by Gabbar Singh
Prasanna was hurt. Her mother’s answers reflected desperation instead of sympathy.
“Hmm. Sharma Ji, we asked the priests but we just wanted to be sure. We hope your daughter isn’t a Manglik?”
“Of course not!” “Hmm. Fine, Sharma Ji! We have a dinner party to attend after this. We should leave. We will definitely get in touch with you over the phone. Namaste.”
The fox folded hands and collected her black Gucci purse from the cen- tre table. Prasanna locked herself in her room and sobbed uncontrollably that night. She wondered why her parents were gambling her life away and giving it to someone who didn’t even respect her body. She didn’t want to share her life with someone who judged her in a single meeting. She didn’t want to be around a family who embarrassed her amidst her own. She didn’t want to be with a stranger shortlisted from newspapers or mat- rimonial sites. She wanted to know what it was like to be adored and how similar it was to what she imagined it be. She wanted to be given a choice because she didn’t want to end up with the wrong person. She wanted love to happen through destiny and not through planned meetings. She wanted to believe in herself.
Prasanna wiped her tears as soon as she heard the sound of a million tiny raindrops spatter on her window. Rain had a magic of its own. Since childhood, she had shared her woes with it. No questions, no interroga- tion, no false promises. She sat by the window and held out a hand to feel the raindrops dance on her fingers. A cold drop of rain trickled down and reached the sleeves. She rested her elbows on the table and cupped her chin into her hands, waiting for the thunder and the fireworks.
Love Story. She dragged the chair next to the table, turned the pages of her diary and began to write. Words impatiently poured into her mind, waiting to be penned. The crucial description of the protagonist was disrupted by a sudden banging on the door.
“Come in!” Her mother barged into the room with a mobile phone in one hand and a ladle in the other. “What happened?” “Prasanna! Prasann…Wait, Chachi Ji is calling back.”
Prasanna could not figure out why her parents were so excited. What was this chaos all about? “Hello! Helloo? Han Chachi Ji! Mrs. Arora called up and they have ac - cepted our proposal! Hanji Hanji! Chachi Ji, very happy! The US boy? Re- member? Hanji Hanji! Congratulations to you too Ji! It is all because of Guruji. Without his blessings nothing would have been possible. Hanji! We are at home! Please do come! Ok...ok...ok. Bye.”
Her mother’s century-old phone and Chachi Ji’s booming voice rendered the entire conversation audible to the room. She felt like she had topped the boards. Even if she had, she was sure her parents wouldn’t have been so happy. Her mother hugged her and broke the news.
“You know, Mrs. Arora called up a minute ago. They have agreed only on one condi...wait…your grandmother is calling. Hanji Namaste Beiji!” Her mother left the room. Prasanna stood there, wishing for time to stop. She absently stared at the door while waiting for reality to sink in. She felt like dirt in a dustpan. Every nerve in her body felt weak. Every second suffocated her. She wanted to save herself. She wanted to kick her legs and come out of the deep water to grasp a breath.
She pushed the chair and stormed to her parents’ room. She was sure; she wouldn’t drown so soon.
When she entered their room, her father was busy with the calculator and her mother was still talking on the phone. “Mummy...” Her mother signaled her to wait for a minute.
Prasanna was scared of sullying their hopes. She doubted if she’d ever be able to forgive herself. She held the bedside for support. Nothing helped. She knew it’d break their heart but she also knew that if she didn’t speak for herself, no one ever will.
“Prasanna! We are so happy for you. Despite knowing everything, they have...”
Despite knowing what Mummy??” “You know...You have to settle in life beta. We are doing this for your sake, your happiness!”
It took every ounce of her willpower to finally confess. “Did you ever ask me what truly makes me happy? What I want from life?”
Her voice broke and a tear slid down but she held her own. “I...I want to become a writer... and I don’t want to spend my life with a stranger...Before I marry someone, I want to chase my dreams! I want to be independent... I want to enjoy life because I have never been able to… I beg you to stop fixing these meetings because I don’t want to feel insulted anymore…I want to be treated like a human being...Don’t I deserve that?”
“Prasanna, you have to be a parent to understand our decisions...” “What about my decision? Does it even matter?” “Of course it does! Don’t you like Harshit?” “No.” “What are you saying? Do you like someone else.” “I said, no!” “Prasanna! Who will marry you?” “Let me decide that” “Do you know? With a face like that, no one will marry you!!”
“It is their choice, not mine. I look just fine and I won’t let anyone make me feel otherwise.” “Are you listening Ji? Why don’t you say something?” Her father finally broke his silence.
“Prasanna, your father would love to read your book. Aarti, tell them our daughter isn’t interested.”
“What is wrong with you two? And what are we going to tell all the rela- tives?”
Prasanna looked at her father in the eye and replied, “I have never felt more right. Tell them all that Prasanna said no.” Prasanna smiled. This time, it was real. Her father smiled back. She left the room, grabbed her slippers and ran towards the terrace. The feeling of rejecting someone after having been rejected by all, made her climb the stairs even faster. The wind whistled at her and tossed her hair into the air. The thunder rejoiced with her and the rain seemed to kiss her cheeks. She opened her arms wide and hugged herself. The fledgling was ready to take flight.
***
22. The Proof of Birth
Urvashi Sarkar
Dola picked at her fruit at the table, hurriedly swallowing her breakfast. She was conscious of Shotorupa’s disapproving gaze as she shoved the food down her throat. Grabbing the newspaper and her laptop she head- ed out of the door. It was beginning of another workday— work she wasn’t sure she entirely enjoyed.
“My birth certificate,” Shotorupa called out, her stormy brown-gold eyes looking accusingly at Dola’s green-brown ones that stared blankly at hers. Both women shared similar, sharp noses and pointed chins. The resem- blance ended there: Shotorupa’s complexion was a glowing dusk while Dola’s was lighter and pockmarked. Neither looked Bengali—their large eyes were the only giveaway. When either spoke, there was no marked Bengali inflection—you only heard urban and English-educated ac- cents— usually hard to match with a specific region.
“You still haven’t written to them for my birth certificate,” Shotorupa said, her mouth a thin line and eyes flashing. ‘I’ll do it today,’ said Dola, her face still expressionless.
Once in the car along with her father, Dola scanned the newspaper headlines. Modi was the flavour of the season. She was already tiring of him. The car jolted forward. Birth certificate, she recalled abruptly and thought about her mother, who, just shy of her 53rdbirthday—did not yet possess a proof of her birth. Dola’s head creased slightly. The fact that Shotorupa did not have a birth certificate made her feel inexplicably guilty—though it was hardly her fault. She gazed out of the window, ob- serving the bleak December fog.
“What’s wrong?” enquired her father. “Ma’s certificate,” she mumbled. “We need to do something,” he said. “She won’t get an Aadhar card with- out it.” A shadow of worry added to his already anxious countenance. Lately, he had started to look increasingly harassed.
She couldn’t blame him. The last ten years, a living collage of hysterical words, angered voices, and slammed doors, had exacted their toll on her father. Feeling choked yet again, Dola had to shake herself forcefully. Perhaps, this was the stuff that families were made of—fractured bonds, unspoken hurt, a nameless loyalty, and memories of happier times.
Once in her office, Dola once more forgot about the birth c
ertificate. She quickly immersed herself in revising sterile excel sheets and scruti- nizing banal budgetary expenditure. Working under a blinking halogen bulb, with just terrible coffee for consolation, Dola was only conscious of the waves of loneliness overwhelming her at intervals. She kept wrap- ping her shawl tighter around her, as if wanting to never emerge from it, as if it were a cocoon. Only at lunchtime, did she recall the matter of the certificate and sent out a fifth mail to the Germans. It was already January; she had first written to them in November. “It’s no point writing to the Indian authorities. They know nothing. I was born in Germany,” Shotorupa had pointedly said, when she had suggested approaching the Indian authorities first.
She was, of course, not German—only born in Germany to a parent in the Indian Foreign Services. How did she come to lose her birth certifi- cate? Dola didn’t know the exact story. But something to the effect that Shotorupa had faced neglect as a child – since her own mother had re- mained too unwell to take care of her. A misguided father had placed her in the care of relatives—they had given Shotorupa a vague education, a roof to live under, and had lacked concern about her documents, and her. None of this had made Shotorupa a weak person, on the contrary she was a woman of steel, and it was easy to tell— by the way she carried her- self, and in the determined set of her nose and chin. No, you would think twice before trifling with her. Naturally, Shotorupa could not stop ruing the fact that she could have had, what she liked to call a ‘sterling career’— she never tired of reminding her girls that they, too, must have sterling careers. “Have a sterling career and then marry,” she would intone.
Though the Germans had been prompt in responding, it did nothing to assuage her mother’s fears. Each day, unfailingly, from her perch on the comforter, with a palm against her forehead and eyes closed, Shotorupa would enquire, “Did you write?”
If Dola had forgotten or been busy, which was often, she would mumble, ‘No, there was no time today.”
“I knewyou would say that,” Shotorupa would say. Sometimes, Shoto- rupa did not even need to ask. Over the years, they had managed to read each other’s expressions precisely; words were unnecessary. Displeasure and even reminders were silently communicated. She would simply gaze at her; and Dola, quick to take such cues—and if she had followed up with the Germans, would respond: “Birth certificate? I remember. I have already written to them.”
“Write to them again,” Shotorupa would urge. “Write to them endlessly, until I have my certificate.”
Dola felt hopeful as she re-read the emails, with slightly flawed English, from the German Standsmat. “Dear Sir, (they had not understood that Dola was a woman). We re - ceived your Mail from the general register Hamburg. Before we can send you the birth certificate of your mother we need a copy of your birth certificate to proof the alliance. As soon as we get this document we will send you the certificate with a bill of 12 Euros.”
“Is 12 Euros a lot of money?” Shotorupa asked. Dola quickly said: “No Ma. It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.” Dola did not care about the money, she was only thankful that the Germans had managed to locate Shotorupa’s birth records after all these years. And this was because Shotorupa still remembered the name of the hospital in Hamburg that she was born in. She could, even now, recite the exact address of the house she had lived, in the Netherlands, as a seven-year-old. As for Dola’s own certificate, it was a firmly creased, yellowing sheet of paper. It should have been in shreds long ago, but for the hard lamination. Her father had ensured that she stored all her certificates in a sturdy leather-bound file.
He was a careful man; and an organized one. His cupboard was neat as a pin and his room—airy and spartan. He was also remarkably creative, with his eclectic taste in music and books, and intuitive insight about her work. But these sensitive and finer qualities were becoming less and less visible. Nowadays, she often saw him doze off, in the middle of the day, with a troubled furrow on his head. This greatly alarmed her- she wished she had the money to send him to the African jungles or a vast pretty beach, where he could rediscover his element and cheer.
*** One cold February day, the Germans wrote to her, “Dear Sir. We send the certificate on 21stJanuary 2014.”
That evening when Shotorupa opened the door, Dola did not enter the house. Shivering at the doorstep, she first relayed the news and, only then, stepped in. “Kobe, kobe?” demanded Shotorupa.
“Soon,” promised Dola. An unusually long winter had fed into March. Dola felt robbed of spring and Shotorupa could not stop fretting about the birth certificate. “Does it really take so long? Write to them again? Ask for a courier,” she said to her daughter.
That very day Dola wrote to them: “We have still not received the certificate. Could you please tell me if you sent it by post or courier? Kindly clarify. By when can we expect to receive it?”
The response was worrying: “Dear Sir. We send the certificate by post. I don´t know why don´t receive the document yet. We will send you the certificate once again.”
Dola sent them mail after mail: “Please send us an update on the status of the birth certificate. My mother is getting quite worried. Regular post in India is very unreliable and is unlikely to reach us. You may need to send it through registered post or speed post in order for it to reach us.”
“Is it not possible to send the birth certificate by email? You could scan and email it. We have still not received the certificate by post. ” “Could you give us an update please? We have been waiting pretty long. Would appreciate if you could tell us the status of the birth certificate.” Yet the Germans faded off the trail. Shotorupa grew restless: “I know I’m not getting my certificate. They’re a bunch of frauds!” *** “Give me their address. I will send them a hand-written letter,” Shoto - rupa announced one rainy morning in April. Summer had been given a miss, and it felt like monsoon. Dola decided to be thorough. She not only jotted down the address, but also printed out the entire email trail and summed it up in a single document. Shotorupa still maintained a steady stream of hand-written correspondence with some friends and relatives. Dola was used to seeing her mother’s large determined scrawl in Bengali cover several sheets of paper. When her friends urged her to send emails, Shotorupa obstinately refused to learn. When one handwritten letter brought neither response nor certificate from Germany, Shotorupa decided to write another in July. But she had misplaced the document summarizing Dola’s communication with the Germans. Dola had assumed it would not be needed, and had deleted it, only to wonder immediately after if she had made a mistake. She greeted the news of the misplaced document with exasperation- a silent exasperation. Shoto- rupa, no stranger either to silent cues, defended herself: “People can lose things. Get me the document tomorrow.”
The months sped by and barring the odd terse statement from the Ger - mans that they had sent the birth certificate, and there was nothing more they could do. The heat of the summer had fully descended and Dola soon got tired of the exercise. Her mother, however, did not tire of re- minding her. Each time her mother raised her eyebrows at her, she knew what her mother was thinking about. She began ignoring the cues— she had done all that she could possibly have, and now she only felt a sense of irritation. The silence between the two women burgeoned through the monsoon. Before Dola knew it, another November was looming large. Her father began to look perpetually haunted. He was of course aware that the certificate had not arrived. But he trusted Dola’s ability to get the job done. As for Dola—she was forcing herself to feel nothing—she padded herself with only thick shields of indifference and numbness.
*** One day her phone rang at her work. She heard her mother scream on the other end. Dola panicked. What bad tidings did she have now? For a second or two, Shotorupa was incoherent. Upon careful hearing, Dola managed to discern the words ‘birth certificate’, ‘today’, and ‘Embassy courier’. Shotorupa had not sounded this happy in a long time. Dola’s mouth curved in her first real smile in many months. She couldn’t wait
to get home and share her mother’s excitement. She finished work early, for the first time with a smile, and reached home in time for dinner. “Did you tell Papa and Didi? What fun! You have your certificate now,” she asked Shotorupa, who had already eaten and was sipping her customary cup of hot water post dinner.
Shotorupa stared into her cup, looked lost for a moment, and finally re- plied, “They got the year wrong.”
***
23. One A Penny
Krshna Prashant
It was Gupta uncle’s gift to Gaurav on his birthday. “You are a big boy now, you must start saving money,” he said, as the scrawny boy reached for the clay piggy bank. There was a coin in it already. It made a loud clinking noise when he shook it. “Take this,” Papa said, handing him another coin. He dropped it in gently and shook it again. This time it was louder.
Gaurav soon grew obsessed with his piggy bank. He would ask for his weekly pocket money in nothing but coins. He would pick up the loose change on the bookshelf, the bottom of drawers, on Ma’s dressing table, anywhere. He stopped buying panipuri at the stall outside school. He couldn’t wait to get back home and drop each coin in, slowly, one at a time, before he resumed his search around the house again. It kept him occupied in the evenings. When the other boys played gully crick- et, he would sit on the sidelines, watching them cheer, yell and curse as wickets fell and boundaries were made. He would never get picked on a team. “Too slow, too weak,” they would say.
Every night before he went to bed, he would hold his piggy bank to his ear and shake it. And every night, it would be a little heavier. The sound getting softer, albeit more powerful. One day, his coins didn’t slip in. He shook it, hoping that would make some space. But it was full.
It was time to break it. He watched as countless coins scattered across the floor. More than he had ever imagined. ‘At least 100 rupees in loose change!’ Gaurav estimated, feeling a sense of pride that he hadn’t felt in months. He picked them up and handed them over to Ma. He had no use for them. He had scored his century.
