot like them you know...." he had overheard his mother tell the aunty opposite their house. She was discussing what to cook for the phirangs.

The next morning again Father and Son woke up early, putting their alarm clocks to shame, and dressed quickly to drop their guests off at the station. Morris Rider was taking his power nap.

Father thanked Mr D’Silva for having taken the trouble to carry Morris Rider all the way from Delhi. Mother packed gifts for Mr and Mrs D’Silva and Peter in an attractive ethnic bag. “Desi bags are what these phirangs are fond of” she whispered to Father.

“Good Lord! They are not phirangs , …… never mind” Father was in no mood for another altercation and he didn’t want his guests to witness another brawl.

Mr D’Silva and Peter decided not to wake Morris Rider and tip toed to the car where Father and Son sat waiting for them. They reached the station on time and Father bragged about how time management was one of his fortes, and how he had trained his wife and son to be just like him.

The men shook hands, bade farewell and just when the station master began to wave the flag, Father decided to ask an important question.

“Thank you very much Mr D’Silva…… I am sorry. I didn’t get your first name….”

Mr D’Silva quickly stepped onto the train before answering the question.

Father repeated his question. “Actually…….what did you say your first name was??”

Mr D’Silva smiled and waved as the train honked and started to move.

“Morris….. Mr Bakshi.” Then as to reiterate, he added. “My name is Morris Schneider D’Silva”

It was Father’s turn to turn red while Son tried to control his laughter. As for Mr D’Silva, he was glad that the train had picked up speed.