Saturday, July 4, 2015

Sukanya - Chapter four

Okay, chapter four as promised. Feel free to share but do use the NEW! BETTER! hashtag.
For those seeing this for the first time, I am giving away my novel Sukanya for free, two chapters every week, Wednesdays and Saturdays. To read earlier chapters, click on this hashtag.
Chapter Four
Later, much later, when Sukanya would think of the events that transpired that long summer, this day stood out over all others. This was the day Munto Baba came to roost in Bibi’s chowk.
It started normally enough, with Sukanya calling her mother to update her about the proceedings of the mohalla, as always from her room, far from grand-parental earshot.
‘Mom, I went into the palace, the one whose windows open down to Bibi’s chowk,’ said Sukanya, barely able to believe it herself.
‘Oh yes, but it’s completely run-down, isn’t it? Your father had told me it’s crumbling and parts have already gone to ruin,’ said Aparajita, a little note of worry creeping into her voice. What if some hundred year old pillar gave way right when….oh, this was too much to think about.
‘Yes, but like Bade Papa would say, lut jaane par bhi Dilli Dilli hai,’ she said, making her mother laugh reluctantly.
‘It’s good to see your grandfather bringing out the poet in you,’ she said. ‘And have you met the famous Sugandha ji? Your father has never stopped talking about her, all these years.’
‘I sure have and she makes me feel like I should seriously think about wearing saris. She’s terribly graceful, all low, husky voice and not a hair out of place. And her nephew and I have become friends,’ Sukanya took a sip of her tea. ‘Sam.’
‘I hope he is a decent boy,’ Aparajita sounded worried again. ‘I haven’t heard very good things about….oh, anyway.’
‘He’s fine, Ma. Humility is not his strong point but we get along. And I need some friends. Oh and I am going to a wedding soon. Gumbi is getting married.’
‘Who on earth is Gumbi now?’ Aparajita sounded affronted that her ingrate of a daughter seemed so at home with people who had refused to even acknowledge her Thakur mother all these years. The pull of family, Shilajit had sighed.
‘One of Bibi’s innumerable neighbours. Honestly, Ma, there are more people in this mohalla than the whole of London, I feel.’
‘It certainly sounds eventful. And do you have something to wear for this Gumbi’s wedding?’
‘I am supposed to go to Rajni Mausi’s place today. Badi Mummy has saddled me with bright green silk fabric for making a salwar kameez. I have been told plenty of golden gota is a must. Must say, Ma, Rajni Mausi reminds me of Nirupa Roy, all that endless stitching of sari blouses. She is just so miserable. How did someone like Bibi produce Rajni Mausi?’
Sukanya made her way downstairs after speaking to her mother and wandered into Badi Mummy’s room, who had been depressed at the thought of not being able to make it to a wedding right there in their own mohalla and was now lying down with her face to the wall.
‘Who is Gumbi getting married to?’ asked Sukanya, amused at how she was expected to attend Gumbi’s wedding when she had never once met her.
‘Some shopkeeper,’ replied Badi Mummy without turning back, ‘I guess we cannot complain. No dowry to speak of naturally and then no parents either. But still, Gumbi is a very pretty girl and she means well and I guess she could have done better. Go now and give the dress material to Rajni. And remember, Rajni is my sister but she has no sense of what looks good. Ask her not to scrimp on the gota. We need gota. Lots of it.’
‘I’d like it if the gota were not very thick, Rajni Mausi,’ said Sukanya worriedly as she sat next to her in the small space outside her house where her grand-aunt sat through the day with her sewing machine, churning out kurtas and sari blouses till daylight finally gave way and she could not see the tiny buttonholes that her deft fingers created.
‘Come inside, gudiya,’ intoned Rajni Mausi and led the way inside. Rajni’s house was very ill-kempt, noticed Sukanya, unlike the other houses that she had seen in the mohalla thus far. The frustrations of poverty were everywhere. No wonder Rajni Mausi always looked so glum. Badi Mummy was Rajni Mausi’s older sister but while she was still holding on to the last remnants of beauty in the face of rapidly failing health, Rajni Mausi looked broken and spent and thoroughly wretched, not quite surprising considering her three sons had turned out to be completely worthless.
The oldest, Natwar Chacha was of course known far and wide for his violent temper. Apparently he often made money off his aggressive nature, acting like a hired goonda when the need arose. So far he had evaded the law but there was no doubt that that is where his end lay. He was fiercely loyal to Bade Papa who had treated him like a wayward son all these years, slapping him frequently during his decidedly delinquent teenage and accepting his ways and giving up on them in adulthood. After his beloved cousin Shilajit’s departure, Natwar assumed many of the responsibilities that a son was expected to shoulder but after he beat up a post-office employee over a delayed money-order, Bade Papa withdrew any expectations that he may have had of Natwar, preferring to go about his work in his own slow but gentle manner.
Munto, the second-born had followed the older brother’s footsteps in proving the Indian education system completely ineffectual. After he failed to clear class eight thrice, Rajni Mausi traded the last of her gold ornaments for a buffalo. Munto showed no inclination for the dairy business and ran away soon after, claiming to have renounced the world.
The youngest son was watching something on an old television set in the room where Rajni Mausi now took Sukanya. Named Paresh at birth, he now responded to the infinitely more homely handle of Paru. Paru was not the academic disaster that his two older brothers were, going as far as college and earning a degree, albeit in the third division. He belonged to the school of thought that encouraged using one’s passion to carve out a career. Using his fondness of Hindi films to his advantage, he now worked as an assistant in a local DVD rental library, passing out free advice and recommendations about films. He was not bad to look at either, having a pleasant, affable air around him and a grin that was difficult not to like.
‘Arrey, Sukanya, getting clothes stitched, hain,’ he asked as she came in, ‘it is early for Nauchandi, nahin?’
‘Not Nauchandi, Paru Chacha,’ Sukanya replied as she started to go through the box of gota samples that Rajni Mausi had placed in her lap, ‘ I am going for Gumbi’s wedding next month. The wedding invites are not here yet but Badi Mummy says I must attend. Will you also come?’
There was no reply from Paru. Sukanya looked up. He looked a little pale, she thought, his eyes frozen on the television screen in front of him.
‘I think this one should do, Mausi?’ said Sukanya, picking out a sample and handing it to Rajni.
‘You can pick up the dress next week, rani,’ said Rajni Mausi, dolefully. Sukanya nodded and got up to leave. Paru too got up and left the room without a word. Sukanya wisely declined the offer of tea, the smell of the cooking cabbage an active deterrent. She now decided that she needed cheering up and made her way to Bibi’s house, only to be met with much excitement about the latest, semi-clad visitor to Bibi's chowk.
A sadhu had camped in the chowk. A large group of women sat surrounding him and the crowd kept swelling. The sadhu’s eyes were closed and he seemed to be meditating, in perfect sync with universal consciousness. He wasn’t wearing much, a saffron dhoti and nothing else, long, matted hair which hadn’t met a comb in many years and the inevitable rudraksh beads providing the accessories. Already the beginnings of a celebration seemed to be in the air, as women placed fruit, flowers and incense before the sadhu and whispers of the many miracles of Babaji were rampant. Sukanya stared at this spectacle for sometime and then went inside.
Bibi was cooking khichdi.
‘Munto has come, no, I am making this for him,’ she explained as if Sukanya was expected to know all about him.
‘Munto? That would be Badi Mummy’s nephew, Rajni Mausi’s son, the one who became…..oh my God, so the sadhu outside is Munto Chacha.’
‘What is he doing here? Why has he come back?’
‘I don’t know. What I do know is that he likes khichdi and so I am going to feed him that.’
‘But Bibi,’ floundered Sukanya, ‘isn’t that strange? He is not your grandson anymore, is he? He has renounced the world.’
‘Bullshit,’ said Bibi calmly, ‘and if I know him, he can renounce everything but not his Nani’s khichdi. Just like you and chaat, my girl.’
‘Listen, I think I will have some of that khichdi as well,’ Sukanya laughed. ‘Do you think Munto Baba will mind?’
‘That little fraud is lucky I am still cooking for him,’ Bibi was a realist. Her daughter Rajni though was a different story. She landed at the chowk in the next half hour and immediately dived at the sadhu’s feet. If Munto was surprised, he didn’t let it on, maintaining the distant demeanour.
‘Munto Baba, Munto Baba,’ said Rajni Mausi, ecstatic.
‘Nonsense, he is just high on hashish or something,’ said Bibi, stepping out with a plate of khichdi just as she saw Rajni prepare to take permanent residence at the sadhu’s feet, ‘and I thought you had to be true to one guru. Are you certain Mangadh Waale Baba ji will not mind this desertion?’
‘Rehne do, Bibi, let it be. Munto was my son but now he is only Munto Baba.’
‘Humph,’ said Bibi and extended the plate to Munto Baba, ‘here, Munto, eat.’
Munto Baba opened his eyes, his nostrils flaring at the familiar aroma of his beloved khichdi. Sukanya also came out, with her own plate of food in hand, biting into a luscious piece of mango pickle.
‘Ai hai, is she eating the same food as Baba ji,’ asked Rajni Mausi, scandalized, ‘what ghor paap! What kalyug! Eating the same food as what we serve to the sadhus.’
‘Sukanya will eat the same khichdi,’ said Bibi, ‘if Munto Baba has a problem with it, well, it’s not too late, I can take it right back.’
‘Nahin, nahin,’ said Munto Baba, clearly terrified that the khichdi will be taken away, ‘let the bachchi eat, Baba does not mind. We are all Shiv Ji’s children.’
Bibi snorted and went back into the house. Rajni Mausi stared at Munto Baba with adoration. Munto Baba and Sukanya, both being Shiv Ji’s children polished off the whole khichdi between themselves. After eating, Baba decided to smoke up.
‘Alakh niranjan,’ he proclaimed and lit up a chillum. The smoke started to waft all over the chowk. He shooed Rajni Mausi, his own mother away. Rajni Mausi and the other women wandered off obediently.
‘Arrey, if I put sugar instead of namak in the subzi today, don’t blame me. It will all be Baba ji’s kripa. Bloody Munto,’ said Bibi to Nandi, as the smoke made its way to her kitchen. Sukanya sat in the chowk, the smoke seemed to be drugging her too.
‘My child, we have shared food today. If there is anything you want to ask, ask and it shall be answered,’ said Baba generously, his eyes a peculiar shade of red.
Sukanya shook her head, her head swimming a little. The air smelt like the nightclubs in London, yet it was far more potent.
‘I don’t want to ask anything,’ she said.
‘Aise kaise, you are young. You must have worries, some concerns, whether big or small we do not know but enough to make you anxious, ha ha ha,’ laughed Munto Baba, his voice seemingly drifting to her from far, far away.
‘I am worried about my grandparents,’ said Sukanya, almost against her wishes. Was Munto Baba a hypnotist too? She felt a little drunk. The sun was now high up in the sky, beating down on the chowk, making everything appear unnaturally clear. Any moment now there would be strains of Purple Haze ringing through the air, she thought stupidly.
‘Everyone is worried, mere bachche, everyone. Everyone except us saadhus, who have gone into the sharan of Shiv Ji. Why are your grandparents worried? Have you done something to worry them? Ha ha ha,’ Munto Baba took another drag and went very quiet, preparing to lie down on his side on the brick floor.
‘I just want to know if everything will be alright,’ she finally stuttered. Munto Baba reached out and grabbed his niece’s wrist. He closed his eyes.
‘I see a dead girl in your future,’ he said, snuffed out the chillum and then started snoring. He had fallen asleep! Just like that. Sukanya felt her flesh crawl. The little hairs on her arm stood on end. She stared at the sleeping baba for some time, her mouth slightly agape.
‘Bibi,’ Sukanya went inside after sometime and tried to clear her head by talking to the ever-pragmatic Bibi, ‘do you think Munto Baba has ESP?’
‘STD is more like it,’ said Bibi, ‘why? Did he make any predictions for you? Don’t believe a word, would be my suggestion.’
Sukanya nodded but did not agree. A dead girl?
Copyright Parul Sharma 2015. All rights reserved. No reproduction in any form, in whole or in part, may be made without the written permission of Parul Sharma.

Wednesday, July 1, 2015

Sukanya - Chapter three

Kind people, chapter three of Sukanya for your kind perusal. Silence means you hate it and guarantees my plunge into utter despair. Typos should be pointed out right away and shall be fixed with impressive alacrity. Read, share, enjoy! ‪#‎sukanya‬
Chapter three
A month passed by quickly. Sukanya found herself getting caught in the rhythm of the mohalla life and picking up invisible threads with many, many faces. She would wake up early and help her grandfather prepare tea. Then Anju Mausi, a trained nurse and an ANM in the district hospital would come in for some time and help sponge and change Badi Mummy. In the few days that Sukanya had been there, the colour seemed to have come back in her grandmother’s face. Just an illusion, Bade Papa had dismissed with a sigh.
Sukanya also discovered that her initial impression has been on the spot. People did eat all the time. Breakfast for example could consist of kachauris and aloo-subzi from the nearest halwai shop. Sukanya had blanched when she had first seen the deep-fried kachauris and subzi that looked like a battle between oil and red chillies.
‘Bade Papa,’ Sukanya had fallen into calling him that like everyone else, ‘I don’t think I can eat that.’
‘Ha ha, of course you can. Arrey, your father used to have breakfast at home and then go and have six of these before school with one paav of jalebis and top it with some milk,’ said Bade Papa, ‘anyway, here, you can eat this bread and butter. You must be eating this in London.’
Actually Aparajita was adept at making hot Indian breakfasts almost everyday but Sukanya had learnt very quickly that mentions of her mother caused uncomfortable silences and skirted these whenever she could.
She would bathe and then walk to her great-grandmother’s house. Badi Mummy’s mother was not only alive but flourishing. Bibi lived in one of the houses built around a very large courtyard. This courtyard, or chowk was the hub of activity in the mohalla and Bibi, despite failing eyesight and advancing years keenly participated in the generation and propagation of gossip.
Sukanya spent the better part of the afternoon with Bibi, who lived with her son, Badi Mummy’s only brother. Having lost half a leg in a freak accident years ago, Girdhari had been unemployed since. Now he was a general do-gooder, taking his rickety cycle out every morning and spending his days minding someone’s babies, getting someone else’s rations, and accompanying someone’s old aunt to the hospital. People both needed and ridiculed his services. Now Sukanya heard Nandi, Bibi’s next door neighbour laugh as she saw Girdhari try to limp to deliver a toddler to his mother even as the child urinated freely all over the poor man.
Sukanya complained about this to Bibi.
‘Nandi Chachi laughed at poor Girdhari Mama today,’ she said pensively and bit into a soft guava, the likes of which always sat in a kandi, a cane basket that sat in Bibi’s spotless kitchen.
‘Ignore her,’ said Bibi, uncharacteristically, ‘Nandi is a thoroughly frustrated woman. She was fourteen when she got married and came here, younger than you, bitto. Her mother-in-law, may God boil her in hot oil in hell for all eternity, was a complete tyrant. She was a giant, weighed a hundred kilos or more and she would chase Nandi all over the courtyard with a jhaadu and god help Nandi if she was caught. That monster would sit on her and then pummel her.’
‘Why didn’t her husband stop his mother?’ asked Sukanya, completely horrified.
‘Ha ha, that Atma Ram was a stick figure at seventeen,’ laughed Bibi, ‘his mother held the purse strings, bitiya and that is what makes the world go round, no? He was a complete dud at studies and anyway, this is a Baniya family, they would make their boys go into the family business only. So Atma Ram put up with all this nonsense in his youth and as a prize, now he is selling women’s panties and bras in that shameless shop of his in the bazaar.’
Sukanya could not understand Bibi’s objection to Atma Ram’s hosiery store. It was true that Bibi and most of the gray-haired crones of her generation did not believe in any form of artificial support for their breasts, going so far as to say that wearing a bra gave one breast cancer but surely they knew that the majority of the female population did not share their views. Sukanya often forgot that she had spent only a month with Bibi and quite enjoyed her fearsome temper. She was now ticking off Nandi soundly.
‘Laugh as much as you like at my poor son, Nandi but remember that you will die a dog’s death if I curse you in the morning after taking a bath and before taking a morsel in. I am a Sanatani Brahmin, I have never touched an onion or garlic in my life. Be careful, if you don’t want maggots crawling in your flesh.’ All this was proclaimed quite peacefully as Bibi cooked in her kitchen and Nandi in her own.
Bibi felt quite superior due to the dietary restrictions that had been a part of her life and made her the purest of pure brahmins and she was not above using the fact to her advantage. Nandi paled under this holy attack and offered a peace offering that afternoon itself by sending over a katora full of kadhi.
‘You are a tyrant, Beebs,’ said Sukanya as she licked her plate clean, ‘but this is great, you should threaten Nandi Chachi more often. This is delicious! What are you doing there? Come and eat.’
‘Arrey, that boy has come and fallen ill again, Sugandha’s nephew. I promised her that I would make him this tulsi tea. Now you be a good girl, bitto, go and give this thermos to Sugandha. That Girdhari goes about helping everyone except his own mother.’
Sukanya brightened at this prospect. An entry into the mehel, at last!
On one side of Bibi’s courtyard stood, a mehel, a palace. This had been the most remarkable sight for Sukanya. The palaces that Sukanya had seen had been of two kinds, the kind that British monarchs and noblemen owned, beautiful structures sitting in green grounds. Kensington Palace, Kew Palace, Hampton Court Palace. The other kind had been the royal palaces of India, the glossy pictures of which were spread out on the internet, most of them now luxury hotels. Udaipur Palace, Laxmi Niwas Palace, Deogarh Palace. Opulent reminders of an era whose end had come a long time back.
The mehel next to Bibi’s courtyard was neither of these. It was built as a residence for a very smart businessman about a hundred years ago. Raja Shankar Dev carried the title of king but did not care much for it, focused as he was on the lucre. Then when royalty was abolished in India and public sentiment turned against the excesses of royal families, the sharp Raja had moved his family and businesses to Antwerp. Much money had flowed into his non-royal coffers thanks to the diamond trade and the family had continued to live in style.
His family still owned the mehel and distant relations lived in the palace now and then. One side of the mehel had windows that opened out to Bibi’s courtyard and Bibi had seen a succession of people arrive and camp in the palace before moving out again.
Then Sugandha had shifted in and had stayed put. Nobody really knew how Sugandha was related to Raja Shankar Dev but her crisp, cotton saris, a perpetually covered head, royal features and an indisputable air of arrogance forbade any questions. She taught in the same local college as Bade Papa and had not mingled much with anyone except Bibi in all the years that she had lived in the mehel. She did not receive any guests except the nephew who was studying at the Lala Lajpat Rai Medical College in town and turned up for an occasional holiday. This was the nephew who now needed Bibi’s tulsi tea.
Sukanya took the flask from Bibi and made her way to the mehel through the narrow cobbled alleys that led to it, dreaming a little about jharokhas with intricate lattice-work and perfumed passages. She reached the very large main gate of the palace and found a small door within its huge wooden structure, clearly used for the daily comings and goings. It was ajar. Sukanya looked for a bell or knocker but found none. She stepped inside and found herself standing in the courtyard of the mehel. The floor was marble, with a large floral design in the center. Sukanya looked around. No one was in sight. There were rooms on three sides of the courtyard, possibly for the servants. There was a passage leading to the interiors of the mehel. Sukanya walked through it and into a large, rather opulent room, with plush but rather threadbare carpets lining the floor. Intricately carved furniture lined the room but did not look dusted or cleaned. There was a chandelier hanging from the ceiling but that too didn’t look like it had been used in a while. There were doors leading to other rooms but Sukanya now could not bring herself to go any further. In London, she never even visited Tuktuk, her childhood friend and next-door neighbour without calling ahead.
‘Sugandha Aunty,’ she called and was surprised to find her voice rather emerge rather feebly. The place was deathly quiet and in those unnatural surroundings, one rather expected the ghost of old Raja Shankar Dev, to jump out and clutch her throat. Consequently she jumped out of her skin when she heard a low, ‘hello, how can I help you?’ behind her. She turned back and saw herself facing a young man, tall, bespectacled and with a high forehead. This must be the budding doctor, Sugandha Aunty’s nephew.
‘Hello, I am Sukanya,’ she croaked and then cleared her throat. ‘Uh, Bibi is my great-grandmother. Your aunt had asked for this tea for you.’ She held the flask out. The boy took it and smiled. He had nice teeth. He could have been called handsome but the ravages of medical college seemed to have taken a toll on his face and body.
‘Sit na,’ he said and plopped himself down on one of the carved Louis XVI chairs, ‘where did you get that accent from? Too much ‘Jeeves and Wooster’, hehe.’
Sukanya bristled. Everyone had appreciated her perfect Hindi diction despite her Ing-LAND birth and upbringing. What a rude, dismissive boy.
‘Well, I was born in London so I suppose you could find it in your heart to forgive me,’ she said and turned to go, her nose in the air.
The boy-man laughed loudly.
‘Sensitive, are we? Arrey, come na, sit down. Look, I can’t beg, my throat really hurts,’ he made a piteous face. Sukanya sat down.
‘What’s your name,’ she asked as he opened the flask and used the covering lid as a cup.
‘Well, my parents had rather ambitiously and if I may say so, atrociously named me Samman Singh but everyone calls me Sam. At least they all did at the school I went to and now I rather think I am a Sam, not so much a Samman,’ he said.
‘And which school was that, Sam Singh,’ asked Sukanya, settling down a little bit and realizing very quickly that it was very difficult not to like men like these.
‘Doon,’ he said and watched her face for a reaction.
‘Isn’t that really elite and prestigious? So, who is rich, dad or mum?’ asked Sukanya.
‘Both,’ he said, ‘diamonds.’
‘What luck! So why aren’t you selling bracelets or whatever, instead of slogging it out in med school?’ Sukanya was genuinely surprised.
He sighed.
‘I am a prisoner of my own brains,’ he said, making her laugh. ‘I never went back home after school. I wrote the medical entrance and here I am. Parents are cool with it. As of now, I have my sights firmly set on the Dean’s gold medal.’
Sukanya stared at him. What a smug brat. Then she caught his grin and could not help smiling too.
‘You are so full of yourself and I need to go,’ she said and got up.
‘You would be too if you were this loaded,’ he tapped at his forehead and gulped down the rest of his tea, ‘hey, maybe we should hang out together? How long are you here?’
‘Don’t count on it,’ Sukanya said and picked up her flask.
‘Oho, don’t be so intimidated by my sheer personality. Be a sport! Get rid of that stiff upper lip,’ he followed her outside, still talking.
‘Yeah, we will see,’ she said and started back home.
Copyright Parul Sharma 2015. All rights reserved. No reproduction in any form, in whole or in part, may be made without the written permission of Parul Sharma.

Saturday, June 27, 2015

Sukanya - Chapter Two

Sukanya - Chapter 2 (Yeah, I listened. I will put up chapters twice a week now - Wednesdays and Saturdays), share, enjoy and do keep the feedback coming because that's the only currency in this sort of interaction. Chapter One here for the ones late to the party. #sukanya 
Chapter Two
‘Namaste, Dada ji,’ she managed before being engulfed in his embrace. She felt him weep for sometime, wondering if she would cry too, in the presence of these strangers that she knew so well. She had struggled with how to think about him, this key character of her own story. Shilajit could not speak of him without tearing and yet, the legends of Bade Papa’s famous rages had permeated through Sukanya’s childhood and beyond. He looked rather frail in person, though, not the sort of terror he had been made out to be. Maybe she would cry a little bit, after all, she thought in sudden panic.
‘Oho, Bade Papa, enough, enough,’ Natwar came to Sukanya’s rescue, tapping her grandfather on the shoulder, ‘she needs to meet everyone.’
Suddenly a conch went off right behind Bade Papa, making him jump and let out a loud curse.
‘Uff, this Sunita,’ he said, moving aside and revealing yet another unfamiliar face. Sukanya took her in, trying to place her from the vast family tree that grew and thrived in her mind. Sunita could not have been more than thirty, she was certainly very pretty and her cheap, printed nylon sari could do little to dim that. Years ago, Shilajit’s classmate from college had visited their London home. His wife had accompanied him on his business trip, awkward in the new trenchcoat that she had worn over her sari, the pallu not quite knowing where to rest. Sunita was a little like that Mausi, thought Sukanya, messy and pretty. As if picking the trail of Sukanya’s memories, Sunita now adjusted her own pallu, covering her head demurely, a contrasting impish grin lighting up her fair face as she handed the conch to a little girl who had surfaced out of nowhere and took a plate full of aarti things from her.
‘Always jumping out of corners and what-nots,’ grumbled Bade Papa, ‘Sukanya, this is your Chachi,’
Sukanya folded her hands again. This was becoming routine, all the endless Namaste’s but they seemed to like it, smiling broadly every time she brought her hands together. I bow to the divine in you. Or just hello, depending on the way you looked at it.
‘Natwar Chacha was talking about you on our way here,’ she said politely.
‘No, no, this is not that Chachi,’ interrupted Natwar hastily, ‘this is another Chachi. You will meet many, many chachis.’ That was not surprising. Sukanya has been taught to think of all men and woman in terms of Chacha’s and Tai’s.
‘Haan ji, except that none compares to Sunita Chachi,’ said the woman and laughed, her fleshy cheeks making way for two dimples, ‘chalo ji, now you stand here and let me do the aarti.’
Sukanya obediently stood still while Sunita expertly moved the heavy plate with a burning flame, camphor sticks, incense, flowers, mishri and dhoop in large circles about her person, all the while smiling broadly. Bade Papa, Natwar and the little girl stood to the side and watched. Sunita broke a coconut at Sukanya’s feet and fed her some sugar crystals. Sukanya peeped inside the house. It was large and small at the same time, endless tiny rooms tightly woven together.
‘Now we have welcomed you properly,’ Sunita finally pronounced Sukanya worthy of an entry into the sanctum sanctorum, ‘come and meet Badi Mummy.’
Sukanya stepped inside the house and found herself in a small enclosure. There was a niche in the wall where two small idols sat and had probably been sitting for the last hundred years, silently accepting prayers and soot. To the left was a room, built at a higher level than the rest of the house. The thick, wooden door to the room was closed. Bade Papa opened the door and looked inside.
‘Sukanya is here,’ he said quietly and took Sukanya’s hand to guide her in, ‘come, beta.’
Sukanya stepped inside and saw her grandmother. How perfect and faded she looked, like an old Renaissance masterpiece crying for restoration. She was very thin and fair. Her hair was oiled and plaited. She was wearing a thin, cotton sari that had little lavender blooms printed all over. Semi-sitting in her bed, propped by pillows, for all the world looking like a gorgeous queen waiting to receive her subjects. This was all getting surreal, thought Sukanya, any moment now she would wake up and find herself in her bedroom, these unreal people and this unreal house all fading into the recesses of a confused dream.
‘I could not kick the bucket without meeting you, child,’ she said and smiled.
‘Goodness, Dadi, no one told me you were this gorgeous,’ blurted Sukanya, making everyone laugh. Dadi laughed too. Sukanya sat at the foot of her bed. Dadi took her hand and a steady stream of tears started making its way down her faded rose face. Sukanya was getting used to this, people seeing her and bursting into tears. She patted Dadi’s hand, waiting for her to calm down.
‘Arrey bitiya,’ Natwar seemed to be in charge of controlling the free flow of unabashed tears. ‘Those were not the days of beauty contests. Otherwise, Badi Mummy would have been Miss Universe only, no?’
Sukanya laughed.
‘Sure thing, Dadi. Miss Universe and Miss World,’ she said, ‘in the same year.’
Dadi laughed again, her watery eyes shining.
‘Except that at the age that they ask for in Miss World, I was married and had two children,’ said Dadi. Dadi seemed to be very interested in the flight, checking repeatedly with Sukanya if she had been frightened at the time of take-off and what did she do for food and indeed, if there was a functioning bathroom in the aircraft. Then she took out a couple of gold bangles from under her pillow and put them on Sukanya. A little later, she made Bade Papa fetch little white biscuits called nan-khatais. Then she wanted to order jalebis.
‘You can’t cram all the years into one day,’ Bade Papa finally said, calming the flurry somewhat.
‘Should I show Sukanya to her room?’ Sunita bustled in importantly, her little girl following her about determinedly, her two oiled plaits swinging on either side, a small black bindi between her heavily-kohled eyes.
‘Yes, give her some tea and something to eat. Hai, what kismet, my granddaughter has come home and I cannot even feed her my famous sookhe aloo and paranthas,’ said Dadi, sadly.
‘Oh Dadi, plenty of time for that,’ said Sukanya encouragingly and got up. ‘You will cook and I will eat and that’s that. I will just keep my stuff and come back.’
‘Balvinder has kept your luggage in your room already,’ said Sunita as she led the way up a steep covered staircase that had walls on both sides and exposed bricks peeking through them, ‘I will help you unpack.’ Help unpack? Sukanya, a little dazed by all this attention, shook her head weakly, the thought of Sunita Chachi neatly organizing her underwear causing mild panic.
Her designated room was large, but most of it was covered by a large bed. A grilled door opened to what seemed like a small balcony. A very old-fashioned dressing table stood in a corner, a little forlorn in its emptiness, a forgotten bindi stuck in one corner. Sukanya walked about, touching the cupboard that had been built into the wall, again with wooden doors, painted a revolting shade of green in another era. Sunita opened the door to the balcony and a gust of fresh air came inside.
‘Oh this is nice,’ said Sukanya and stepped out on the balcony that opened out on the gulley. ‘The houses are all so close together. We can easily shake hands with the people standing on the other side of the lane.’ Sunita looked a little aghast at the thought.
‘Don’t do that. Keep the balcony door closed,’ she now warned, ‘there are many monkeys around and they are completely fearless. They snatched my new sunglasses right out of my hands. But what to do, Hanuman ji only they are. We should not harm them.’ Evidently the pain of the robbed sunglasses was struggling with the piety in Sunita’s heart. Now she sighed loudly and hauled herself up, bangles clanging, the siren call of the kitchen clearly too much for her to resist.
‘Which one is your room, Sunita Chachi?’ asked Sukanya as the older woman turned to go downstairs to fetch tea. People seemed to eat all the time in this place.
‘Ha ha ha, arrey, I don’t live here, beta. I am actually only your neighbour. The house right across the gulley is ours. I drop in everyday for sometime to take care of things and to spend time with Badi Mummy. They have no one here, na,’ and now Sunita flushed to the roots of her hair. Sukanya looked at her face, amused at how sensitive everyone was being. Sunita muttered something about organizing hot samosas and proceeded downstairs.
Sukanya kicked off her shoes and flopped on the bed, raising a faint cloud of dust. Whose room was this? What awaited her in the coming months? How sick really was Badi Mummy? What had made her insist on this trip?
When Sunita came back bearing a tray of tea and samosas, she found Sukanya fast asleep on the bed, her mouth slightly open as she dreamt of London and its lemonade stalls.
Copyright Parul Sharma 2015. All rights reserved. No reproduction in any form, in whole or in part, may be made without the written permission of Parul Sharma.

Thursday, June 25, 2015

Old blog, new beginnings - Sukanya - Chapter One

Hey there, Constant Reader, 
Starting today, every week I will put up a chapter of my new book here on the blog (it's also available on Facebook, for those of you connected with me there). Mostly, it will be every Wednesday (very strategically planned to counter the mid-week blahs, of course). Read, enjoy, share and see if you can leave a comment. Those are nice! Oh, and the book is called Sukanya and it is the story of....just read, ok? Ok. Here goes. #sukanya 

By Parul Sharma
Chapter One
Bade Papa had sent his trusted aide, Natwar to pick up Sukanya from the Delhi Airport.
‘Arrey, you look exactly like Shila Bhaiyya, bitiya,’ he jumped up at her as she came out into the Arrivals Lounge and started looking around for ‘Natwar Chacha’, goonda extraordinaire and Rajni Mausi’s oldest son and heir.
‘Namaste, Chacha ji,’ said Sukanya, taking in Natwar’s ruffled appearance. He looked freshly washed and suitably dressed and appeared uncomfortable about both, ‘I was wondering how I would find you.’ This was not entirely true. Sometime around when she had turned five, all bedtime stories had had to do with India and Natwar Chacha had enjoyed prominent, if violent roles in many of them, roughing up people, blithely stealing electricity, having evolved conversations with visiting monkeys and being the best patangbaaz ever.
‘Ha ha ha, Natwar is always prepared, here is the placard that I was carrying, just in case,’ he said, pointing to a crumpled paper that had her name scribbled on it, ‘I asked Bade Papa to write your name out for me but you know, I knew there would be no need. You are my flesh and blood, bitiya, how could I not recognize you?’
Sukanya did not question this faith in the science of genetics and followed him as he took her luggage trolley and guided her to a white Ambassador in the parking lot.  The air smelt different, dusty and warm. After kicking at the driver’s door to wake up the tall and well-built Haryanvi driver, looking remarkably comfortable  snoozing at the wheel wrapped up in a thick chaadar, Natwar arranged Sukanya’s luggage in the spacious boot of the car.
‘Air-conditioned, beti, just for you,’ Natwar declared proudly and opened the door for her. Sukanya got inside. The car smelled musty and smokey.
‘Heh heh, it is a little smokey, hain?’ asked Natwar apologetically, ‘I had resolved not to smoke beedis in here but what to do, beta, I have been smoking since I was seven. Now I need it more than air. Don’t mind, haan, beta, and don’t tell Bade Papa.’
Sukanya had experimented with cigarettes in London. She did not mind at all thought it seemed like a good idea not to share this with Natwar Chacha.
‘It’s ok, Chacha Ji,’ she said generously and left him to smoke while she looked outside.
‘Waise we could have taken a shorter route and reached Meerut faster,’ said Natwar, ‘but I thought you should at least get a glimpse of what your country’s capital looks like.’
Sukanya was already bewitched. This was Delhi. How could anyone not fall in love? It was a city that seemed to be bursting at the seams with all that had happened to it. She felt the wild need that people feel in all great cities of the world, to somehow capture it all and keep it safe within, to revisit later.
‘Teen Murti Bhavan, Rashtrapati Bhavan, grand, huh, they say it’s got hundreds of rooms inside. I had brought your chachi here soon after we got married to see the roses in bloom, they open the Mughal Gardens to the public every year. Ha ha ha, those were good days, bitto, now your chachi looks like a bhangan. Not her fault, with the three ugly brats always creating trouble for her. What to do, they all take after me. Now see, that’s Old Fort. Beautiful, hain?’ Natwar’s commentary on Delhi interspersed with nuggets from his own life was ongoing. Sukanya listened to him with half an ear and drank in the sights of Delhi. Her cell-phone rang.
‘Hello Dad,’ she answered the call, ‘yes, I have reached. Yes, Natwar Chacha is here with me. We are on our way. I will get a local number soon. Don’t worry, Daddy. I will be fine. Everything will be fine. Give my love to Mum.’
She disconnected the call. Natwar had gone uncharacteristically quiet and was looking at her with a mix of pity and concern.
‘Yes, Chacha ji, you were saying?’ she prompted him.
‘Shila Bhaiyya must be worried about you,’ he spoke, almost to himself, ‘Bade Papa can be so stubborn sometimes. I told him – if you are calling Sukanya, you might as well call Bhaiyya and Bhabhi too. Over my dead body, he screamed.  Actually, I don’t think it was as much the fact that Bhaiyya married outside the caste as how he left without saying a word. I think Bade Papa could never recover from that. He had set all his dreams on Bhaiyya, who can blame him? Chalo, such is the way of the world.’ This long speech seemed to disturb Natwar and he had to quickly resort to another beedi to collect himself.
‘But Daddy tried sending them money, several times,’ said Sukanya, ‘he has done better for himself than he could have as a Civil Servant, I think.’
‘Arrey beta, it’s more complicated than that. Anyway, let it go. Now that you are here, there will be much fun. Now look, there is the famous shikanji shop. Will you have some? Bade Papa said I was not to feed you off the road. Your stomach will get upset, he said but it is Jain Shikanji, hain beta, and we will ask him to make it in Bisleri water, haan? Oye Balvinder, stop the car.’
Soon Sukanya found herself standing outside what appeared to be a lemonade stall, except that it was very crowded and very large. Plastic tables and chairs lined the shop and people seemed to want coronaries as soon as possible, the rate at which they were polishing off deep-fried pieces of goodness and washing it down with the shikanji. Natwar placed the orders for three glasses of shikanji.
‘Here you go,’ said Natwar proudly as he handed a very large, very chilled glass to her, ‘drink up.’
Sukanya took a sip. It was delicious, sweeter and stronger and headier than any lemonade that she had ever had in England. Sort of like India itself, so far.
‘Mum makes shikanji at home sometimes,’ she told Natwar, taking another appreciative sip, ‘but this is way better.’
‘Ha ha ha, shabaash, meri bacchi,’ said Natwar and gave Sukanya a hearty clap on her back, making her yowl in alarm, ‘arrey, you cannot be hurt by this. We will feed you sweetened milk every morning, strengthen you up in no time. Then when you go back, you will be able to lift two-two angrez women with one-one arm.’
‘Yes,Chacha ji, but why would I want to do that?’ wondered Sukanya aloud.
‘Oho, now don’t ask too many questions. We should be on our way. Balvinder, stop sipping delicately and drink up like a man. Pretend that it’s tharra, ha ha,’ said Natwar. Balwant sniggered and made his way back to the car.
‘What’s tharra?’ asked Sukanya when they were on their way again.
‘Hmmm? Nothing, nothing,’ said Natwar, clearly uncomfortable. It was clear that tharra was something completely forbidden and eminently desirable. Must be some drug, thought Sukanya to herself, Natwar Chacha had to be on something potent to be this wired. Jet lag was catching up with her and she found her eyes drooping as the car made its way over the endless road. She fell into a short dream in which she was a small child again and her parents were reading her bedtime stories.
‘Sukanya, beta, wake up,’ Natwar Chacha was shaking her by the shoulder. Sukanya woke up with a start and for a brief moment felt that she had been kidnapped. She did not know where she was. The car was making its way through the narrowest gulley that she had seen in her life. It was dirty outside, dirtier than she had imagined possible, as if the dust and filth of ages had permeated the ground and made it its home. The ground was paved with stones, not brick and mortar. There were open drains running on either side of the gulley. It was difficult to say where each house finished and the other started. They seemed to share walls! The windows of the houses all had thin iron rods on them. Some of them had thin, flowery curtains hanging on them but in most, it was perfectly possible to look inside the houses, impeccably clean, freshly washed. They all seemed to have passage running from the door to an open courtyard, with a room on one side of the house. The houses were all built on a level higher than the road, so that one needed to climb up a couple of steps to reach the door. This raised level seemed to serve as a pedestrian way and children of all shapes and sizes, in various stages of undress ran the length at disquieting speeds.
‘We are almost there,’ said Natwar and the car stopped on cue, ‘the car cannot go beyond this point. Balvinder will bring your things. Let’s go.’
Sukanya got out of the car and nearly lost her balance as her sneakers slipped and tried to take her down to the slimy floor. This would take some learning, she muttered to herself as she slowly walked with Natwar towards her grandparental house.
‘The lanes are very narrow,’ said Natwar apologetically, ‘it must be so strange for you after your London, hain? But this is it – Bulandwada, the mohalla where your father grew up.’
Sukanya made some non-committal sound as she noticed the little children who were now staring at her with open curiousity. She was dressed conservatively, in her opinion, in jeans and a shirt. Still, she probably stuck out a mile in her expensive clothes and groomed looks.
‘Arrey bhaago,’ scolded Natwar, as he caught sight of Sukanya looking at the children. The children ran away, laughing, only a couple of older boys remained.
‘Bade Papa’s granddaughter,’ whispered one to the other, ‘she has come from vilayat. She will not speak any Hindi, only English, and that too very fast, like they show on the TV.’
‘No, I won’t,’ said Sukanya to the boy in Hindi with a smile. The boy gawped at her and then broke into a wide smile.
‘Arrey saala, she speaks first-class Hindi,’ Sukanya heard him say as she walked away.
‘And here we are,’ said Natwar, as they stopped in front of a door that must surely have been there since the beginning of time, so old and thick and time-weathered did it look. Natwar rang the bell and almost at once the door opened. For a moment, Sukanya felt she was looking at her father, older, graying.
‘Here you go, Bade Papa, your precious granddaughter, delivered safely at your doorstep,’ Natwar laughed, ‘doesn’t she look like Shila Bhaiyya?’
The old man’s face crumpled as he took in the girl in front of him. His eyes crinkled and his mouth drooped a little. Then he spread out his arms and Sukanya walked in and was wrapped in a fragrance that was her father’s but not quite. It was tobacco and talc and incense and leather.


Wednesday, October 1, 2014

I have been most fascinated by past life regression of late. My family sighed and looked the other way and waited for my latest OCD to pass over. Don't you want to know who you were in your past life, I asked of M. He looked up, the harried father of two, my husband of ten years and showing every bit of it and said, I have enough happening in this life. He did have two children hanging on each arm as he said that so maybe he does have a point. Well, it's not like my current life is devoid of excitement. Just today, I struggled with working mom angst as Ragini once again got the infamous ek sau teen bukhaar and Padma did the same and I had multiple client meetings to shuffle. Oh the excitement. Still, it would be nice to know if I were always an INFJ and type A. An introverted cave woman would have a lot of opportunity for peace and quiet, for example. And I wouldn't mind a spot of French chic in a past life either. So I've been trying to regress into my past lives via YouTube. Yes, there are videos that can help you do that. Except that I keep falling asleep before the good stuff can happen. Most annoying.

Next up: life coaching.

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Location:Pichle janm mein

Sunday, September 21, 2014

Inside the mind of a not-so-successful Indian novelist

The first thing I did was to take the damn book picture off the header. You wouldn't believe the pressure one is under when a book comes out, to market it. I suck at it, as was evident by the several gauche attempts at it over the last three books and also, why the hell would I be a writer if I were good at being out there, selling things? In my old-fashioned mind, the two don't go together. At every book event that I manage to appear at, at least one well-meaning friend sidles up to me and whispers conspiratorially - look, you need to make a lot more noise about these events than you do. The UP-waali in me wants to whisper back - agli baar loudspeaker lagvaa denge but you know me, polite to a fault.
I went for a bookstore tour where book store owners used to get all glassy-eyed when they saw me, trying very hard to place me but failing. I would invariably have to jog their memories by mumbling something about hee hee, funny novels and they would shout - arrey chhotu, madam ki book nikalo and out would come a dusty copy of BUV, to be duly signed by me and to be relegated to its original place in the dust. I would feel sorry enough for it to buy it myself, if it didn't make me look weirder than I do already.
Book agents? Even to my mathematically challenged brain, it makes no sense. Let's just leave it that, wink wink (but a depressed wink wink, ok?)
All of this was enough to throw me into the doldrums, specially after Tuki came out.
What's wrong with the old model, I whine to M. I write and the publisher sells. They are dying, he says, and proceeds to regale me with ultra-depressing figures about the book business, comprising the death of book-shops and such like. Well, then, what is a writer, not successful enough to have the publisher backing their books to do?
His suggestion was to throw money at the problem but may I permitted to be dramatic for just a moment - it kills a bit of my soul every time I need to plug my work. I guess no publisher wants to look at an author who wouldn't put armies behind their social media effort (goodness, how I have come to despise that word) but I think I am done with that.
It's a free economy. Shy writers wanting to be successful. Lo and behold, wherever you look, book marketers are sprouting, complete with rate-cards. One admires their spirit at a purely academic level, some of them are just college kids, all fire in the belly and a desire to be the next big thing. The soul dying problem exists, though.
I think I have a solution at long last. I am going to take the Ruskin Bond-esque approach towards the entire thing. I am going to retire to a cottage in the hills and spend my time dodging fans lurking outside the garden. I shall surface once every few years with an award-winning book.
The only problem is - how do I write like him? 

Wednesday, September 17, 2014

More questions

All these years on Facebook and I still cannot bear to share random details of my life there. But I have written reams and reams here and back to it again, as we can see. What is it then? Secure in the relative anonymity? Or was it really always just about the writing?

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