The Scent of Mogra and Other Stories
Page 4
I cook what we eat at home, but Anand prefers Mumbai food, like pau bhaji, chole, biryani. He says that he will buy me a cookbook. I can’t imagine cooking from a book. That would be strange. I would rather ask someone, but who can I ask? I don’t know anyone yet.
I long for the fresh air of Nagda. Here, because of the many cars and buses, the air stinks of petrol fumes. I must get used to it. Mumbai is an exciting city. There are so many people, and so many things happening. I hear on tv about dance programs, music concerts, book festivals, sari sales, tv and phone launches, new restaurants, and coffee shops. The list is endless. The city pulses with an energy that creeps into your blood, and you too want to be doing something all the time. Everyone is rushing from one place to the next. No one has time to stop and talk to you. One morning, when I was at the egg stall, I asked a lady where she bought her purse because it was big, and the colour was like that of wet mud. I wanted to touch it, but she moved away from the stall so quickly, that she almost dropped the eggs she had just bought. While I stood there waiting my turn, she put her dark glasses on her head, glared at me, and walked away, without even saying namaste.
Do you miss me? Please ask Brother to write for you and give me all the news.
Your daughter,
Surekha
***
My Dear Brother,
It’s been almost two months since I last wrote. The monsoons are here in full swing, and the city is a mess. I keep thinking of the peacocks dancing outside our house, and the high wheat grass swaying in the wind. Are we going to have a good crop this year? It is a good monsoon. At least, that’s what they are saying on tv. I have the tv on as I write to you, and in the news, they said that there will be another heavy rainfall tomorrow.
We have a fully running house now, and I wish you could come to Mumbai to visit. I’m lonely. I haven’t made any friends. If I talk to people in the hallways, Anand doesn’t like it. He says I must be careful of people in this big bad city — you never know what designs they have on you, and especially the men. That nice uncle, Mehtaji, is so friendly. But I dare not look up to meet his eyes if Anand is with me. He dug his fingers hard into my arm the last time I smiled at the old man…. Oops, I did not mean to tell you. Please forget it, and don’t worry. I can take care of myself. Don’t read this out to Ma and Pa, please! I’m sure you first skim through my letter before reading it out loud.
How are Kamala and Minu? Tell them I value their friendship more than ever now.
Hope you’re not working too hard in the rains.
I should get up and close the window. The wind is blowing hard, and it will bring in all the dust. It will soon start raining again, and my new yellow curtains will get wet and dirty.
Love,
Surekha
***
My Dear Kamala,
How are you? You should come and see our flat. It is tiny, but I have filled it with bright colours. People here call it “cozy.” You will like Mumbai, I’m sure, because there is constant activity, and I know you like to be doing something all the time. Who knows? You might even catch a glimpse of your favourite film star, Sharukh Khan.
Brother told me that your parents are looking out for a boy for you. How do you feel about that? I hope they find someone who lives in Mumbai; then we can perhaps live in the same building.
The girls here dress like movie actresses. I hardly see them in saris or ghaghara, or even in Punjabi dresses. Most of them wear tight jeans and a blouse, or a short kurta. There is no dupatta to cover their breasts. Some wear very short dresses, and the straps on the dress look like bra straps. I feel so embarrassed when I see them. But I do want to buy jeans when we have some extra money. Right now, we have spent everything on setting up the house. I look very old-fashioned compared to these Mumbai girls.
You must come here right after your marriage is fixed. Otherwise you won’t have time for quite a while. I will show you all the sights, and you can taste bhel puri and pau bhaji.
Let me know as soon as everything is decided. I pray to God that you find a good match.
Good luck.
Surekha
***
Dearest Brother,
Is everything fine? You have not replied to my last letter. Did you get it, or did it get lost in the mail?
Did the water seep into our house this year? There must be lots of little waterfalls and streams outside. Remember how we sailed paper boats in the streams? How fast they used to go! And we would run along and jump into the streams to catch them before they disappeared. I felt happy then, and oh, so free.
Mumbai is depressing in the rains. I haven’t seen the sun for days. There are hardly any trees or flowers to break the monotony of grey cement buildings and the grey skies. Our building is new, and yet there is already a leak in our bedroom ceiling. I must place a bucket under it. The dripping drives me crazy all day. Anand says he doesn’t feel like coming home, it’s so annoying, and that I should do something about it. But what can I do? I have already complained to the building manager several times.
I was sick the last few days. I had what the doctor called “gastroenteritis.” I think, that’s how they call it. That is diarrhea and vomiting. I think it was because I ate bhel puri from the hawker who comes to the building every evening. I was so bored, and I had to get out of the apartment. I didn’t tell Anand that; he would be mad. He had warned me not to eat hawker food in the monsoons. Going to the doctor is expensive. But I’m fine now.
I think and dream a lot when there is nothing to do, especially in the evenings. I dream that I’m loved deeply by my husband; I dream of having lots of children, a nice house, and many friends. And, of course, I dream of spending a lot of time with all of you even though I’m now married. I know that Anand dreams of making pots of money in Mumbai. What else does he want from life? I don’t know.
Brother, what are your dreams these days? I’m sure you are waiting for the right girl to come along, so you can get married and start a family, and that you hope for a good crop to make all that possible. I pray that everything you wish for comes true. I sit on the couch waiting for my husband to return. I stare at the walls as I think about how to put my feelings into words and then onto this paper. It’s not easy to say exactly what I think and feel. I’ll turn off the tv now. I keep it on most of the evening for company. But how much tv can I watch? It’s giving me a headache. It is late. Anand is still not home, but I will warm up the food.
Please write soon.
Love,
Surekha
***
My dear Brother,
I’m sitting here at our little dining table to write to you, so that I can check on the dal that is cooking in the kitchen. It is so hot. The window is open, but there is no breeze. I can feel sweat running down my back, though I’ve knotted up my hair into a bun, and am wearing a thin cotton kurta. The building children, who were playing downstairs earlier in the evening, have gone home, and the sound of traffic is fading, as people are back with their families; except my husband.
The monsoons are almost over, and the traffic is much better, but Anand is always late. He never comes home before midnight. He grumbles about the office, and about the amount of work he has to do. He says he is working overtime to pay for everything we have bought for the house.
I have made a few friends in the building, but Anand doesn’t know yet. We visit one another, and I tell them about quilt-making. I tell them about our fields, and all the work that needs to be done from morning till night. They teach me how to cook new dishes. I enjoy being with these women. They tell me about Mumbai — about the buildings where the rich live, about Mumbai’s famous dance bars, Chowpatty beach, the Dharavi slum, and other things.
Last Sunday Anand took me to Juhu beach to eat pani puri. The small crisp puri is filled with tamarind-mint water, and when you pop it whole into your mouth, there is
a burst of tangy, spicy, and sweet flavours combined with the crunch of the puri.
How is Pa? Hope he does not get fever this year. Ma must be working so hard without me there to help her.
I want to get a job. I’m scared to talk to Anand about it. Brother, what do you think of my earning money? I don’t know what kind of work I would find, and how and where. Maybe I can teach quilt-making at the women’s centre. It’s close by. I’ll have to pick up courage to go in and find out.
It’s eleven pm. I’m not sure what Anand does in the office so late every night. He doesn’t like me questioning him. I tell him that I see other men returning home in time for dinner. He just grunts and tells me to mind my own business. It’s so dreary to be alone all evening, and not have anyone to talk to. I’ll have my dinner now, once again, alone. At home, we all sat down together in the kitchen while Ma made us hot roti. You and Pa would finish eating and get back to work. I sat with Ma while she ate, and we talked about so many things.
Love,
Surekha
***
Dear Ma and Pa,
You’re going to be very proud of me. I teach quilt-making and earn two hundred rupees per hour. I had my first class today. There were ten students in the room. Thanks to you, Ma, I love quilting and am quite good at it, at least compared to these city women. I’m excited to be able to go out and meet some other people. And yes, I have permission from my husband. I should put the money in the bank and earn interest, he says, instead of frittering it away. He will need to teach me about all that.
How is Dadi? Is her knee better? I hope she can walk by herself now. I’m sure you miss my help with her, and with all the housework.
You told me before I got married that I should obey my husband and I’m trying to do that. I want him to be happy with me. I only wish he would talk with me a little more and come home earlier. Then we could have dinner together, go for a short walk, and watch some tv shows before going to sleep. Maybe he is worried about his job, and about how I am taking to life in Mumbai; and about being responsible for me, and then later, for a family.
I wore the red and gold sari you gave me for my first day of class. I should change now, so that it doesn’t get oil and turmeric stains on it when I start cooking. I’m going to make aloo-gobi and dal. The cauliflower doesn’t taste anything like the ones from our fields. I try to make it tastier by adding more spices. Will think of all of you while I eat. Don’t know when Anand is coming home.
Love,
Surekha
***
Dearest Brother,
Now I teach quilt-making twice a week and I love it. We gossip, laugh, and sing as we work. The women’s centre is a ten-minute walk, and it’s so good to get out of this apartment. Anand doesn’t seem to be too concerned. I bring in a little bit of money. Anyway, he is in his own world these days. He smiles, laughs, and whistles. Almost like a teenager.
He comes home so late, that sometimes he does not even eat dinner. He has bought a cell phone. That is not an unnecessary expense according to him, and he is busy learning how to use it. He says I can call him anytime.
Tomorrow is Mumbai Bandh. Everyone is talking about it. Nothing will be open. We won’t even get milk. All offices and schools are closed. Anand will have a holiday, though he isn’t too happy about it, God knows why. He says that the Opposition Party wants to show that it can bring Mumbai to a grinding halt.
How is Dadi doing? I do miss her ladoo. I bought some at the sweet shop down the road, but my grandma’s are the best in the whole world. These were dry. They’re stingy with the ghee here, and I thought Mumbai was a rich city. Nobody even feeds the dogs properly. They find something to eat in the garbage, just imagine. No roti soaked in warm milk for them. I remember how we used to feed Sita before she died. Her puppies must be big now. Did you give a few away?
I wish I could come home for Diwali, but Anand says we can’t waste money. The markets are crowded these days because everyone is shopping for the festival. I look at the beautiful saris and the gold jewellery in the shops when I walk to my classes. I sometimes go in and feel the soft silk, and try a gold choker around my neck. I wonder if Anand will buy me something for our first Diwali together, but I dare not ask.
Enjoy all the goodies that Dadi and Ma make, and you can eat my share as well!
Lots of love to everyone for the festival.
Surekha
***
Dearest Kamala,
Congratulations! I am so happy to know that you’re engaged to Raju. I remember him as a shy, quiet young man, cycling down the market road in our village. I think that he and Anand were together for a while in the village school. Then Anand went to Mumbai to take the business course. I hope you will be very happy together.
Kamala, I’m sitting here on my bed after lunch, thinking of how to tell you. I just washed the tears off my face and made up my mind to write to you. I don’t want to dampen your enthusiasm, but I don’t want you to be disillusioned and miserable. So, I’m going to tell you a few things that I have experienced, and I pray fervently that your experience is very different. Anand does not seem interested in getting to know me at all. He comes home late and goes right to sleep. He usually does not even have dinner with me.
Maybe once a week, or even once in two weeks, he does “his business” on me, without caring what I feel. It could be anyone under him. There is no affection, no romance. Sometimes, I feel he is thinking of another woman. Please don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. I know you won’t. I had to tell someone. I have written to Brother that he comes home at midnight, but not that I suspect he has another woman. If he cares for another woman, why did he not marry her?
Anyway, I’m not sure, but I spend hours thinking about this. The tears come very easily to my eyes, and then I so desperately want to be with you. I rage at God. Why did I get such a man? How were my parents to know? He comes from a good family, is well educated, and has a job in Mumbai … what a good match!
Every day we talk only about meals and how much cash I need to run the house. I try to talk to him about how I feel about things in Mumbai, about something I saw on TV, but he does not respond. I’m not sure if he even listens. He did take me out a couple of times to see Mumbai soon after our marriage, but we have not gone out together since then.
There, I feel better after having told you the truth about my marriage. At least, that is the truth right now. Maybe, Anand just needs time to get used to me and to being married. Your marriage I am sure will be happier. The little that I know of Raju makes me certain he will indeed make a wonderful husband.
Now, for the the good part. Brother must have told you that I’m teaching quilt-making to a group of women at a women’s centre. I’ve also made some friends. A man in the office there looks after the accounts. He is such a gentleman. He treats me with respect and always asks how I’m settling down in Mumbai. His name is Suresh Kakkar.
This will be your last Diwali at home. Next year will be different, in your in-laws’ house. Good wishes for the festival. Let me know when your wedding date is fixed. I will try to come.
Lots of love,
Surekha
***
Dearest Brother,
There was no love or joy for me this Diwali.
From our window, we could see the firecrackers. Most of them make loud noises, and everyone here likes those more than the pretty phuljhari we burst in the village. I made halva-puri. Anand and I went to the temple, but he would have rather stayed at home. He was grumpy most of the time. Tell Ma that I made a colourful rangoli design outside our door, and lit a few oil lamps. Everyone from the building loved my rangoli, but Anand didn’t say anything about it at all.
He is obsessed with his new phone. He says that he is learning to use it. He goes out to the hallway of our floor often, and I hear him laughing and talking. But he hardly ever laughs w
ith me. Make sure you only read the selected bits of my letters to Ma and Pa.
Now, some exciting news. My quilt- making students have made enough quilts for us to have a small exhibition in December. We’re all working very hard. I work on my quilt till late at night, when Anand returns. I have done a few patches so far — our house with trees, dancing peacocks, and you and Pa working in the fields. I will now make patches from my life in Mumbai. What shall I make? Buses and cars? Beggars eating from garbage dumps? Shops? Maybe I should make something nice, like the Queen’s Necklace I told you about, or the vast ocean, though they are not part of my life here. I will let Ma know how it comes along. I showed it to Anand, but he barely glanced at it. He doesn’t talk to me too much, except for asking for another roti or a fresh towel. I told him about the exhibition, and that Suresh sahib, in the women’s centre, wants me to take more classes. Anand seemed miffed at the attention I’m getting. I feel he might be a little jealous. But I’m sure all of you are happy for me.
If anyone takes photographs of the quilts, I will mail them to you, and then you can see what my students have done. As for my quilt, I will bring it home when I come, so that whenever you use it, you will think of me. I must finish the patch I’m working on before going to bed. I sit on the floor with my back against the sofa, the quilt spread out in front of me. I need to push the small centre table to the side. There is so little space here. At home, Ma and I used to sit on the string bed, under the shade of the huge banyan tree, and when I got tired of working on the quilt, I would get up and swing from the branches hanging low.
Love,
Surekha
***
Brother,
I’m confused. Last week when I called Anand on his cellphone to ask him to buy bread because I thought he would be walking home from the station, I heard a woman talking to him, and laughing. I asked him who it was. He said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It must be someone walking behind me.” And when he finally got home, he could not look at me. He slept outside on the sofa.
Yesterday, I was scared. It was two am, and he wasn’t home. I heard sounds outside the main door, as if someone was trying to open it. When I went out to the hall from my bedroom, the sounds suddenly stopped. With trembling hands, I dialled Anand’s number. He sounded strange when he finally picked up the phone. Was he sleeping? When I told him what had happened, he just laughed, and said nobody would try to enter our apartment, as there was nothing valuable to steal. Then I heard a rustling — maybe of clothes or sheets — and he abruptly hung up. He came home an hour later and just went to bed. I think he is sleeping with another woman, but I can’t be sure.