ROSE’S BENT STEM: Girl Tangled. 'Best thriller of 2019,' -The Tribune

by NOMITA KHANNA

  and hard-to-get kind of thing to do, I packed my things and moved out. I still have a key to Priyanka’s room, I thought.

  So, here I am.

  “Look what the cat dragged in. You look half-dead,” she

  said when I walked in bag and baggage an hour ago. “What’s wrong?”

  “Don’t ask,” I burst into thick, copious tears, heartbroken, and really, really sad as I was. “Mrs. Patel is no more. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  She held my shoulders. “Say no more. I’ll make you the

  best cup of tea,” my lovely friend comforted me. “Was it

  painful … her death?”

  “Mercifully, not at all. In fact, her last wish came true. She called Death a kind friend, and a friend it proved to be,” my voice broke. “She died peacefully in her sleep. There are far worse ways to go. Trust me, I know. Knowing what I know, I saved her from any pain.” When I put it that way, it really sounded good in my head making me want to pat my own back. “Can I?” I pointed at my bag as I wheeled it farther into the room.

  “This is so sudden. We haven’t met socially in almost, what … six months?” She stared at my bag as though it were a

  dreadful tarantula.

  “I didn’t die. I just moved into the bungalow.” I was

  untenably angry.

  “And yet, not once in all this time did you think of inviting

  me to see the garden-city Lutyens or your palace.” She pouted.

  “It’s not my palace.” My voice sounded like the crack of a

  whip.

  “But still … it’s not asking for much; a cuppa …” cawed the crow slumping into Miss Grizella like a tired old mule.

  Lose the attitude, Tana. Not doing anyone any good. “For

  old times’ sake? Please Pri …” I changed my tune, my face

  splitting into my most charming smile.

  “Oh Tana, I wish I could but you know how things are, now

  that you moved out …” the lovely friend aka fiend left her

  scathing words hanging in the air as though to form a scalpel to

  plunge into my heart.

  “Just till I find another place.”

  “Mm-hm, but … hey, I could get you that cup-o-tea,” she

  offered, “the kettle’s whistling. I’ll spike it with cinnamon. I’ll add cloves, too.”

  I can’t live in a tea cup. “I’ll be out first thing after the

  prayer meeting,” I said, “how about I crash on the floor or,” —

  I stole a look at the gralloched Miss Grizella— “on her … just for the night.”

  “Um … this is so embarrassing, dear. I have plans for tonight—”

  Plans to read tea leaves?

  “—my NEW friends have been insisting they want to treat me to a dinner out since I’ve been—”

  All-you-can-eat-buffet at the Rusty Nail Diner, I bet. “Oh

  yeah, I forgot how popular you are.” I scratched an earlobe absent-mindedly. “C’mon Pri, I’m not asking for your first-born,” I pleaded.

  “Um…”

  “Hey, how about I give you two weeks rent?”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “Upfront,” I counted out the money and gave to her.

  “Er … I’m sorry darl … a bit awkward this thing but the rent’s hiked up by a third,” stung the wasp.

  Your story reeks, you big time manipulative grabber. I’m

  not blind—I saw your nostrils flare—that’s your tell. A clear

  giveaway. I turned my pockets inside out but came up with

  only a couple of coins.

  “Wait—” reaching into my cross-body bag I pulled out a La

  Mer night cream. “Take this.” I smiled eagerly.

  “A cream?”

  “It’s not just any cream. It’s a whopping thirty-thousand

  rupees moisturizer,” I announced.

  “I don’t know, Tana.” She foraged about in her stupid ear.

  How would this dumb-ass haldi ubtan using goose-herder

  know anything ’bout La Mer? My bad. Oh, God, I just can’t go

  to Mummy’s. Not unless a rabid dog’s chasing me into it. I’d much rather live in a rat hole than a concentration camp turned funeral parlour. Mummy’s turning into the living dead since Papa’s demise.

  “Mrs. Patel gave me this lovely brooch; it’s an heirloom,” I

  searched for it in my bag. “Here,” —I handed it to her— “that settles it then.”

  “Heirloom?” She looked doubtfully at the dull-gold brooch.

  “Real gold,” I told her, “I’ll take it back as soon as I get my

  pay cheque.

  Quickly pocketing it she said, “I’ll call the washing

  machine service guy today. You’ll pay, right? You do

  remember jamming it? Darn thing is still on the fritz.”

  Don’t toy with me, girl. “Were you beating the clothes on

  a rock till I showed up?”

  She laughed. “So?”

  “I’ll pay BFF.”

  “Plus, your Miss needs new clothes,” she pointed unashamedly at Grizella.

  “Of, course. Now can I?” I tugged at my bag.

  “Hey, nice sneaks. Order Chinese for lunch?” she grinned like a Cheshire cat.

  Phew! Dear Diary, you never really know anyone, do you?

  People are unknowable. BFF—Bloody-F---ing-Fiend, that’s

  who she is. Uh-oh! Foul words in my written and spoken language are escalating—thanks to these unknowable folks. I

  need a good spliff to unwind.

  Much obliged to you though, Diary for your unconditional support. I feel credit should be given where credit is due. Each time I write it’s as if a giant weight’s been lifted off my

  shoulders.

  Truly yours

  Tana Sharma

  WHAT’S WITH ME? WHY DO I have trouble sleeping? I try to conjure up Mr. Chatterjee’s image while in the middle of one of his funny acts but my memory fails me.

  For God’s sake, I helped Mrs. Patel. It was the humane thing to do. Euthanasia is from the Greek word εὐθανασία which means good death; the only thing she deeply desired. Sometimes, you have to do the wrong thing to do right by someone. I plead with angels in heaven to sing to me to get me to dreamland, to reward me for my kind act. I sigh before beginning to croon:

  “Go to sleep, little Tana, think of puppies and kittens,

  Go to sleep, little Tani, think of butterflies in spring,

  Go to sleep, little Tanu, think of sunny bright mornings.”

  Eleven

  IF YOU’RE HAPPY AND YOU KNOW IT

  DEAR DIARY

  IT IS A quarter to ten, on a Monday night, in January. This morning when Mr. Patel’s name flashed across my phone screen, I sincerely hoped for an invite.

  “Miss Tana,” he said.

  “Um … I’m sorry again, Sir. I’ll see you tomorrow at the prayer meeting. Is there anything you need?” I asked gingerly, holding my breath.

  “Yes, sure,” he said, “if you could come back to the house

  afterward for a bit?”

  “Of course, Mr. Patel.” I walked on air, his words an oxygen cylinder to me. Breathe it in, Tana, you’re getting somewhere. Things are looking up. “If you’re happy and you know it, clap your hands,” that’s what I told myself after I put down the phone.

  I could almost smell the difference between the summer-afternoon-fragrance from the ultra-plush white bath towels versus the cheap mildew odour from my hostel towels—the spa-scent versus the lingering Yo! China takeaway and moth-repellent smell of our rooms.

  By the way, I’ve been thinking. I’m kinda turning into a

  loner. Not a good thing. So, guess what? I’m gonna spend more time with you I promise, my dear Diary. Nighty-Night. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.

  Regards

  Tana Sharma

  Twelve

&nbs
p; FIVE LITTLE DUCKS

  DEAR DIARY

  IT IS HALF past twelve, on a Tuesday night in January, and I’m tucked in bed at 39-Lutyens Bungalow, New Delhi.

  Where do I begin? Let me start with this morning when I was getting ready to go to the prayer meeting.

  “Stay away from that lecherous fellow. Come straight home from the meeting. He has the hots for you,” Priyanka warned me as I dressed up in a black pant-suit, and then tied my shiny hair in a low bun out of respect for the dead. A silver flash caught my eye making me giddy as though I had inhaled toxic fumes from the mercury-like-hair. The clock’s ticking; today a grey hair and soon you’ll be dead. Snow White certainly cannot die a lonely hag, I thought to myself. I did miss Mrs. Patel. Her friendly words, her bungalow...

  “No, he doesn’t,” I said a bit hotly, buttoning up the white

  Lycra shirt.

  “Just be careful. If you do plan to go to Lutyens I can come with you,” she sneezed loudly. “It’s the pollen season.” She blew her nose hard before wiping dry her watery eyes with the same napkin. “I can come,” she repeated as though Lutyens

  were a nightclub and she a bouncer.

  “We will see about that.”

  At the meeting I avoided looking in the direction of Mr.

  Patel. Is he what Priyanka said he was? Lecherous? No, she

  doesn’t know him. He’s as decent as they come; he desires me

  but keeps a conscientious check on that.

  Afterward, the dear departed soul’s brother held my hands

  in his own, “How can we ever repay you? You relieved her of

  her misery. We were close … she told me everything.”

  I retracted my arms as though I had touched a live wire,

  crossed them quickly and searched frantically for a response. He knows, the thought punched me in my stomach making my ribcage rattle.

  Meanwhile, he continued to talk, “The thought is comforting, and—”

  “So, you were really close,” I interrupted, testing the waters.

  “—she often told me how you helped her cope with her condition. You respected her dignity and made her last days comfort—”

  I poured my heart and soul into the smile I flashed before waving my hand dismissively, “It was nothing. Just doing my duty.” How I misread words to torture my soul.

  In the latter half of this chilly winter’s day, I found myself

  climbing the ten wide steps of 39 Lutyens Bungalow

  and ringing the bell of this magnificent house—the kind

  that seems to fall right out of a novel.

  Shobha Didi, the cook aka she’s-like-family-sort-of staff

  member opened the magnificent door, her pot-belly jutting out

  and above her petticoat. “Look who’s here. Where did you run

  away, love? Come right in.” Her kind eyes twinkled. “I’ll tell him you’re here.”

  Clutching my coat and umbrella closer, I wiped my shoes

  on the mat.

  Now Diary, you do know what a jolly good job I have done of worming my way into her good books. No matter how inconsequential or seemingly irrelevant her words are, her smallest wish has always been my command. The woman with thick-ankles and the face of a kind sister had said one day, “My shoulders are in knots. If only…” before sighing resignedly. And God is my witness, since that day I massaged Tiger-Balm onto her thick back every single day while she mooed with pleasure. Dozens of other things I’m happy to say I did. It’s paying off now. And how!

  I walked into the living room and perched on the edge of a chair. The fire’s doing a good job. I suppose I can get away with showing some skin. “There you go.” I slung my coat on the back of the chair. Then I unbuttoned my slightly wet shirt down to the middle of my cleavage before doubling down to look at my phone. Hope I’ve struck a natural enough pose.

  Scrolling through my Instagram, I was pleased to see the number of likes on my post announcing my ‘nurse of the year

  award.’ MedMac had put up the post, too.

  Someone cleared his throat. Vikram’s gaze was suitably

  fixed somewhere below my collar-bones. I peeked down to see

  the open shirt doing its job earnestly—exposing my rounded

  assets and a sliver of my white-lace B. A flattering rose-pink

  flush crept up from my long white neck toward my hairline.

  “Here.” Mr. Patel handed my coat to me before running his

  hand through his dark-brown combed back hair. “Anita wanted

  you to have this.” He took out a box from a drawer in a highly

  polished mahogany cabinet. “Yash and Maya approve too.”

  Such a sweet family quite unlike mine. Everyone’s nice. Diary, Yash and Maya are those cute scrawny gullets; his children. You’ve met them, haven’t you? I love them a lot—the friendliest kids you will ever meet. Quite well-behaved too, though it isn’t particularly easy to listen to Maya’s singing and Yash’s Yamaha keyboard playing and then oohing and aahing about their respective talents, however good. Can’t expect me to be their Mum, after all. I preferred wiping off the saliva from their mother’s bib.

  Oh, Diary, do I not like anyone? That’s not true. I love Mummy except when she bleats, “You never call me. And you don’t visit. It’s like you’re in another town.” I miss Emperor-Ashoka-the-Great and Mr. Chatterjee dearly however briefly our paths crossed. I like Pri, the vivacious Dark-Beauty a lot too. Despite her allergies and her occasional grifting and predatory tendencies, she truly is my soulmate, my petiole—connecting me to the world outside the hospital. Although extremely dark-complexioned, she still finds and spreads happiness, smokes weed with me, shares the tabs—a happy list connecting us. Fizzing with verve, and bursting with energy, she does bring out the child in me too. Touchwood. Plus, she’s a bit dense—an ideal trait required for any room-mate of mine; can’t have them freaking out at my drug-induced blackouts. Dr. Varun swears by my caring skills—I didn’t get the award for the best nurse for nothing. It’s just that I work best on my own. And of course, my love for you is constant, and unwavering. To add to that I have another sweet confession. My liking for the Patels and their family-like-staff is graduating into love. So, before you judge, I suggest you take a step back and reflect on this information. Back to where we were.

  “Really Mr. Patel, that’s not needed. I couldn’t.” I stood up

  and averted my eyes from the red leather box, locking them

  onto the crackling flames in the fire-place. Could it be Mrs.

  Patel’s solitaire? I’d admired it often enough.

  “Please. She wanted to.” He tried to press the box into my hands.

  I withdrew my hands hastily not wanting to look greedy.

  Just then Shobha Didi bustled in carrying a tray. “Anything

  else, Saabji,” she asked him before addressing me, “you could

  use a drop, love,” her eyes insistent.

  Mr. Patel pulled out the drawer in the chest.

  Shobha Didi grabbed this opportunity to whisper in my ear,

  “Help him—you’re a good egg.” And then in a louder voice,

  “Saab. My mother-in-law’s dying.”

  “Not again.” He rolled his eyes.

  “Can I take the evening off?”

  “But there’s no one—” began Mr. Patel.

  “Sister Tana’s here.” She poured the liquor into two tall-

  stemmed globular glasses. “Stay,” she mimed the word to me

  as she tucked a loose strand of her frizzy, badly dyed hair back

  into her bun.

  I nodded shyly. Mr. Patel cleared his throat self-

  consciously. He’s got this high moral compass. Kind of puts

  him in a spot.

  “Just the one.” I took the glass of the blush-pink rosé from

  him while deliberately brushing my fingers against his.

  Next thing you know, I was flinging off my
coat, and writhing sexily up on a couch, my head against his chest. “I’m so sorry, Vikram, I thought that was the cushion.” I made a clumsy attempt to pick myself up and ended up falling head down in his lap—exactly my destination. “Oh, kill me someone,” I blurted.

  Manly hands lifted my face and kissed me on the mouth.

  For a split second I forgot to breathe. Suffocating fumes—the sort that emanate from an exhaust pipe. Is he gonna choke me with his cigar-smoke-plus-something-else breath? A bad case of halitosis.

  “Are you okay?” Vikram asked. “Your sherbety lips,” he

  mumbled.

  “The children?” I asked. I knew the perfect kids were at their grandma’s. A litter of sharp-witted, ebullient puppies. Reminded me of Emperor-Ashoka-the-Great, and Mr. Chatterjee.

  “At granny’s house, they needed that,” he managed to reply,

  “you alright?”

  For God’s sake, get on with it. Stop asking, ‘you okay’. I

  kissed him back fiercely, every cell in my body screaming for

  more effort on my part to keep my wine down and his slimy

  tongue in. He will have to visit the dentist. And quit smoking.

  Can’t believe my luck. Here I am, ensconced in these odourless satin sheets in Lutyens. Just one complaint—strange sort of sex if sex it can be called—more-like-a-Rub-A-Dub-Dub, two folks in a tub. That said, what matters is the sweet family’s back in business, all five ducks in a row, Mr. Patel, Me, Yash, Maya and Shobha Didi. Hey, gotta sign off. Mr. Patel’s getting disturbed.

  Until tomorrow,

  Tana Sharma

  Thirteen

  FIVE LITTLE MONKEYS JUMPING ON THE BED

  DEAR DIARY

  IT IS HALF past twelve, on a Wednesday afternoon in January, and I write from the comforts of a green-leather-padded armchair at 39-Lutyens Bungalow, New Delhi.

  Earlier this morning, about three or so hours ago, I woke up

  to the glorious sight of rainbow-coloured discs dancing on the walls—the rays of the morning sun refracted through the Swarovski chandelier in Vikram’s bedroom as I held you.

  “You up?” Vikram asked, putting down his game of Tetris.

  I stroked his ear. What’s that? Ew… In addition to the dental treatment, he needs laser therapy too. I pushed the sheet as far down my body as I could. “Sir, I like you a lot,” I murmured shyly. I guess I could have been more eloquent. Not that it would have mattered considering his senses were primarily focused on sights rather than sounds. A silver ring glinted in my belly-button.