ANOTHER UNTITLED WALA SHORT STORY

They promised Meera, an education.
Her first class -  no school, no chalk, no pencil, no teacher. Just a kitchen filled with utensils and gas-less cylinders. And a wicked mother-in-law.

16 months later, after her in-laws and her husband passed away in an accident, they decided to remarry the then 14 year old Meera.

With Mehendi on her palm, ‘Alata’ on her feet and fake jewellery adorned on her neck, she finally mustered the courage to call it off.

Thanks to the persuasion of the local music teacher, they decided to send her to a music school.

A child prodigy – They called her. An incarnation of Maa Saraswati, they added. On the day of the concert, she gets the stage fright and chokes.
She felt naked, for the very first time.

6 years later.

Meera delicately cradled her infant’s head, fondling and suckling him. She hummed his favorite tune. The child then traced M, O, R, and E on her tummy.


26 years later.

Samar Sharma walked on to the stage in a shiny black Armani suit. At 27, he had just won the best Musician of the Year Award at the Filmfare. Again.
He was the 2009 recipient of the Mauritius National Award for contributions to music. He was nominated for a Laurence Olivier Award for his first West-End production. A two-time National Film Award winner and recipient of three Maharastra State Awards , for his music and scores.
He had aimed for the stars and he had touched them alright.

After receiving his award, Samar was asked to speak a few words. A mere formality. He suddenly felt overwhelmed by the uncertainty of what he had and what not. Like living in some kind of horrific perpetual dream state yet still able to interact without anyone knowing; just browsing through emotions on automatic.

“I never knew my father. After my mother passed away, life seemed bitter and cruel. But I dealt with it. There is a Hindi dialogue, 'Mere paas Maa he' which means, even if i have nothing, i still have my mother here," said a tearful Samar Sharma, pointing to his heart.

"Music is in my blood. My mother is my music"
"This is for Meera Sharma, my mother."

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A NO TITLE WALA SHORT-STORY

‘You will never amount to anything. You will always be a disappointment. Do you understand me? With this attitude of yours, you’ll be nothing – a roach- lower than a roach – a nobody! Do you understand me?’

Yes. He understood his father. He was twelve years old and he understood that he deserved his father’s eternal rage. He knew why. It was merely a fact of life. Something he took for granted. He just didn’t know that his father would be so pissed with him.

His mother vary rarely sprung to his defence. She merely nodded sadly, as if every word his father had just uttered was the truth and nothing but. She nodded in agreement and stared at him with knowing eyes. After his father had stormed out of the house, she gave him a reassuring hug and brushed his hair, crooning beautiful poems to him in a low, beautiful voice.

‘You know, how he is. He hates all those people who give up. You of all, should be knowing that. He’s disappointed.’

His mother and father had watched him race in an inter-school 200m sprint earlier that day, in which he had given up halfway – panting and gasping for air. And the shame of not being able to complete the race ate him up.

‘No matter what, we shall always love you son’ his mother added, ‘You know we do.’ 

 

19 years later.

“Hello ?” Vishal said, reaching for his Nexus.
‘Hey son.’
Vishal checked his cell. How come he was calling at 6:30 in the morning? It was weird, because he could never remember his father as an early to rise & shine person.

‘Dad, it’s 6:30 in the morning. I’m asleep,’ he mumbled.
‘You made the front page.’
A throaty cough.
‘Again.’

‘That’s good. What’re you reading?’ he asked, stifling a yawn. ‘Hindu?’
‘Yes. Goes great with my morning tea.’

‘I had a late night dad, i’ll call you back later.’
‘Wait, your mother wants a word with you as well-’ Cut.

He put down his phone and hauled himself out of bed. He tried to stay quiet as his fiancé was still fast asleep.
He gazed at her lovely soon-to-be-wife whose figure described a set of parabolas that could cause a cardiac arrest in a yak.

At thirty-one, the 6’2 tall, Vishal Nanda had seen it all and owned it all. He worked in a top software-firm which provided him with a 6-digit salary every month. A place where he had found his true soul-mate – Anisha. Apart from her, writing was what he loved. He was a brilliant story-teller/writer, until he met a budding film-maker in one of his office parties. They gluttoned down some cocktails, their ideas amalgamated and the rest was history.  They made two films together and both of them went on to win multiple Filmfare awards including the Best Screen-Play award. Suddenly his name was popping up on all the right places and school kids and everyone else in the town knew his name. Suddenly he had the guts to quit his full time job. Requests for media Interviews and Invitations came pouring in. A cameo role in a Salman Khan starrer movie & Outlook magazine had described him as the sexiest screen-writer alive. Vishal Nanda had hit instant stardom. Who cares if he was some fat guy with huge spectacles whilst in school? Who cared if he didn't finish some god-damn race. Vishal Nanda was a big time celebrity. He had been signed on to write for three upcoming sit-coms. Money, Villas, Gold Rolex, A Hummer – he had it all.

He was no longer a disappointment. He had made his parents proud. And he was leaving for Los-Angeles, the very next month. For a two year stint.
Why ?
Because Hollywood came calling. And no-one said No to Hollywood.

He had showed them all.


8 years later.


‘What’s the matter?’ Mr. Nanda asked,  as Golu, their 2 year old pug burst noisily into the balcony.
‘Nothing. It’s just that i miss our old house,’ replied Mrs Nanda, wrinkles prominent on her face.
‘Come on now. We had to move to a smaller place. That villa was too big for two seventy year olds.’

They had recently moved into a much smaller apartment, much to the dismay of Vishal and their daughter-in-law Anisha. “What’s the point of living in a mansion when you guys can’t visit on a regular basis?’,  Mr Nanda had said. “What good, will the pool and the lawn do us, when we don’t have our grandkids to pamper and play with?”

It had been six months since their son last visited them in Bhubaneswar.  A price to pay, if your only son chooses to settle abroad.  The number of visits were lessening, every year. And their last visit had ended shortly after Vishal had received a call and had to leave immediately.
‘Who shall perform the last rites, when we die?’ his father had retorted, with a hint of a tear.

Mrs Nanda shrugged, as she headed for the kitchen. ‘I will make us some coffee. I can’t believe our Sparsh is turning three tomorrow. He’s getting so big, so fast’.
Mr.Nanda followed her. ‘He’s gonna be like his father’s old man. Strong and stout as a horse,’ automatically
reaching for the cookie jar.
She smacked the cookie out of his hand. ‘No,’ she said firmly.
‘Please,’ he pleaded. ‘I’m starving woman!’

‘Too sweet for you,’ she replied.
Last stage diabetes had started to wear Mr.Nanda down. His liver wasn’t even functioning properly. And he didn’t take his medicine dosage seriously.
‘Our time is nearing anyway. This cookie doesn’t scare me. You know what scares me.’

She ignored him. Mr.Nanda shook his head. ‘The same reason you don’t even keep a cook or even a maid.’
‘He sends us a fat cheque every month. Plus we get our monthly pension. And yet, you do not keep a house-maid,’ he continued.

Carrying their coffee mugs with them, Mr & Mrs Nanda headed back to their balcony, where they spend most of their day sitting on their bamboo-made arm-chairs.
‘We have Tuffy. We don’t need anyone else. And we’ve got each other. You know he can’t visit us more often. You taught him to be a workaholic and you taught him well,’ Mrs Nanda managed with a wry laugh.

‘And Skype. You forgot to mention Skype. The only thing keeping us alive- is seeing our daughter-in-law and our grand-kid alive.’


4 weeks later. LA

‘Who’s this?’ Vishal replied, cradling the receiver as he reached for his cigarette. It was pouring in LA. Quite a surprise downpour for a sunny forecast. Anisha and Sparsh were away.

‘Mr Vishal Nanda? This is Anuj Sharma, from 115 D, Madhukunj, your father’s neighbour. I have been trying to reach you since yesterday. I don’t know if you have heard or not, your parents passed away. The pug had been barking for days, until we and the other neighbours decided to break in. We found them on their beds. And it smelled awful. We called the police straightaway. The doctors say that, they have been dead for a while. Died in their sleep. Probably 5-6 days. I’m so sorry. We straight away took them to the cremation ground. I , myself performed the last rites. Thought you should know. And just so you know, i'm a big fan.’

He closed his eyes. A draught of terror blew over him. Guilt was creeping on him big time. He should have guessed, something was wrong when he kept on getting the answering machine. He was their only son for chrissakes, and to think of not getting to perform the last rites was unthinkable. His heart was throbbing madly now. But how? When? Why?

His hand dropped from the telephone.
It was already out.


P.S - Disappointment would be a good title, i reckon.


Direct your feedbacks & rants here.

OF ARRANGED MARRIAGES

We as kids were warned not to mingle with strangers, not to talk to them, not take chocolates from them, not to go out with them and not to get into a relationship with them. Our parents warned us about people from the opposite sex, while starting college. Little did we know that, that’s what Arranged Marriages are for.

Let’s make a satirical comparison between the Classical Indian Marriage and theStockholm Syndrome. I will pause for a few seconds, so that some of you may wikipedia the term.
Like all satires it may hold some truths and like all truths it may even be universally applicable. The condition of the docile Indian housewife is a milder form of the Stockholm Syndrome.

Let's look for some similarities:

~The husband/hostage-taker goes out for work and the wife/hostage is alone. This is when she feels trapped the most.
~The wife/hostage can and wants to run away but finds a liking for her husband/hostage-taker even more when she has the opportunity to do so.
~When they start living together the husband/hostage-taker is merely being humane by providing. And the wife/hostage slowly goes from wary to trusting. And trusting to loving.

There could be many more parallels. But the point I'm trying to make is that the Stockholm Syndrome works on an individual level while the traditional Indian arranged marriage works as a concept that can be mass produced with similar results.

Here's a quick step-by-step guide -
• Find a girl in a socially/financially weak household
• Arrive on horseback with loud intimidating music and fire crackers
• Scare them into letting you take the girl.
• Oh! and instead of waiting for the ransom till you release the hostage,
you take the girl and the money at the same time.

In actual terms this form of hostage taking where the man brings security and the woman luck, is a far more cunning arrangement. And I mean arrangement in the strictest possible terms. This arrangement has scale, it transcends all social class and the most menacing of all, it is socially accepted.

But we are forgetting the one vital sweet fruit that Arranged Marriage has to offer us. The one most important ephemeral advantage of Arranged Marriage - Dowry.

I'm a huge fan of dowry. It's a brilliant concept. It's like any other form of personal loan if you ask me. Only the EMIs never end and the interest rates are ruthless. There's no early settlement. Plus even if you aren’t employed, you’d be getting plenty of free stuff anyway. Just to get started, or maybe not. Furniture, Bike/Car and daily items. If you try, it comes with a huge penalty. It’s called alimony.

So you proceed to get married anyway. Knowing fully well, the dangers involved. Then you become the man Friday of the house - all 7 days of the week. Your wife will ask you to stop at the grocery on your way home and pick up some stuff. And you will. EMI.

Weddings are over-rated. Marriages are not. We belong to a society of middle-class people with mediocre mentality, who prefer arranged marriages over love marriages any-day.

Yes. Maybe they have a point. In this selfish world of hypocrisy, you ought to have siblings. For moral and financial support. Someone to have your back after your parents get old and then too old. So if you’re a single child, it is altogether more necessary to be blessed with a good husband or a devoted wife. And to achieve this near-impossible feat, you have to find your life-partner and an able one at that.  According to statistics, Arranged Marriages are more successful. Plus this keeps your parents content and your relatives – quiet. The process is fun actually. You get to choose your life partner, like in the old days. ‘Here are some photos, pick one’ – they say. You can have the more fairer one- you will finally have someone pretty by your side, when you’re at the mall/theatre. Or you can have the plump one- the one who shall be a good house-keeper, while you ogle at your female colleague.

We all love the blame game, when we fail. So if your arranged marriage comes to an abrupt end, you know you’ve got a free license to blame a few people, for your failed marriage. Go berserk on them, while your neighbors ready their popcorn.



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