Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction.

by Gabbar Singh

  He had managed to fail miserably that day, and Kedar had managed to hit a notch above the third floor window. Lakshay doubted he had ever beaten Kedar. On days that they got close results, they would repeat the procedure enough times until both had a unanimous victor in mind. Sometimes, they repeated it anyway. It had something to do with the man who lived on the third floor. Kedar usually threw that high, and after seven or eight times that the Cosco bounced off the wall of glory, the bald man of floor three came shouting onto his verandah, swinging his fists and swearing upon God. Apparently it was the outside of his bedroom wall that Kedar had perfected his target at. The bald man’s ap- pearance was the ultimate victory, much like what a scientist would feel on discovering aliens. It didn’t matter if the aliens wielded guns. Success was sweet and definite.

  Lakshay smiled faintly, despite everything. It was this childhood friend he had buried yesterday. Today, he had learnt that Kedar left his widow with loans. Kedar’s widow looked like that girl in the café, the one he had stared at shamelessly. Resemblances aren’t resemblances when they are ghosts one is trying to escape. It was getting harder for him to forget the expression on her face when she got a telephone: the loan sharks had smelt blood. If only Kedar was here now, with his perfect swing, ready to help them tussle with the Bald Men of the Third Floors of this world. But Kedar was gone, and Lakshay had decided to help his widow till the very end. He sat now, nibbling a Napoleotano cheese sandwich wonder- ing, how.

  “This isn’t what I ordered dear…” an old lady said with a toothy smile.

  “Oh? Oh yes, sorry, I’m sorry.” Preity had been pulled from her dish duty because there were more orders than Meera could carry, because a kid had spilt water, because Table 3 had changed their order right after it was half cooked, because- because it was rush hour Sunday. And that explained everything.

  Sundays were God’s curse on mankind. Sundays were the illusion of rest, of holiday. They were like sea foam on beach pebbles. You could run with a grin trying to catch it but it would tease right out from between your fingers.

  “Dearie, will you bring me my order then?” The lady asked. “Yes, yes ma’am. One moment.”

  Preity delivered the burger to its rightful owner, and dashed back to the kitchen for a Paneer Tikka and Chai. She apologised for the delay, and the confusion. She gave her best At Your Service smile. The lady smiled in return, and clasping a wrinkled hand over the tray, said “It’s okay, dearie. I understand.”

  Oh. You do? What do you understand? Preity wanted to ask, and might have but Table 3 had another idea about their lunch.

  “Yeah... I’m not so sure about the pasta anymore.” “Sir, I’m-” but her insincere apology of how his order could not be changed again was stifled before it began. Table 3 was still staring at her lips. He was at it the last time and he didn’t stop now. Meera hadn’t warned her and it had caught her off guard before. He wouldn’t even look at the menu, or her face or just some point in the cafe. He would fix his black pea eyes right at her lips. Last time she went to the kitchen, disgusted, and in the mind to clean her fingernails in his pasta. This time, she wanted to turn the plate over his head. But think of the salary, Preity. Think of the job. As any Delhi girl would know, it was easier to ignore it and run away as fast as possible, than confront and expect to be treated with respect. “I’m sorry the order cannot be changed.”

  Preity turned and charged for the kitchen. The lechers of this world! Her feet pressed on the ground as if trying to bore holes in it. Preity cursed him with death wishes, looked for his pasta sauce in the kitchen and found that it was already cooked, unfortunately. Grumbling about the missed opportunity, she grabbed a glass of water and threw it down her throat. She imagined him now, sitting in the café like he owned it, with his checkered shirt two buttons down, probably happy now, having made a petty waitress’ day all the more worse. Calm down, my furious heart, before we both light up on fire. Preity closed her eyes.

  The old woman continued to throw smiles around the café. The young mother caught one, mistook it for a jeer at her condition and turned away. A young boy moving his lips to unheard words caught one and offered it right back. The man in the checkered shirt sitting a table ahead of her averted his eyes as he saw her turn towards him. The other man sipping coffee at the very end was too far and too young to be looking at an old woman passing smiles on a pleasant afternoon. She wore a pale blue cotton suit, adequately reflecting the calm of her thoughts. With time came understanding that rushing was a fool’s errand. With age came the experience of slowing down. There were divots in her memory that she conveniently filled with maybes. For the young, maybes caused panic. The elders had another advantage there: they had meds against panic. The woman had two aching knees, that caused her to hobble and left creases on her kurta, and her voice wasn’t what it used to be. Her hair was a puny wrap on the back of her head, with glaring streaks of white run- ning telltale into the centre. But her heart was strong as ever, and many suspected it should remain that way until it just shut shop. With the zeal of her youth, she still treated herself out to cafés and movies, alone if everyone else was busy. Today was one such lovely afternoon.

  She’d left her husband staring impassively at yet another cricket match, and her son’s family was there to watch him. If he went into another cardiac arrest, even the granddaughter knew what to do before emer- gency services arrived. Too bad her husband didn’t like paneer-tikkas. This place roasted them crisp to perfection.

  Lakshay watched the noisy family escape the cafe. The children ran out, dragging their father by his arms, causing him to stumble down the steps. The mother followed, kissing her sleeping baby. He saw a sparkle in her eyes, bright as the moon. He was glad Kedar didn’t have a child, or it might not have seen as many of his mother’s smiles as this baby did.

  Meanwhile, Table 3 was served his meal: Pasta Arrabiata, with French fries and Coke. For a frequently altered meal decision, one would think Table 3 had trouble choosing between a selection of delicacies. Yet there was nothing exquisite about his meal choice, and he had simply under- gone a dilemma between the ordinary. Meera delivered his lunch on an ink blue tray. He shifted it away from him, perhaps fantasizing about his third and final decision, the one he had been denied. As Meera turned to leave, Table 3 stopped her. Though she had more patience than Pre- ity, Meera was prepared to tell him he could have another meal but he’d be paying for both, when Table 3 said something that had nothing to do with food.

  “Do you know Preity well- Meera?” He finished his question with a quick glance at her breast pocket, picking her name off the badge. Meera wanted to see where this was going. She was no stranger to flirta - tion, but this would be the first time she set Preity up. Table 3 had nice hair, even if he had a nervous glance, which he didn’t hold stable for too long.

  “Well, yes. Is there something you need?” Meera shot off with standard lines.

  “Okay. Could you pass on a message to her from me, please. I would be very grateful.” Meera wondered idly if he would show gratitude in monetary value. She had no way of knowing if he did, and decided to roll with it just for a good story on a Sunday.

  “Ok. Tell me.” Standard lines didn’t cover such conversations. Meera adapted quickly. His message to Preity was a story better than all this month’s and Table 3 checked that she understood before she left to pass it on.

  “Preity?” Meera peeped around the single shelf in the kitchen, and found her scrubbing beside a fast diminishing tower of dishes. Meera was con- cerned about the fate of the glassware though, from the weight Preity was putting in the scrubbing. Either this was a newfound love for clean crockery or Preity , as they say, was ‘taking it out’ on the poor dishes.

  “Hey, table 3…”

  “I don’t want anything to do with table 3, Meera! I will not serve him. Let his food go cold if you’re busy. Anyway, he’s in no rush to eat.” Pre- ity’s eyes were glimmering stones.

  “Hey! Would you listen. Tabl
e 3 has a message for you, and I’m quoting here: ‘I understand that my staring at your lips caused you discomfort. I’m sorry. I was just reading your lips. I’m deaf.’ Okay?”

  Meera shook her head as she went back to the dining hall to serve bills and collect tips. Preity was left stunned beside the sink, the sponge in her hand dripping on her shoes.

  T here is one thing worse than a fingerprint on glass: an obstinate finger- print on glass. The kind that takes ages to begin fading before it becomes a smudged ghost of a print. Then after turns and turns under a furious tap and the most dedicated scrubbing, it disappears off the owner’s pre- cious vessel. The men, women and children of Paschim Vihar had finally tired. The kitchen was closed. Preity was wiping dried mango chutney off a plate and loading it in the sink. Who eats mango chutney with paneertikkas anyway! Her eyelids felt a magnetic pull for her kohl line. Her lips were pasted together. She barely had the energy to stand and scrub, yet that’s what she did now, in motion of a monotonous routine. That’s what Preity did with her life. At the end of the day there were rarely any rain- bows left over so she could pick some for herself. She wasn’t going to be enveloped in the musk fragrance of a car. She was going to take the last bus home. Home was a word for an empty flat. No one was going to pamper her with a massage, she was just going to brush and flop in bed. That’s what the life of an orphan with no friends was. Burn yourself down, up in flames, and ashen shall you rest. In ashes there is chill that freezes any heat of the day spent burning. Table 3 with all his deafness didn’t matter anymore. The fact that burger kid didn’t leave a tip was no surprise, a single burger order rarely does. What an old stranger woman understood about her had as little meaning as the wretched children of the baby-cooing mother. She remembered there was another customer in the cafe but he was quiet as the walls, easy to ignore. It was all ash now. Fog in her memory; ready to be forgotten. Scrubbed off like easy stains on the glassware of her mind. She slowly drifted into a sleep that pained in her joints and furrowed her eyebrows. There was a genuine efferves- cence in her dreams; they were frames of snow with an over-energetic ‘90s dance. But it would all be okay in the morning, when she woke up before the other residents of Paschim Vihar and opened the cafe.

  Mondays were better than Sundays anyway.

  18. Friendzoned

  Shruti Vajpayee

  I hate my job. I hate that it’s Sunday and I’m at my desk at 8.50 am. I hate that no one on any of my WhatsApp groups has woken up from all the drinking that went on until wee hours of this morning. I hate how there are no unread mails because everyone is busy enjoying the weekend. And I hate how it’s been 67 days at this new workplace and I haven’t had a decent conversation with anyone here beyond ‘Hey!’ ‘Hi!’ Yeah, I hate people too.

  I never thought I’d call myself a journalist, but after contributing my share towards the Buzzfeedisation of the internet through 10 viral lists, I landed this job at a popular news website’s offbeat section where my boss and I dream of competing with Buzzfeed everyday, which is also the source of all our ideas. It’s the boss’ job to be disillusioned about the potential of his employees. I haven’t had a decent conversation with my boss either. The last time we spoke was at my interview. Since then we meet twice every week to discuss ‘ideas’ where I usually only nod my head in agreement.

  However, I’m not devoid of friends. ‘Smriti, you’re a boy at heart, you know?’ says my best friend forever; add a less than three after forever, that’s how special he is. I hate how I never had the chance to date him. And I hate how I’ll always be his best friend forever (BFF), without a less than three.

  Karan Mehta has been my crush, my BFF, my love, and my 24x7 What - sApp friend for two years now. The only part he’s aware of though, is that he’s my BFF. We hit it off for some strange reason at my previous workplace and since then I have been his agony aunt. I’m so obsessed with him that I’m going to rattle about him for the rest of this narrative.

  ‘Dude, she has a boyfriend!’ he messaged me in a defeated tone. ‘I think I’ve been friend zoned.’ That bitch!

  ‘Dude, I really like this new joinee. What do you think?’ I like her too! ‘Yaar, how do I go about asking her out? Is it too soon? I don’t even know if she’s dating someone!’ Wait, don’t jump into it.

  ‘I’m feeling low.’ *Insert a long inspirational optimistic lecture* Although I haven’t been in half a decent relationship in my 26 years of existence, my tryst with women has been fairly long. An all girls’ school and an all girls’ college have helped me earn the doctorate degree in being able to identify different types of girls. I’d list a Buzzfeed style 10-typesof-girls-you-should-date to him and we’d set off on a journey to find him the perfect match.

  Karan wasn’t the hunk. He was cute. And really nice. And also had a heart of gold. And… sigh. You get it, right? I really love him. We would drink to our heart’s content. I’d sneak into my house after midnight on most weekends. And we’d spend the rest of the time on WhatsApp. This was the one habit that really irked my mother.

  ‘We’re planning to get you married off but you don’t even want to lift your head off that 4-inch screen! That’s not your life. When you’ll be getting married, none of your Twitter followers will come and serve the guests. We will! We are your parents, talk to us.’I never took any of her ‘marriage’ lectures seriously until one day the kundliswere matched and I was told I needed to start learning how to cook. Boiling water, making Maggi, and being able to toast bread apparently do not qualify as culinary skills in any household.

  I was freaking out! I called up my neighbor Pulkit, a TV presenter, single, over the age of 35, my beer buddy for the past few months, and my con- fidante especially after I was drunk. I told him I was scared. ‘Why is this happening to me? I don’t want to get married to a UP Kanyakubj Brah- min boy! Those guys come from paanchewing, gamchawearing families who treat women like Maa Saa treats Anandi!’ Ugh. Eww.

  ‘Is that the only reason you’re scared? Are you kidding me?’ he looked at me with disbelief and he smacked me hard on the head. We were in the parking lot right now. I was scratching his car subconsciously. Oh, that’s why he had hit me on the head.

  ‘No, I’m also scared because I like this guy I haven’t been able to ask out.’

  ‘You’re not a boy. I mean you are a boy at heart, but don’t make that mistake. If you’re the one who has to ask a guy out he’s clearly not in- terested.’ I hated how this guy was always right. ‘Pulkit, you could have offered more consolation.’ I rolled my eyes and left.

  Back home the walls of my room were closing in on me. What the hell, I’ll just go and have beer at Pulkit’s place. I jumped out of my bed and sneaked out of the house through the back door.

  Here we were, on our sixth beer now. Pulkit had a really charming voice that sounded ten times better when you had lost half your senses to alco- hol. Anything he said sounded sweet. Even when he said, ‘No, you’re not drunk-texting him. Come on man. You’re a girl for god’s sake!’ He looked at the ceiling and grumbled because he was too drunk to get up.

  You know that heightened sense of love that fills your head when you can’t think straight because of your state of inebriation? ‘I’m going to do this. I’m going to tell him I love him before I get married to any random Kanpuriya.’

  I thought of different ways of framing a text. And after summoning the strength to form a coherent love message from the spirit of Shakespeare in the heavens above, I came up with this flowery message.

  ‘Karan, I lurrrrrveeeee uuu… so muxh…… bit u dint love me.’ What did I just do? Oh at least I got his name right. Oh no, four typos. I should really quit my job. Damn, did I just text him that? Wait, let me add an emoji.

  ‘Haha, you drunk? We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  He doesn’t like me. I knew it. ‘Pulkit, I hate you.’

  ‘No, we won’t talk tomorrow. We’ll never talk again. I know you don’t love me.’

  Nooooooooooooo. Oh no.
>
  ‘Baba, whatever you say.’ And he was gone–from the chat and from my life. At least that’s what I thought because I couldn’t think straight. I didn’t know whether I should be laughing right now or crying. But I’m really happy I got this out of my heart. I mean I’m happy right now, because I’m drunk and I can barely read the text he has sent me. I quietly tiptoed back home through the back door that was unlocked, and hit the bed right away.

  The next morning was a day off, a rare occurrence since I had switched jobs. I checked my phone to see the time and found 35 messages from 3 conversations including a long message from Karan.

  A certain Gaurav had sent me three forwarded messages followed by a meek ‘hi’. This guy religiously texted me every alternate day with at least five inspirational messages for god knows what glory. Move on, bro.

  ‘I know you like me, but I don’t feel the same way about you. I’m sorry I have to do this. I really don’t want you to suffer. You mean the world to me. You’re my best friend. Don’t get me started on that. Please, let’s just be good friends.’

  There was a lot of other stuff in between. The crux of the matter was that I had been friend zoned for the third time in life. I felt like a 16-yearold all over again, the one who calls the radio station to tell Love Guru that she has a crush on her teacher who doesn’t love her back. I felt like those SRK fans who use his DPs on Twitter and whose mentions he scrolls through on Twitter without wasting as much as a microsecond on them. I imagined myself as Shah Rukh Khan sitting on a fake set in front of Deepika Padukone’s poster singing ‘Jag soona soona laage.’ I felt like Ka- jol and I wanted to tell a certain Rifat Bi ‘mera pyaar adhoora reh gaya.’