Therapy (Micro Fiction)

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Surely that chair is designed to antagonize! It is almost as though it is deliberately placed at a confrontational angle to the client.

Saloni lowered herself onto the double sofa tentatively, the husband already having registered his impatience at this couple therapy by rudely plonking ahead of her. He made a show of adjusting his coat and jiggling the Honda Civic keys. Without saying a word, he was in fact shouting out aloud, “I don’t know what I am doing here.” The rude bustle eventually died down under the Psychotherapist’s assessing gaze.

“Such beady eyes, those. Why is she looking at us as though we are specimens under her microscope? I don’t like her,” Saloni told the voice in her head to shut up, they were obviously expected to begin talking, there would be a charge of Rs 1000/- for a fifty minute session. She cleared her throat, watching her husband’s right hand go in tandem to his forehead.

The therapist leaned forward, pen ready on the case sheet, “May I use a recorder?” The room recoiled with the couple’s joint gasp of horror, “Oh no, there really isn’t much to say!”

“Well, you have driven a long way to be here, surely there is some expectation of this session,” the therapist’s tone was even and calm. Saloni kick started her throat for the second time, casting a tentative look at the man waving her to proceed.  But the brakes came slamming down again. The room remained quiet for a good nine minutes during which Saloni shredded a Kleenex and her partner scrolled his social network on the smartphone.

“Perhaps the memories are too painful,” the couple nearly jumped out of their skin at the carefully modulated voice of the professional facing them. “Well, actually everything is fine but it is just that I feel sad all the time,” there, it was out. Just as the therapist settled back encouragingly, the hitherto busy mobile phone was slapped down on the peg table, “I don’t understand this feelings business. I earn well, I don’t drink, nor smoke, I am a faithful husband and I don’t approve of physical violence. We have two daughters whom I dearly love. Please explain what is missing.”

Another eleven minutes of silence. “I need to go to the washroom,” Saloni made her escape. Once safely inside the closed door, she looked at herself in the mirror over the sink, scolding her own face, “This is a mistake. You have no idea what to say and he is not helping. But the talk meter is running and you better not let his money go down the drain.” She stepped out with renewed resolve, just a wee bit bolstered from her time alone.

Taking a place diagonally opposite her husband this time, she squared her slim shoulders and looked the therapist in the eye, “It is the little things that hurt the most. There is nothing major. But he brushes me off, makes me feel small in countless ways. Every night, he throws back only his side of the counterpane, as though I do not exist. He calls a simple hug a waste of time. He considers himself a first rate husband because he is not stopping me from being myself! Rather than feeling proud of my accomplishments, they make him feel small. Any sound of alarm from the passenger seat is taken as a personal challenge to his driving skills. He does not reassure, offer hope or lose any sleep over me. He told me once that he could have made do with any woman and that there really wasn’t anything special about me. There is no compassion or kindness, almost as though I am already overcompensated, what with the boarding, lodging and domestic help.”

The man pushed himself up. “Let’s go. Personal happiness is not as important as the larger picture. There is the family, our responsibilities, the society. We have a good marriage. And therapy is not in our culture!”

Repression (Micro Fiction)

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“You have everything. Good looks, youth, health, great education, opportunities…why the rage? What more could you possibly want?”

Arjan whistle breathed through his mouth, his bewildered eyes locked with the defiant glimmer in his teenage daughter’s glare. The air bristled, their hearts raced and emotions ran riot. “This is your fault,” he turned his helpless anguish at Tia’s mother, “giving her so much liberty. You never let me put my foot down with her!”

Tia’s face began to crumple. She watched her mother rub her forehead. Guilt and fury fought in her head, “The migraine, but of course. It flares up every time there is a conflict in our home. How I wish Mum would come right out and say what is on her mind, this is shitty, I feel like running away from here. Why do I need to be around all of this, there is enough drama in my life, as it is?”

She clamped on her thinking horse, and exploded at her parents, “Patriarchy! I am not putting up with this, there has to be space enough to express emotions, it is inhuman, this constant appearance of control in families.”  It made her harsher to see their shattered expressions. “Ahahhaaa..,” her mother had begun her primate wail. “Mum, I can’t take this. Please! You have no clue what my generation is struggling with.”

“Oh my God, how can you speak to your father like that Tia? He carried you around in the snuggler, you have always been his princess,” the mother couldn’t believe this was happening to their family. “We did our best, were we not there for you kids always? Where have we gone wrong? We tried to be good parents!”

Tia threw her hands up in the air and bolted out of the room, past her grandmother rocking herself in the television room. The house froze for that split second, ears cocked for the sound of her scooter starting. The father peeked through the curtains, “She has gone,” the household exhaled and sat back in battle fatigue.

While Tia raced along the Ring Road towards the Hauz Khas Village to let steam off with some friends, her grandmother continued to stare at the breaking news on the television. It was about Leslee Udwin’s controversial documentary entitled “India’s daughter”. The senior watched, outwardly passive but distraught with conflicting emotions inside. Her fingers traced the prayer book lying unopened in her lap. Nirbhaya’s rapist Mukesh Singh and the defence lawyers were spouting cultural toxin:

“She should not be put on the street just like food…if you put her on the street, the dogs will definitely take her away”.

“We have the best culture, in our culture, there is no place for a woman.”

“You can’t clap with one hand…a girl is far more responsible for a rape than a boy…only 20% girls are good.”

Tia’s mother had recovered enough to be bringing in a plateful of food for her mother-in-law, “Here Mummy ji, shall I get you the medicines?” The older eyes missed nothing, they saw and connected with that air of resignation, the tension of a body readying for blows. And unbidden they came, washing over their turbulent present, frames from another generation gone.

How could Mummy ji forget that late night when her adoring worship of her father had died a painful death? Daarji had returned home late from a party at the Clarks Shiraz. Bebeji had been livid, “These businessmen you associate with are not good people.” Words had begun to fly and accusations traded; the heat would have risen but for a sudden sound. Daarji had puckered his mouth and with all the force he could muster, he had spat at Bebeji. As long as she lived, Mummy ji knew that the memory of her mother banging her forehead on the flaky wall would haunt her.

The horror of that rejection, the impotent fear in her daughter-in-law’s face, her own state of abject dependence, she watched the young women swarm the television screen with their rebellious faces. A centuries old repression was striking vents. That dam of a devalued distress was riding precariously on a Scooty, eating up tar.

Tick…tick…tick…tick…tic…tick…tock!

Trickster (Micro Fiction)

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The mind is a trickster. Salma stood paralyzed, watching it thrash, “Who am I? That fabulous porcelain jug, do the others see the folds in its curvature? Does the pearly glow touch them the way it reaches my eyes? Why do I feel like I want to break free of my body and soar far away, liberated of the chains that life hooks into me? My heart is beginning to pick up speed. What if I scream? Will these people think I am crazy? Is there anyone here I can speak to without being judged or helped or rescued?”

The laptop beckoned her. She detached herself from her surroundings and settled down over the scrolling screen, “Depersonalization disorder,” her fingers manipulated the cursor expertly. There were stories online of the symptoms, the cure, and the experiences. A buzz began to grow in her ears. Her head gathered weight and the temples began to throb. In an unconscious gesture, she brought her hands up to cover her eyes, reading fearfully through splayed fingers.

One man had lived outside of his body for twenty years, settling for phone sex with his wife as a result. An ambitious young student had struggled with a blurred vision for months before seeking help from a doctor. There was a thirty something there, struck down with a malady during a high brought on by marijuana, battling his surrealist senses for ten long years. Salma read and moved as though she were underwater.

“Don’t you have class today?” her eyes flicked over her mother’s questioning face. Momentarily distracted by a grey hair poking that familiar mole on her chin, Salma shook her head viscously, all of a sudden feeling hemmed in and out of breath. “Are these my hands?” she narrowed her eyes at the two bands on them, the stones needed cleaning. She flexed her fingers, “I have lived with these for twenty eight years, but it doesn’t feel like we belong together anymore.” The sense of disconnect was growing and unknown to her family, Salma was going under a bell jar.

She boarded the metro train however, at her usual station that day. The drill was pat down and by sheer force of habit, she got up and began to move to the right sliding doors at her destination. But wait a moment, if the doors had not begun to whoosh right behind her. Confused out of her mind, she rotated around and stared at the opening gap, lurching forward abruptly in an attempt to make the exit. She stood shaking,, watching the train sucked into the tunnel ahead, completely alone in her disorientation. 

A throbbing had begun to emanate from the painful knot in her stomach. It felt like her innards had turned to sand and there was a dark, bottomless hole caving into her soul. She shook her head to clear the glop bubbling at her. But she was already beginning to see herself. There she stood, forlorn and frozen on the busy platform, a passenger stuck for direction.

Salma watched herself move ponderously onto the escalator. “There I go up in the lift,” she bobbed at a height over her body, “I have taken the wrong turn, the office is to the right.” The two continued their lumbering another few hundred metres or so, Salma and herself. “A tattoo salon?” Her body walked up to the artist who directed her to a chair. “This too shall pass: I want that on my forearm with a tiny butterfly in rust and yellow here,” the artist broke open a fresh needle.

Salma looked on at herself then shut her eyes, “I have got to feel! I have got to take my body back!!”  

Googly Gaathas by Neerja Sangha | Notion Press

Follow @Honeysangha Googly Gaathas by Neerja Sangha | Notion Press

Empowerment (Micro Fiction)

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The presentation began to roll. Nice, understated music, pastel

colours and catchy taglines. ”Rise from home-makers to nation-makers”, Narendra Modi.  And, “The fastest way to change society is to mobilize the women”, Charles Malik. There was more, “Can you better the condition of your women? Then there will be hope for your well-being. Otherwise you will remain as backward as you are now”, Swami Vivekananda.

 The smell of self-satisfaction overpowered the lemon grass room freshener.  A panellist of high achieving women sat on the red carpeted dais, their eyes skimming the heads of awe struck but just a wee bit intimidated audience. They avoided meeting anyone’s glance head on, one never knew what one might be asked to pitch in with. Mahima, a young, earnest woman, nearly driven into the ground with exhaustion and the burden of having taken on too much held the mike, “Ladies and Gentlemen, at the National Mission for Empowerment of Women, the challenge does not stop at empowering them, we have to ensure they are able to stay empowered.”

One after another, the women leaders nodded and spoke, sharing their stories of courage and grit. “This is a wonderful time to be a woman,” said the nation’s topmost woman CEO. “The sky is the limit,” came from the India Air Force’s first ever woman sky diver. Space scientists, best-selling authors, national activists, renowned artists, everyone was eager to contribute to the country’s feminine growth story.

Mahima was kept busy introducing the speakers, connecting with the hall full of audience, coordinating the digital communication and maintaining eye contact with the hospitality team. Her bosses looked on at her with an indulgent admiration, missing completely her compulsive vigil at the Samsung Galaxy Core Prime placed strategically under the lectern, but there was no message from Sarthak.

It had been two months. Mahima’s heart was sore, a yawning crevice splitting her down the middle. She half feared she was losing sight of herself in that dark hole. “Thank God for my work!” she often repeated to herself. “People like me in my company. They appreciate me. This is my home now. I cannot depend on anyone. I am alone, all by myself. I cannot burden anyone with my troubles. I have let my parents down. I hate whining. Everybody is dealing with their own issues,” her self-talk had become increasingly forced and obsessive.

To her numbing ears, it sounded like an explosion. Startled out of her brooding, it dawned that the cracking sound was that of several pairs of palms coming together in applause. “Mahima Dabhral… Mahima Dabhral,” her name was swelling out and over the hall. “And as a token of our appreciation of her outstanding performance, we award her the Star Employee Badge 2015,” the man at the mike looked faintly familiar! She shuffled up the two steps to receive the trophy, smiling vacantly at her startled employer. She had called her Dad the night before, “Baba, I am going to be on the Forbes list one day.” He had snorted dismissively, “You would still have to get married!”

“I walked out of my home. I am never going to call up Baba and Amma ever again. I only have my cat. I am alone”, intoned the voice in her head.

It was past 11 pm when she let herself into her silent apartment. “Jerry, Jerry,” she called out to her cat. There was no answer. The window was open. Jerry too had abandoned her. “I cannot trust anyone,” Mahima collapsed on the ledge and began to shut down, a faculty at a time. The red ants saw her from the tree overhanging the window. They began to pick their way to her, beginning with her forearms. 

Anxiety (Micro Fiction)

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Driving home along the Sardar Patel Marg, Kunal decided to give his usual road rage a break. It was Saturday evening and there was the delicious prospect of an entire day ahead for him to do as he pleased. He turned up the car radio volume so as not to miss Bahua’s punchlines. ‘What a talent for spontaneity,” he chuckled to himself, scanning the traffic to see if other drivers were smiling as well.

“I am going to start my day with a bicycle ride. It would be a good day to go shopping for that barbecue grill. On the way home, I could pick up the non-veg from ‘Ham Aadmi Party’ at the Khanna market. It has been a while since I caught a play at the National School of Drama. Must check if a festival is currently on,” Kunal’s smile broadened at the multiple prospects.

The snarl showed no signs of fraying. From his vantage point on the flyover, the view was of an expanse of metallic roaches, sullen in their impatience to get home. You couldn’t even call it a crawl. The vehicle merely oscillated in their spots. Kunal swiped his Samsung smartphone, curling his right toes simultaneously to relieve the stiffness that came from manipulating car controls over extended drives. The newly installed “Hootsuite” on his Galaxy Tab gave him a stab of satisfaction, “Let me quickly manage my social network,” he sailed through his twitter, facebook and linkdIn feeds.

The red light ahead had come back on for the third cycle. “What a pretty young thing,”Kunal’s gaze halted briefly over the driver of a neighbouring Metallic Woodland Brown Renault Duster. “Tan! Nice colour. Well maintained,” he checked the car out first. “I wonder how she would be in bed,” Kunal caught himself visualizing the woman. He turned his face away to the black Scorpio on his left. “These defence guys really burn fuel on my money. China right there, wants to gulp down Tawang but our defence ministry will not end their pity party.”

At the end of an hour and a half of numbing negotiation running through the basement garage parking, a ride in the lift, when he let himself into his apartment he caught sight of the dinner invite on the corridor table. He had forgotten! The earlier enthusiasm at the week end dimmed somewhat at the thought of hauling his tired body in a nifty ceremonial to a fake social space where the jolly mask had to be kept firmly in place.

Kunal began his deliciously anticipated Sunday with a hangover. “I might as well complete my visa application online while I lounge in the bed,” he gathered all his paraphernalia before settling back with a double mug of hot tea. Two subheads down the format, his eye began to hover over the bright yellow Sticky Note taunting him from the upper corner of the laptop screen. “Dad and Mum’s anniversary, better order the cake and flowers while I am online,” he switched screens. While he was taking a call on the flower colours and the cake flavour, there was a pop-up with the Indo-Pak cricket score from Melbourne. He dived for the remote control, “How could I have forgotten? The whole country is out there, Rajdeep Sardesai calling cricket our religion and all…I can’t miss this match!”

The doorbell chimed. Kunal rose to answer in a state of mild irritation. “Sir, we are holding a welfare meet in the society park to discuss a cleanliness drive, please come down and join us.” 

Kunal’s free day had begun to make him really anxious!

Confessional (Micro Fiction)

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Some people can give you both, a nick in the stomach and a stab in the heart. You are never

completely sure of the emotion they inspire.

Ira felt buffeted between sour jealousy and an admiring envy around Janice. “What is it about this woman? She enters a room in a cloud of music and leaves it in the debris of despair. It feels like the sun came in and then there is the cloud in her wake.”

The two shared history. Alumnae of the class of 1995 at the St. Mary’s Convent Allahabad, they had gone their ways in college. The sharpest image in Ira’s memory of her years with Janice was of their last day together at the Children’s Park, near their favourite concrete Elephant slide. Janice was twirling and shaking her ‘churmura cone’ in an effort to get the green peas up. Ira was silent with the effort of absorbing the news that Janice and family would be moving to another town on a transfer.

“I feel sick,” she remembered muttering to herself. They were moving out of the park gate towards the cycle stand. The evening was nearly upon them and there was an annoying anticipation of maternal stress at home, “You must come home before dark,” their mothers made a habit of worrying themselves to ill health. The two had mounted their black, lady’s Hero bicycles and were nearly out on the main road when Janice had braked abruptly, almost causing Ira to fall. Ira remembered them pulling over to the side. Janice had stood there on one foot, the other resting on the right pedal. The words would not come, only her eyes shone extra bright. “Are you feeling all right?” she had asked. She recalled the determined shake of Janice’s head and they were both off, soon enough, towards their respective homes.

Now, a decade and more later, they were back in the same space, two well-trained professionals at the TV 20, a news and entertainment channel. Ira was a writer-cum-production manager and Janice, a highly successful news anchor and analyst. What was missing was their old connection, that sweet sentiment of adolescence, bordering on the romantic. Ira pinched her forearm hard, “Idiot!”

“Hello, but how long is Janice going to take in the conference room, her computer has been blinking on and off with that floral screen saver,” Ira dragged her thoughts back to their office. She drew closer to Janice’s table in an absent minded flow, “I could put the machine into hibernation,” she tapped the cursor pad smartly, focused on the left corner bottom icon. But her peripheral vision caught the bold black letters right at the top of the screen: New Age Online Confessional! There was an incomplete note, “I confess to almighty God, and to you, dear brothers and sisters. I am told I have a disease and have sinned for I am consumed by a “degrading passion” for my childhood friend Ira. It is a lust that will destroy our physical bodies, ruin relationships and bring perpetual suffering to our souls. I honour your word, seek your salvation and ask for your forgiveness. I understand that I will never inherit the Kingdom of God. I am grateful for your respect and sensitivity. I do not wish to walk on hot sands under a rain of fire. My friend must not so much as guess or else…”

Ira moved back heavily, rubbing her eyes with violence. They had begun to smart with the grit of agonized emotions.                                                                                                                            

Delhi World Book Fair Feb 2015

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Naveen Valsakumar

Narinder Jit Kaur

Rohit Khilnani

Neeta Chaudhari and Deepshikha Khosla

Rajeev Mahajan

Deepa Basu

'Googly Gaathas' at the Delhi World Book Fair 2015

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With Vandana Valsakumar of Notion Press

With Jana Pillay, Co-founder Notion Press

With Class X batchmate Sushila and kids (KV Pachmarhi)

Googly Gaathas come home

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My copies came today

Hospitality (Micro Fiction)

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Asmita was your typical Indian mother. Guests were gods and friends of her children avatars of God. The household pulled out all stops when the young people came visiting. Not only would all the domestic services be pressed into action, family members took time out to be social around the visitors. The best of snacks would be served in the fanciest of cutlery. The farthest nook of the pantry would be dredged up to rustle every possible snack. “Girija, pull out the dry fruits and slice some apple. Isn’t there something in the freezer, are the sausages over? Steam them quickly,” the help at home was used to the drill.

Smiti bustled around the dining table while her friend Saurabh flicked his phone screen. “Mum, why don’t you let the eats be, he will help himself if he wants to,” Smiti’s voice held a speck of exasperation.

“Come, come…try the chips Saurabh. Would you care for some fruit juice?” Asmita was unfazed by the lack of response from their guest. A lifetime of conditioning had rendered her incapable of registering anything but gratitude for hospitality. One corner of her mind did curl at a certain look that passed between her daughter and the boy but the generic focus on playing a role did not permit any great realization.

“How are your parents? Where do they live? What does your father do?” went her one way friendliness, articulated to put the guest at ease.  Saurabh had begun to shift, his chair scraping a few times. The smile was in place but his hair had begun to lose its shape. He lowered his head a little, the spectacle frames screening his gaze safely.

“Smiti, would your friend prefer lemonade? Ask him to stay back for dinner. Where is he going to go eating now, his roommate is out of station as it is.” A quick dash into the kitchen to brief the cook and Asmita was back with the guest, “Twenty minutes, the food will be on the table. Would you like to freshen up?”

Smiti led him away in the direction of the bathroom. There was the sound of urgent whispers, almost a verbal duel. “Are they arguing?” the mother knit her brows, quickly dismissing the thought , “Can’t be, they are such sweet kids. It is so wonderful to meet friends of our children, we must make them feel at home. It builds faith and trust and communication with the young people.”

“Auntie, I will be making a move. It is getting late and I have an exam to give tomorrow,” Saurabh had begun to edge towards the front door.

“You don’t 'give' an exam beta, you 'take' an exam,” Asmita smiled her indulgence. Two pairs of eyes met again over her happy head.  “Do come again!” she trailed after the pair to the lawn gate.

“Mum, I will just walk him to the bike,” Smiti forced a smile at her mother.  Asmita nodded encouragingly and held back a little, all the time staying in their line of vision. In a few moments, the mother daughter pair was strolling back into the house. “Mum, I need to get going, there is a workshop planned at college,” Smiti escaped into her room and within seconds, her ‘getting ready’ music had come on, audible through the door.

Asmita was still gathering up after Saurabh when an angry vibration startled her. Smiti’s phone was protesting. Just as she lifted it, the screen lit up, “Dude, your Mum is painful, too much formality man…not meeting you at home ever again!” 

Googly Gaathas

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My  book "Googly Gaathas" by Neerja Sangha (my maiden second name) will be on display at the New Delhi World Book Fair taking place from the 14th February to the 22nd February in Hall No. 64 at Stall No. 11. There are heavy discounts and promotional activities planned. I will be there on the 16th Feb until the lunch hour.
http://www.newdelhiworldbookfair.gov.in/

It is coming!

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The book I have been threatening to write

Other worldly (Fiction)

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The diary entry went back seven years. Reema fluffed up her favourite bolster and settled down with the camel coloured journal, inviting her daughter Chehak to the space besides her on their well-loved sofa bed.

“Sitting in gyan mudra under the Terminalia Arjuna, I felt scrubbed clean. My skin hummed in the light streaming down from its leaves. The red of my blood swirled into their luminescent xylem. I had just finished reading about phyllotaxis. Placing the book aside, I looked up at the canopy to see how the leaves arranged on a stem so as to intercept optimum sunlight for photosynthesis.  The longer I gazed, the brighter it became around me. It began to feel unusually warm. The brilliance in the air exploded like the 1000 skyshot, with its multi-coloured Diwali flare. I lost all sense of life and limb. The only certainty was about being where I floated: in the nucleus of the sun! There was no fear; just a tiny niggling worry about the Ethnobotany semester exam the following day and what missing that would do to my semester grades. It felt unconstrained, quite unlike my claustrophobic body. 

Sensations of expansive connectedness alternated with an effervescent lift. There were no lungs to fill and yet I breathed in deeply. I saw no form but my arms spread wide to embrace the indefinite space radiating from my centre. I was the centre and the circumference. It was finally fun being me!”

Reema drew a ragged breath and looked over the journal sheet at her newly wed daughter. Muted sounds of domestic appliances kicking in were the only other signs of life in the green home library, outside of which, the world went about its daily business of self-delusion.

“Ma, I have left my body twice since this episode.”

Reema leaned back and crossed an arm over her eyes, the journal nestling on her sternum. Her mind went back to Chehak’s school days. The English TGT Mr D’Costa, during one of the parent teacher meetings had asked to see the parents in private, “Ma’am, your daughter is an evolved soul. I don’t know how spiritual you consider yourself but she often voices concerns about the nature of existence. I think she senses I am open to metaphysical debate and feels at home challenging views of reality in my presence.”

Other frames crowded at Reema’s feeble attempts to fight them off. She took her arm off the eyes and grabbed Chehak by her hand, taking care not to chafe the bridal red bangles. The air between them blistered with unexpressed anguish, “You have just entered a new phase of life Chehak ….the last thing you need right now is to go any deeper into that head of yours. This is the time to be laying the bricks of a happy home so you can start your family soon and fulfil your social role.”

“Mum, don’t worry. I understand that completely and am entirely up to it but you wouldn’t expect me to wish away the Tunganath temple darshan last week now, would you?” Chehak protested calmly. 

Reema released her arm and fell back on the comforting upholstery. There was no denying the event that had taken place in that tightest of sanctums high up in the mountains and barely a week ago. The groom was walking away after the obeisance but the bride had stood rooted to her spot facing the deity. As Reema made to prod her, the priest had held up his hand with a look of warning. Reema remembered well his ring finger frozen in a crook, sandal paste dripping as he waited. Unknown to the rest, Chehak was in the grip of a most personal darshan with Lord Shiva. “It was like a faucet of twinkling blue tridents hailing over me”, Chehak had recounted dazedly to her stunned family outside of the precinct. It brought a smile to Reema’s face, the memory of the priest’s hand finally coming to rest on the devotee’s broad forehead for the anointing. Several eyes had seen the tilak turn strangely fluorescent in the shivery air.

Chehak drew patterns on her henna covered hand, “Mum, it is a continuing conflict but you must relax. I may be detached but I have no desire to run away from my humdrum commitments! I am here, right beside you.” The two hugged each other, bound by their wondrous disquiet at these brushes with the unknown.

“It has puzzled me to see how people fight shy of looking into each other’s eyes long enough, other than the smitten folk of course”, Chehak felt emboldened enough to further vocalize.  “Have you tried holding someone’s gaze? It is shocking how revealing it can be. A strange energy circuit builds up and the barriers all dissolve. It feels like everyone is connected in some form of shared union. And yet, it is discomfiting in that fluid intimacy.”

“There is coffee in the percolator, Malabar blend. Let’s get some!” Reema heaved herself up from the couch, casting about mentally for a sane resolution to this spiritual intrusion in their family space. She cursed herself and her husband silently for discussing the fifth dimension, cellular transformation and TV serials like the Fringe and X-Files at the dining table with their children. What’s more, it had often been said at home, within earshot of the siblings that the fundamental sanity of Indians sprang from a belief in the afterlife and the notion of destiny!

They had been foolish in their parenting. Reema winced at the taste in her mouth.

“Mum, I need to segregate my stuff; can’t take all of it to my married home. Where are my school papers….all the teen letters and the slam books?” Reema pointed Chehak to the garage and laid out the coffee mugs. She debated a visit to the Parapsychologist, “No point discussing this with anyone else, they will think we are crazy!” Lost in an intense reflection, the metal grip slipped off her hand, spilling hot milk violently at a jubilant shout from the backyard. Chehak entered the roomy kitchen, holding aloft a red coloured diary, “Look Mum, read this note from Padmaja…you remember her of course, my closest friend in college. I had forgotten all about this. Here, read please.”

Reema rinsed her stinging fingers under the running water from the

tap, taking time to wipe them dry before reaching for the book. The green ink winked at her from the passage of time, “Chehak dear….as long as I live, I shall remember the day you returned from your study hour on the hill. You were shining like a brilliant lantern. I wanted to ask you where you had been but the dinner gong went off and then events took over. Remind me when we meet again to get to the bottom of that unearthly glow around you. I am surprised they didn’t call the fire brigade. Always in memory of your radiance that oddest of days, Padmaja!”

Her mind now made up on meeting a professional, Reema got down to assisting Chehak depart for her new home. There was nary a household item she did not want her daughter to have. The two were kept busy until post tea when she finally stood waving a white handkerchief at the receding tail lights of Chehak’s car in the distance. She was just about turning in from switching on the porch light and wiping a tear when the front gate clanged open with the rudeness of familiarity. It was the family doctor, on way home from his evening health run, having decided to stop by for a hot cup of tea.

“Don’t tell me! Are you crying?! Here, let me see. Already missing our Choosy, are you now?! Come here, give me a hug,” Reema allowed herself to be held, feeling conflicted and emotional. In that weak moment, she decided to come clean with the dear doctor on Chehak’s other worldly experiences.

The doctor took no time and did not mince words, “It is dehydration, plain and simple. The weather is turning; these modern kids do not drink enough water. Plain hallucinations! A parched brain deactivates the visual cortex which in turn ignites the part that drums up kinaesthetic imagery. Send your helper along when I leave. I will give him a dozen ORS packets. Drown her in the oral rehydration solution. But first your spicy cardamom tea; two spoons sugar please!! 

Options (Micro Fiction)

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“I love you baby; you come first for me; there is nothing more important in my life” Suheena’s head fell back with fatigue at this exhibition of relentless assurance. She watched the earnest young mother from her TV recliner, hovering and fussing over her primary school kids. “Oh, you are trying hard Tina” her tone was sardonic “treat your children with respect, do not baby talk, appeal to their sense of reason, educate them on options, offer choices and let them make the call…..your parenting tenets are clearly in line with modern theory and thought.”

“Harrummph!” The dismissive sound came from the master bedroom. “What’s gone wrong with my family, they are forever minding their Ps and Qs? It is not our way in India to be so apologetic and grateful all the time. There are some things owed, expected and given without a thought, you don’t have to keep thanking and saying sorry” their grandmother ranted from her invalid bed, clearly offended at the excessive and unfamiliar social graces in the air.

“Nani, it is all right…..they respect each other in their country. We presume a whole lot here, in ours. Neither is right or wrong, it is a cultural thing” Suheena watched Tina lead her children into the kitchen for a discussion on the day’s menu. “This is going to take time” she chuckled to herself, leaning forward to get a good view of the anthropological drama about to unfold. The young mother began soon enough.

“How would you like your milk today kids? Cold or hot?”

“I want it cold, Devi will probably drink hers warm” little Karan cocked his head at the sister.

“Sure, would you like to try chocolate Horlicks in the milk? It is a popular brand in India” the mother began to warm up to the decision making process.

“Mom, it says here the product is for women. Devina can use it, I refuse to!” Karan’s voice went up a sharp.

“Absolutely, that’s fine” Tina acquiesced  soothingly.  “Would you like your milk in a cup or a glass? Here, take your pick? Don’t hesitate.”

“I like the tumbler, Devi likes that Twilight Forever cup.”

“How about you dip your Oreos in the milk, dunk them like I do?” this was one parent eager to lay it all.

“I’ll pass; just the fluid please!”

“Hey kids, look…..Nani has arranged to have all three available…..there is toned, double toned and full cream milk. Isn't she considerate?”

“Mum, you know I am allergic to the fat in a hybrid cow’s milk….they have withdrawn it from our school meal plan too.”

“Well, you both returned negative for the lactose tolerance hydrogen breath test. It means your bodies can break down and absorb lactose. Now shall we drink it here or out in the garden?” the mother was certainly eager to please.

“I don’t care Mum, let’s just pour the double toned!”

“How hungry are you? It is getting close to breakfast time. You want to drink the milk now or keep it for your toast and cereal? You have options.”

“You know what Mum; options spook me. No milk today, no way!”

Hoax (Micro Fiction)

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A bride’s welcome is an electrifying event on Armed Force Bases.

“The guiding principle is recall value. She must always cherish that first brush with our way of life,” Namita remembered her husband’s company commander laying out this informal social policy at one of their regular gatherings. “What if she gets turned off for good with this nonsense?” Namita was new enough at that time to express concern. The response had been confident, “Oh, these escapades become the stuff of service legend and most often they are evoked by the wives themselves.”

“I am telling you Mum, there is no better mother-in-law than the Indian Armed Forces!” she had excitedly told her mother on the phone that evening. “You have to see how wife after wife slips into the social stream, conforming and converting sooner than later to her adopted family,” it had bemused her mother to hear this from her once fiercely independent daughter.

But this was odd. Without so much as a briefing, let alone a brain storming, the unit was trooping into the “Station Run” to welcome the new couple. “What is the prank?” someone voiced the dominant thought as the welcome bus checked out of the guard room. There was silence and it crossed Namita’s mind “Perhaps we are finally toning down the circus.”

The vehicle trundled busily along the deserted city link road. At the height of terrorist activity in Punjab, you would be lucky to spot even a tractor chugging home at dusk from the farms. But true to their disciplined and time bound fibre, business done some three hours later, the merry gang was heading back, charged up on the somewhat shy magic between the bride and the groom. As they hit the half way milestone, the bus unexpectedly swerved. Stunned at the violent jolt, the occupants sat up, a frisson metastasizing in the aisle at the shouts and sounds of vigorous scuffles.  The front door of the vehicle banged open and five turbaned men charged up the steps, their guns aimed at the dark interior. “Give us the bridal gold, quick,” they growled from behind blankets slung around their torsos in the winter air.

They waved a chunky flashlight on the blanching faces. It didn’t take them long to spot Kitty, the bride. Everyone turned to Vikas seated alongside her, willing him to stand up for his wife. He remained rooted to his seat, poker faced, as the men dragged his brand new spouse off the bus. A community paralysis had taken hold of the unit. The men had turned to stone and the women had entered into the most abject of survival modes. Mitali was holding out her mangalasutra beseechingly. Sophie was plonked on her pudgy toddler, desperate to keep him out of harm’s way. Shalini had achieved an acrobatic feat by folding her frame into half under her own seat.

Kitty’s piteous cries made them cringe. As the awful wailing grew weaker, the sound of a siren took over, swelling exponentially. It was the police, advancing at a clip! Someone had called the 181. All heads turned to Goofy, the commanding officer. The confusion was confounded at the ruckus near the front door all over again. A huddle was force entering the bus, Kitty in the lead! The bus resounded with a collective gasp at the sight of five of the unit bachelors, minus their turbans and blankets now. “Quick Goofy sir, back to base, the police will complicate things” they were entreating even as they threw their squash racquets into the back seat over stunned heads. The memorable welcome to be had just disbanded officially.

Goofy sir barked the order to move, reaching for the phone vibrating urgently in his shirt pocket. Startled out of incredulity, the bus collected itself and powered up hurriedly. Having finished listening to the guardroom duty officer at the other end, Goofy sir replaced the instrument slowly and turned to fix Vikas with a glare, “There is a lady at our main gate….she says she is the real new bride of Major Vikas Gupta! You double crossing, wife ridden rat!!”

Transference (Micro Fiction)

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Kamini inhaled deeply and held her breath at the door, exhaling slowly through the mouth as she approached the teachers’ table. High school kids sweated differently; her nose itched at the overactive apocrine glands in the classroom.

Alarmed at the rising incidents of teen stress, the management had mandated a weekly dose of moral science for the senior school. Her track record of lifelong learning and a talent for seeing the larger picture had marked Kamini an ideal life coach and her day was well underway. “Our lesson today is on assuming responsibility for what we are and the person we want to be” she had barely begun, marker pen poised on the white board.

“My parents messed me up in the head Ma’am! I do not want to take the engineering entrance. I want to become a scuba diver” Atul was first off the block, his educated belligerence echoing in assessing eyes around the room.

Kamini put the marker down, falling back into her chair heavily; this filial blame game had begun to come up more and more. It sounded dissonant in a culture that venerated parenting, a mother’s role in particular. She skimmed the faces trained on her, “Are there others in this class who share Atul’s anger?” Shaily pushed her chair back tentatively, “Yes Ma’am, it bothers me to have my mother say she preferred being “my mum rather than a chum”. My friends have parents they can really let their hair down with.” A titter rose at this from the far corner where Bikram stood waving his hand, “Look, we did not ask to be born. I think it is criminal to bring children into this chaotic world and then want to control them completely.”

Kamini turned towards the sound of a throat being cleared; it was Kriti, the school head girl, “Ma’am, you have a social system so deep rooted in a judgmental hierarchy, it is easy to look for someone or something to blame!”

The ensuing silence was broken by a rude movement at the door. Shambhu, the Principal’s peon did not stand on ceremony with any of the staff, least of all with the teachers, “Madam Ji, Principal Sir wants you.”  Shaking her head at the howl of protest from the class at this interruption, Kamini hurried to the lobby.

Taruna Kalra and her mother were standing stiffly outside the Principal’s office, ragged words clashing in low tones. “I feel repressed at home, I need space….there is too much drama already in my life” the young girl was shaking with anger.

The mother stood as though turned to stone. She had fixed her eyes at a spot on Kamini’s hair. Her voice was a flat drone, “I am numb. My chest feels like I have broken a rib. I did my best. I must not cry. You are treating me like I were an invisible, middle aged woman”

“Get yourself a life mother and stop worrying about me!” Taruna continued to lash out, stung and hurting. Kamini watched the parent splinter in slow motion and the daughter crack with an impotent fury; life could bring such pain. The two women dragged on the laden air, blinking rapidly to swallow the salt pricking their eyelids.

The parent moved first; Kamini stepping back to make way. At the sound of the summon bell from inside the office, Mrs Kalra broke stride and turned to look back at her daughter, “I love you but you no longer resemble me. You resemble your times!" Her daughter’s plaintive cry vainly tried to catch up, “Principal Sir is calling us inside and now you are making me feel really alone!”

Dress code (Micro Fiction)

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Photo courtesy: Mala Kaur

They made for a pretty picture. Three generations of Indian women and from one gene stock, faces aglow in the pensive gold of a porcelain lamp. Steaming mugs of caffeine marked their vintage; a milky, a green and a strong black.

Setting her needle point aside, Raninder Kaur mused “I used to recognize the men around me only by their shoes. Beeji would not let me look at their faces.” Her daughter Harleen nodded wanly, tatting shuttle poised mid-air, “But you and Daddy were ahead of your times Ma; you would insist that I bring all the boys who were my friends home.” Tia looked up from fingering the tattoo on her wrist, amusement writ large on her young face, “Not boyfriends, is it? Boys who were friends!”

The three sat as though adrift, the debris of a social convulsion lapping around them. Harleen laughed softly as she shared with Tia the acute discomfort it caused everyone to have a bra strap peak the slightest. It was considered bad form to tuck it away in view. The offender would hurry away to privacy, shamed by the narrow piece of elastic. “My mother had to wear a heavy lehenga over her salwar, every time she stepped out of her home,” Raninder  Kaur called to memory Tia’s great grandmother.

The sartorial mishap that had the women in a huddle had to do with Tia’s fondness for the racer backs. At a party the night before, a page three reporter had clicked her picture and copies of the rag were ruffling on dining tables across the extended family. “Spotted, a neighbourhood hottie!” the family was squirming as much over the caption as they were at the offending shot of Tia’s ornate halter neck. That it sat well on her toned body and she radiated joy had evidently escaped everyone.

Raninder Kaur held the newspaper up to get a clearer look, “She looks rather nice in this dress, whatever they call it…the color suits her.” Harleen shook her head resignedly, “You know how conservative our clan is Mother. They will pick this bone for years.” Their family of highly educated and staunch Sikhs tolerated diversity but brooked the barest of adventurism from their women.

“Checks and balances make sense for social order, I guess,” the two seniors turned towards Tia, their eyes widening.  She had eventually lifted her shiny head from the WhatsApp screen “I don’t know Mum! What is so scary about an exposed shoulder blade? It is wrong to sexualize the female dress. I wear clothes for myself. The gender power imbalance in our society we talk about…I think many women internalize that and feel forced to commodify themselves through exposure. How about we shift focus to the men and their ‘boys will be boys’ mindset?”

Stung into silence, the adults stared at their progeny. “Oh, and before I forget, there is a letter for parents from the discipline committee at school. They are convening over the dress code at school functions. Some of us wore tank tops to the senior jam session and believe it or not, there is talk of expulsion by way of setting an example. Would you call this reasonable? I mean, the weather is so warm these days!” 

Blind spot (Micro Fiction)

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It was a reflex action, there was no other way to explain Mamta’s juvenile getaway. The traffic policeman was squinting at her papers when her right foot took on a life of its own, the silver Honda retreating in a nebula of guilt and anger.

A law abiding citizen belching on values, Mamta had a strong sense of black and white. “How can people break rules? I was brought up to respect authority,” she often simmered at the apparent state of anarchy around.

“Madam, do you realize why I waved you down?” the cop had said. She had apparently stepped over the yellow divider, literally crossing the line! There had been a car snailing ahead and Mamata had swung the slightest right to overtake. This was embarrassing! Another policeman had sauntered up to her window putting pen to the challan book. “License and pollution papers?” he had drawled. It rattled her to be at the receiving end of such pedestrian demands. “This is a copy, where is the original license?”  Mamta remembered silently cursing her husband “Damn Hari’s cautiousness, he advocated carrying copies, just in case.”

“Please hurry up and take whatever you have to. Don’t ask me all these questions!” she had glared at the lukewarm men. “You will have to pay penalty Madam. Copy not allowed ” and Mamta was gone, leaving the traffic keepers clutching at her history.

Foolishly enough, she had dared hope for sympathy at home. “You just drove off like that?” her husband was aghast. “Leaving your license and papers behind?” his voice climbed a scale. Mamta was frigid, “It was your idea to carry a copy!”

Hari was crestfallen, an organizer to the core, his study shelves arrayed with files on everything from family finances to the dog’s medical records. “I know, I know but to slip away like that, from under their noses…I don’t believe this!” And of course Mamta found it convenient to be defensively dismissive “Forget the license, it was just a copy” 

“No way, I will have to retrieve the lot. You must keep your wits about you and that Radio FM plays too loud in your car. Get into the habit of anticipating honey.” Mamta tuned him out, pulling the original license from her metal cupboard to tuck it carefully into her cards pouch. She was livid with herself already and Hari’s litany sounded like he was rubbing it in. 

A highly educated professional, Mamta took pride in her self-sufficiency “I am not clinging to my husband like a vine.” She was therefore self-contained when Hari dropped a white packet on her work table the following evening. He was puffed up and preening with victory “Here are your car papers Madam Bolter!” In that moment, the traffic policeman seemed almost a friend. 

Catastrophe (Micro Fiction)

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He went at the herbs with a vengeance. The three inch blade would swing to the right as he gathered the greens with his left, their crunchy hits pinging on the tumid kitchen air. 

Meha’s husband called it her default setting; this habit of biting off more than she could chew. A full-fledged, three course Spanish dinner was under production with the solo assistance of google and an Indian cook who was having trouble keeping his hands off ginger.

“Madam, are you sure about the adrak?” his swarthy confidence had begun to crumble. “We are cooking Paella, not Biryani Biju and use only olive oil please; very little at a time!”

The cook house would have put NASA control room during take-off to shame. Meha was scrolling down the recipes online, cross checking the images and calling out the ingredients in a tight voice. “Biijuuu! Just sauté lightly….no browning the onion….this is tortilla not tadka.”

Biju had begun to sweat with the effort of tuning out his long, Indian culinary experience. “Stop, stop, what are you doing? The parsley is for garnishing, you are mincing it with that knife of yours!” Biju dropped the knife as though stung, turning fearfully to the asparagus in slow motion, going pale at their lightened skin, they had overcooked! “Don’t tell me you used up both the green peppers in the gazpacho! We needed one for the Ensalada de pollo,” Meha fought down the panic, an eye on the clock. The ceremonial dinner table had to be laid and the guest bathroom given a once over. She ran down her check list mentally, chafing at having to rein in Bijju’s automatic kitchen reflexes that came from years of training.

“Slice the peaches down the middle Biju and use just a dab of butter for the pine nuts…I can’t give you too many breaks today; this is taking longer than expected.”

Biju shifted his weight in a deliberate manner to the right leg, “Er..umm…I think the meat balls have gone too soft, I will need some corn flour?!” Meha fixed him with that look, irritated at this affirmation of what she called ‘corrective cooking’. “Why are these cooks always patching up with corn flour and potatoes” she talked to herself just as her phone came to life with a message tone. It was her mother, wanting to discuss a forthcoming family event. “Mum, am busy, will call later” she typed out quickly before turning to the guacamole. Biju had scooped the avocado pits and was beginning to dunk the onions in the grinder. “Why? I told you to grate them; we want a grainy texture. Peel another one please.”

Polishing, dusting, watering, painting….the minions were hard at it outside the galley. Having mentally checked off the snack items, the serving bowls, the garden lights and the music, Meha finally shifted a gear down. She had planned her outfit and it hung neatly in her wardrobe, ironed and crinkle free. “A quick shower and I will light the candles” Meha called out some more instructions over her shoulder before closing the door to the master bedroom.

The evening progressed rather well over the well planned and creatively laid out snacks and beverages. Ricky Martin’s “Lo major de mi vida eres tu” kept the esprit de corps humming. Dear husband played the dutiful host, egged on by the memory of how fatigued his wife had looked when he returned home from work. “You have explained it all to Biju, now just relax and let him handle it, he is a veteran cook” he had reassured the hostess.

It must have been that urging combined with the sangria, Meha would tell herself later. She had no memory of how the food came to be laid on the table. What remained seared in her mind was the garnishing. There were slivers, and whorls, even nano-cubes! Flecks and quarters and strips of crisp fresh ginger, generously sprinkled over every single dish at her Spanish red theme, dining table.

Horribles jengibre!