Storywallah

by Neelesh Misra

  She smiled through her tears. She showed him the bruises on her back. The air became damp with the scent of tears, like the breeze after it rains.

  ‘Are you crying, Robert?’ Satrangi asked.

  There had been no response but she felt as though someone was caressing her bare back with flower petals. The pain eased.

  The sensation had tickled her and she had laughed out loud. Her laughter rang threw Hastings House. The tinkling laughter had filled Vibha’s heart with dread.

  Now the disgrace of the family had spread beyond Madhupur to the areas around it. People were laughing at them. Satrangi heard that Vibha was going to poison her with kheer that night.

  She heard Robert call her name, ‘Satrangi!’

  ‘Satrangi is dying. You are a ghost. What can become of a ghost and a human? I can’t see you and I never will. You’re just a voice . . .’ Satrangi’s eyes filled with tears. ‘Tonight is my last night, Robert.’

  There was no sound from Robert.

  The door opened and Vibha and the exorcist walked in. She had a bowl of kheer in her hand.

  ‘Here, eat this,’ she said roughly.

  Wordlessly Satrangi took the bowl from her and ate the kheer. Robert pleaded with her to not do this, but Satrangi covered herself with a sheet and lay down. The household got busy preparing for her death.

  She had eaten the poison but was wide awake. She didn’t feel drugged. There was no pain. Robert came up to her and said, ‘Come to the mirror.’

  She went to the mirror and there in the dim light of the lamp she saw reflected in it standing right behind her a handsome young Englishman. He wore an officer’s uniform and his golden hair fell across his forehead. His eyes were blue.

  She smiled. ‘Now I see you, in my last hour?’

  She could see Robert, and touch him. He took her hand and walked her over to the window. ‘It’s not the last hour, it’s the beginning.’

  They stepped out of the window together and glided through the air. The ground below them was dark, but up amongst the clouds white moonlight surrounded them.

  They both settled on another mansion. Robert caught her hands and said, ‘No humans come here and so neither does their hatred. This is the dwelling of love.’

  The mansion was called Satrangi.

  MUNJHI’S PALACE

  Kanchan Pant

  Just two bends in the road before Jaisalmer is Munjhi’s Palace. Now why Munjhi calls this eight-by-six-foot square stall her palace is another story, one to be told at leisure.

  It was peak tourist season in this Rajasthani town. The shops were crammed with tourists and the shopkeepers hardly had time to breathe. But not Munjhi; she was calm as she showed the couple in her shop Bandhej saris one after the other, as if she had all the time in the world.

  ‘Here, Didi sa, look at this one! This particular design was a favourite of the Princess of Jodhpur. She had thousands of them.’ Her eyes shone as she spoke. The woman pushed it away and said, ‘This is too expensive. Show me something else.’

  Munjhi opened a new bundle of saris, and as she unfurled a turquoise one she said, ‘Don’t worry about the price, Didi sa, just choose something you like; if you don’t like the price, take it as a gift from me. One should have the heart of a princess; what’s the money got to do with it? Isn’t that so, Jeeja sa?’ she addressed the lady’s husband.

  The husband who had been standing despondently all this while started looking at the saris too. They had been in the shop for half an hour and had bought nothing so far. During the season most shopkeepers didn’t pay much attention to this kind of shopper. But not Munjhi. Her sharp eyes caught the woman looking at the lacquer bangles. She swiftly took down some boxes and spread the contents before the woman.

  ‘You must take some bangles with you,’ she said. ‘Even Rani Jodhabai’s bangles always went from Jaisalmer.’ The story began with bangles and went to maangtikas and chokers and on to glass-sequinned saris and kurtas with the quintessential gota patti. When half an hour later the couple left the shop, their arms were laden with packages and their faces wreathed in smiles.

  No customer left Munjhi’s shop empty-handed. Everyone knew that. She was proud of her palace. It was another matter that her family didn’t like it all that much.

  The family was large: her three maternal uncles and their wives, their children and grandchildren, and her mother—Ma. Munjhi felt pity for Ma, more than love. She didn’t like the others because they didn’t like her. She had only one dream: to build a two-room house behind her shop, get married and then live there in peace. Ever since she had set up this shop she had been saving money in a piggy bank she kept behind the table—money for her house. And she had already found the person she was going to live with in her palace.

  It was Ganesh, the guy who worked in Chauhan Tours and Travels. Munjhi said she loved him, but people felt their relationship was defined more by fighting than loving.

  ‘You used to be a wastrel once, a complete ass!’ she would say to him. ‘It’s I who has taught you sense and made a man of you. You’d still be roaming around with those useless friends of yours if not for me!’

  Not to be outdone, Ganesh would reply, ‘Yes you are the princess of some unknown palace! Go and look after your shop. Don’t irritate me!’

  But if anybody made the mistake of getting involved they would both gang up against that person. ‘Listen, I will say whatever has to be said to Ganesh. Who are you to speak about him?’ Munjhi would say.

  Munjhi didn’t know anything about the love they show in movies. For her love meant that Ganesh was the only person in the world who she could fight with to her heart’s content. Not that Ganesh had said anything conventional like ‘I love you’ to her either. A few months ago he had jokingly put some money into Munjhi’s piggy bank. That was it; from that day on, it was decided that he had the rights to both the piggy bank and her heart. Even though Munjhi had decided that she would get married only after her palace was completed, she had already learnt how to order him around like a bossy wife. From yelling at his mother to taking her medicines on time to getting his younger brother Kartik to start working, Munjhi did everything better than Ganesh. Kartik was in awe of Munjhi. They were the same age and he was more likely to listen to her than to his brother. For Ganesh, his house had finally started feeling like a home.

  Munjhi loved Ganesh. She never needed to hide anything from him. She didn’t need to dress up for him, nor did she need to be anything else to please him. He had seen her as she was since she’d been a little girl, with a running nose, wild hair and her clothes invariably torn. Her father had died early on and it seemed her mother had forgotten about her after giving birth to her. And she never had time anyway; it was as if the world depended on her work. Munjhi would drift from place to place like a vagabond. People would yell at her, ‘Go and wash you face!’ or ‘Chhi! Look at your hair! You look like a demon. Why don’t you tell your mother to brush your hair?’ or ‘Don’t sit on the bed with those dirty clothes.’

  But her mother didn’t have time to wash her face again and again or sew her torn dresses. Munjhi wasn’t sad about the state of affairs in her house; it just made her obstinate and blunt. The only person to have truly loved her was Ganesh. He was a bit silly, but so what? Munjhi knew he was the only person in the world who wouldn’t betray her.

  It was well past lunchtime. Munjhi was hungry. Her stomach was rumbling. Her tiffin box sat in front of her but she couldn’t eat. She had got so used to eating with Ganesh. He would always come to her shop during his lunch break and they would eat together. But they had had a fight this morning and Munjhi had told him never to show his face to her again.

  Indeed she had said it, but she didn’t mean it! This really annoyed her about Ganesh—he would believe anything anyone said. Shouldn’t a man have a mind of his own? Everyone who had come near the shop since morning had heard about their quarrel, from the neighbouring shopkeepers to her customers. She was becoming a little w
orried now. She might fight as much as she liked but she couldn’t stay without him either.

  Her gaze alighted on her neighbour, Raju. ‘Ay Raju!’ she called out to him. Raju was on his way to play cricket, his great obsession. ‘I don’t have time,’ he called back. ‘The match is starting.’

  ‘Match ke bachche! Should I tell your father where you run off to after bunking school? You better come here quietly,’ Munjhi threatened. Carrying his bat like a mace on his shoulder, Raju gave in. She handed him a tiffin box from her cloth bag. ‘Give this to Ganesh and, if he asks about me, tell him Munjhi is dead.’ Raju picked up the tiffin box unenthusiastically; it wasn’t the first time these two were fighting.

  ‘And listen!’ she called to his retreating back. ‘Bring back my tiffin box. Empty. Understand?’

  Raju made a face at her and ran off with the tiffin.

  Half an hour had passed since Raju had left with the tiffin box. But neither the box nor Ganesh had appeared. He must be really angry this time, Munjhi thought and went to the shop next door. ‘Kaka sa, please mind my shop for a bit. I’ll just be back,’ she told the shopkeeper.

  When she reached Chauhan Tours and Travels, she found Ganesh sitting with his head down on the table. The unopened tiffin box lay beside him on the bench. Loudly she said, ‘Why do I bother to cook for people if they can’t even appreciate it?’

  When he didn’t respond to her jibe or raise his head she got worried. She went up to him and, ruffling his hair, she asked, ‘Are you ill? Look at me.’

  When he looked up, her hands stopped in shock. Ganesh had a swollen eye and bruises on his face. He had been beaten up by someone.

  Out of the two of them, Munjhi was the one who had taken on the responsibility of all fighting. Be it Thanvi Sahab who parked his scooter right in front of the door, or that Bansal who stole electricity from Ganesh’s meter to run his internet cafe, or Ganesh’s friend Santosh who teased him about her, Munjhi had fixed them all. At times like these Ganesh would don the role of a saint. ‘Let it go, Munjhi, why fight about such a small thing?’ he would say.

  It was the second time this week that the same peaceable Ganesh had fought with someone.

  ‘Who did this?’ Munjhi asked as she caressed a bruise. He flinched.

  ‘No one. I fell,’ he said.

  ‘Don’t annoy me, Ganesh, tell me who did this,’ Munjhi said as she applied ointment on his wounds. Ganesh looked at her. Her face was flushed with anger, her nose red. He watched her as she mumbled to herself while tending to his bruises. Normally she bullied him and ordered him around, but if he was ever ill or troubled she would start mothering him. Ganesh liked this Munjhi best.

  ‘I had borrowed some money from someone. It got a bit ugly when they came to ask for it back. It’s sorted now,’ he said. Munjhi looked at him as if she would eat him alive. She was fed up of his borrowing money from here and there. Why would anyone beg for a thousand bucks? But he just didn’t understand.

  ‘Don’t be angry. I said it’s been arranged,’ Ganesh said as he held her hand. She jerked her hand out of his clasp and stormed out of the shop.

  When she returned a little later she was carrying her piggy bank. She threw it on the ground and the floor was strewn with notes and coins. ‘Take what you need to pay back the loan and clear it today,’ she snapped. Ganesh looked at her with amazement. He needed to say something to her but he couldn’t. He wished he could just speak out like Munjhi. Munjhi said you shouldn’t hide things from the person you love; you jinx your love if you do. Their love was about to be jinxed.

  Something had been troubling Ganesh for a few months now. It was the reason he was getting into fights. He should have told Munjhi about it. He had the chance but he hadn’t been able to say it to her. He probably wouldn’t be able to say it now either.

  ‘Are you even listening to me?’ she asked. Her voice jerked him back to the present.

  ‘You broke your bank for me? Your house?’ he asked, still in shock.

  ‘Don’t overreact, Ganesh. You know I’ll do anything for you.’ She hit him playfully as she spoke. No, he wouldn’t be able to tell Munjhi today. Whether it was true or not, either way Munjhi would kill him.

  Ganesh threw the pieces of the shattered piggy bank into the bin and, pressing the notes into her hand, he said, ‘Crazy girl! You keep this money for your house. I don’t need it.’ Munjhi looked into his eyes, searching for something. She could always tell if he was lying; when she was convinced that he meant it, she took the money and asked, ‘Will you come with me to Mamool ki Medhia today?’

  Smiling, Ganesh nodded. Munjhi loved the derelict palace just outside town. Legend went that Princess Mamool had killed herself in this palace when her lover Rana Mahendra Singh had doubted her. When she went there, Munjhi would mostly be silent as she contemplated the crumbling walls of the palace. This was the only time Ganesh would see her quiet.

  ‘You do love me?’ Munjhi asked him. He felt as if she had caught him out. To hide his agitation he replied, ‘Do you doubt it?’

  Munjhi looked at him for a moment and then asked sternly, ‘If I doubted you I would kill you, wouldn’t I?’

  She was back to her old self. Ganesh smiled. Munjhi wanted to tell him her secret that day itself—that their two-room house was almost ready. He would be so happy. She had secretly started work on it a few months ago. Now only the floor was left to finish. She and Kartik were going to Jodhpur to get marble for it.

  The day Munjhi and Kartik returned from Jodhpur, as they were unloading the small truck, they heard Santosh’s voice, ‘Now do you believe me? I told you they had both gone together.’ Munjhi turned around in shock. Ganesh and Santosh were standing there, Ganesh with a million questions and disbelief on his face. Kartik too had turned around. Flustered, he said, ‘Bhai sa, I just went to meet a client. I met Munjhi di on the way back and gave her a lift.’

  ‘Can you hear the lies? You are a simple man but these two think you are an idiot,’ Santosh stoked the fire. He had resented Munjhi ever since she had shouted at him in public. But Ganesh silenced him with a glare and he slunk back.

  Munjhi was stunned. ‘What nonsense is this Santosh talking?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s not nonsense. Swear that there is nothing between the two of you.’ Ganesh’s words burned Munjhi like molten iron.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ Munjhi trembled with fury. She still couldn’t believe that Ganesh had spoken the words that she had heard.

  ‘If it isn’t the truth, why are you afraid to swear?’ The bitterness in Santosh’s heart infected his words. Munjhi turned to stone. She wanted to cry but couldn’t. She wanted to fight but couldn’t. She wanted to berate Ganesh but couldn’t. For the first time in her life, Munjhi couldn’t find the words.

  ‘I swear on Shambhuji, Bhai sa. Santosh is lying. Munjhi di, why don’t you just swear?’ Burning from the insult, Kartik’s voice was shaking. Ganesh’s heart was beating fast. If only Munjhi would swear that there was nothing between her and Kartik, everything would be all right.

  It was the same town, the same doubt, the same pride. Munjhi was Mamool and Ganesh was Mahendra Singh. But unlike Mamool, this princess of today wasn’t going to prove her innocence. She said, ‘I won’t swear.’ Her voice was icy. Her face was white. Kartik’s face fell at her words, Santosh smirked with revenge and victory. Ganesh and Munjhi stood facing each other. Ganesh’s anger had disappeared, replaced by infinite sadness. In broken words he said, ‘You repaid my love with betrayal?’

  ‘Love?’ The icy tone and her gaze made Ganesh shiver. ‘If I had made a mistake and you had still forgiven me, that would have been love. Now whether I swear or not, whether this blot between us gets washed away or doesn’t, there can be no love between us,’ she spoke calmly and began to rummage around in her purse. She drew out some crumpled notes and put them in Ganesh’s hand. ‘Here is the money you put in the money box for our palace. We owe each other nothing now,’ she said and, turning around, walked
away towards her shop.

  HOME

  Anulata Raj Nair

  It was still half an hour to midnight. I looked at the wall clock that showed me the time in India in addition to the local London time. It was my feeble attempt to stay connected to my country.

  I was pretending to be asleep, although sleep was miles away from my eyes. No pain or trouble or worry kept me from sleeping. I was awake in anticipation. I knew that at the stroke of midnight I would hear whispering outside my door, and then an eye would peer through the keyhole followed by the sound of suppressed giggles.

  And then with a loud commotion my wife and both my sons would enter my room, to celebrate my sixtieth birthday. In just a little while, my room would be filled with flowers and brightly coloured ribbons and presents. And before I knew it, sometime during the raucous singing of ‘Happy Birthday’, a cake would be cut and smeared on everyone’s faces.

  I can say all this with such certainty because this is how it has been for the last few years.

  I’m lucky to have two grown-up boys and a wife who love me so much. Life with them passed so effortlessly, like flowing water caressing the soles of my feet.

  The clock struck twelve.

  I was surprised. How come? It was twelve. What had happened to the children today? Had they forgotten my birthday? That was not possible. What hadn’t happened once in all these years could not happen now.

  But why hadn’t they come yet? It was now two minutes past twelve. I was caught up in my thoughts when I heard the familiar whispering and laughter outside the door. I quickly closed my eyes.

  ‘Papa!’ The door opened and the cake, flowers and greeting cards joyfully filled my room and my mind. The same mind that a few minutes ago had been thinking all sorts of things in the dark.

  As if reading my mind, my elder son Akshay came and sat next to me, ‘What’s happened, Papa?’