Moon face (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

The wedding card was unusually simple. And it bore Hemant’s forty eight years old batch-mate Nitin’s name as the groom. “Did the bugger give his son an identical tag, there must be a mistake”, he turned the invite around, reading it several times over. “What an idiot, getting married when it is time for us to settle our kids! Has he lost his wife, divorced her….this is very strange!”

At the evening’s course reunion, the story grew steadily bigger. No one seemed to know. “I was local guardian to his daughter during her Vellore tenure, everything seemed fine,” the anecdotal exchange flowed thick and fast. “Hope he is not getting naughty at forty,” this light hearted observation was met with a pensive, “How is Tara keeping, any idea? I heard they have been living as a joint family ever since his premature retirement.”

Hemant struggled with his feelings over the event, just a week away. There were the usual logistic ends to tie up but there was also a faintly irritated concern. The two had been close until life took them on different paths with Hemant progressing professionally and Nitin deciding to quit for greener pastures outside the Navy. With the unintended callousness of the busy, the rest of their batch had forgotten him, barely responding to his attempts to stay connected. Briefly debating a phone call for clarification, Hemant decided to just show up, he would be the solo serving officer attending the wedding.

The car waiting outside Raipur’s award winning airport carried Hemant to the Byron Bazar, dislodging him at the familiar yellow, two floor building. He alighted tentatively, the home exuded stillness, quite unlike a marriage venue. He joined a small knot of people at the door, slipping off their footwear. The ceremony was already underway!

Hours of mantra chanting, incense burning and ritual relays later, Nitin’s brother escorted Hemant to the terrace where his bridegroom friend sat waiting. Unsure of how happy an expression to wear, Hemant pulled a chair close “Where do I begin? Tara and my mother had one of their more serious fights and Tara walked out of the home in a huff. I had to lodge a missing person report at the end of twenty four hours. The police turned up a day later with news of a body fitting the description, found near the Junction railway tracks. I went to the morgue and identified her, the cadaver was in a bad shape.”

Hemant got up to place his arm awkwardly around Nitin’s shoulders. “We went through with the period of mourning and cremated her,” the groom resumed his narration. By now they were coming unbidden to Hemant, images of Tara as a young bride in their parent unit and her rocky period of settling in. A typical civilian, she had taken a while to fit into the regimented rhythm of the station. “Poor thing, she must have been shattered inside to have taken her own life,” Hemant felt heavy with grief. 

“Hemu Dadaaaa,” he poked his ear violently with the index finger at the familiar lilt, shaking his head. “Good lord, I am hearing her voice. Is it Tara’s soul?!”

His travel weary vision began to blur at a figure advancing in ceremonial red, holding out a tray of snacks and tea. The arm fell away from Nitin in confusion, grasping for a chair. He gaped at the bridal countenance in horror, sifting the face paint frantically….yes, it was, no doubt in his mind, the well-remembered moon face of Tara!

He only partly heard Nitin’s voice drone on, “Imagine our plight Hem, she turned up back home after a week of sulking at her mother’s. I had identified the wrong body. With the bereavement rituals all done, my mother insisted we remarry.”

Hemant was not listening. He had gone cold turkey. 

Promotion (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

“Abha, get me a helper just like yours, no. Does Ravi have a twin?”

Abha was used to this good humoured ragging. Her domestic help invited multitudinous reactions, part envy, some pity but always an unfailing and uniform admiration. It was hard to pick Ravi’s strength. His loyalty rivalled an ox like stamina, a time efficient output and some honest-to-goodness, steely integrity. What put him in a different league however, was his quiet DNA. He barely spoke when necessary and did not like wasting time listening to words of appreciation.

“I could learn from him,” had become one of Abha’s recurrent self-berating note. She banked on him, trusted him, overworked him but also wondered about him. “Where does he get his Spartan habits, there is something almost noble about his self-containment?” His lack of wants lent him a peculiar stature in her eyes. She found his authenticity liberating. He was a star performer who neither knew his status or better still did not care.

“Mami Ji, can I take him home with me to Spain?” the NRI nephew would ask. “Look after Ravi bête, he is your old faithful,” her father intoned intermittently. “Abha honey, you are becoming too dependent on him,” cautioned the man in her life with unfailing regularity. “Oh, you have Ravi, why would overtime and hosting parties bother you?” her colleagues made a habit of giving her the reality check.

Ravi remembered where in the boxes lay her Flamenco red flower. He had a talent for retracing long forgotten addresses. Tasks that Abha quaked at giving him were habitually made short shrift of. Dictate him a recipe, explain a delivery or collection process, outline a critical day’s proceedings and it would all stayed locked and executed, no repetition needed. To her refrain of “Will you be able to do this,” his standard response would be, “Done!”

It was the annual conference of the Merit Systems Protection Board at her company. Having gone over the principles with reference to management of the executive branch workforce, Abha was about to strike the gavel to call adjournment of the proceedings. There was a flutter at the table, four heads down the oval to her right. She held the gavel mid-air, her eyes expectantly following a paper being passed at her. Placing the wood back, she reached out, pushing back her glasses with the other hand. She knit her brow at the company’s peon recruitment form, bringing her eyes to focus on the yellow post- it in her personal assistant’s handwriting. It read “For Ravi.” Turning her head sideways, she locked eyes with him down the flank, reached for her Waterman Expert Green and scribbled firmly below his note. The gavel came down with more force than usual!

Oblivious to the sound of scraping chairs, the self-satisfied din of power and privilege and a departure protocol of his impatient boss, the PA sat stunned in his chair,

The green ink winked at him, “Too good to promote!”

Chilli Chor (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

“The station is experiencing water shortage. Residents are requested not to irrigate their lawns,” Rinku scanned the notice board at the guard room, mentally telling herself to brief Santosh, their gardener. A busy teacher herself, she and her pilot husband had pretty much left their horticultural assets to him. He took the decisions on the variety and quantity of plants in their ground floor square.                               

And what a visual treat, their verdant patch was! Almost an eye sore as it sat smug amidst the surrounding lifelessness with its green trimming of Celosia and Kochia. Evening walkers would come upon it with a start, staring disbelievingly at the Zinnias and Ball Lilies. The mini-garden often came up in party conversations and the couple beamed with self-congratulation at sourcing such a prolific green thumb.

“That green chilli bed looks a bit odd there,” Rinku turned at her neighbour’s voice one evening. “Oh, it is a hardy plant, a good way to hold the soil and the water supply is restricted after all. Smart of Santosh to save some there, he rations the sprinklers,” she blithely dismissed the friendly observation. And the station life moved along, everyone gamely tolerant, even appreciative of Rinku’s magical gardener.

The nagging voice came back to her however, one dinnertime, “Listen Jo,” she called out to her husband, “the chillies growing in our garden, have they struck you odd ever?”

“These locals use a lot of that in their food, they scrimp on the vegetables,” came the reassuring reply, it was what Rinku wanted to hear. “Care for some ginger ale?” Jo poured them two goblets. The couple sat back after a hard day’s work, glad to be home for an evening; their average social attendance being high. Soon enough, they were at their meal, Jethro Tull’s voice winging over the cosy living room.

“Flying day tomorrow, where is my rolled up towel?” Jo turned in early on weekdays, his fatigued neck resting on support for the night. Rinku pattered around the kitchen before settling down with her portable Remington. Two hours later, she was pulling the typewritten sheet out and sliding the machine shut.

Air Force campuses are restful and it did not take her long to fall asleep besides her somnolent partner. They were a study in contrast, he slept faster but lighter of the two, she was a night bird who eventually settled down for good. 

It was in the wee hours that Rinku stirred next. Jo was shaking her by the shoulder, his tousled hair falling over troubled eyes. “Come with me to the door,” he was speaking in a low tone. Rinku gathered herself sluggishly, limping on a half-worn night slipper. The front door was ajar, an inky sky outside. Jo beckoned her forward. She shuffled up and peered out, standing rooted to the spot.

The swarthy policeman had Santosh roughly by the arm, "Madam, your gardener is a member of the Chilli Chor Gang. They throw chilli powder in the eyes to blind their victims before robbing them!" 

Shortchange (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

“Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls…being on time is a very nice thing,” the Indigo welcome brought a smile to Dimpy’s face. She looked appealingly at the passenger in the aisle seat, who eventually gave in to lend a hand with her red tourister. Two more manoeuvres and she was falling back on her narrow seat, grimacing at the mingy leg room.

In their Indigo brisk fashion, hostesses came tripping up with their emergency drills. The cabin echoed with muted sounds of metal clicking and pre-flight intercom punch-ins.  Dimpy furrowed her brow, trying to recall what she had ordered on the last flight. The ready to eat Uppma had to stay covered eight minutes but she felt like sinking her teeth into something whole and soft, like the corn and cheese subway.

Dimpy fancied trains and buses and planes, they were her legitimate respite from life’s relentless pace. She latched her seat belt and shut her eyes, trying not to think. But they came, unbidden, slithering little snakes into the crevices of her consciousness, the thoughts. “Is the plane going to take off soon? Hope we won’t have to orbit over the airport! What is the delay? Dear God, let there not be a queue at the parking bay!”

“Cabin crew, arm all doors and cross check,” the Captain’s voice calmed her momentarily as she grabbed her book for distraction but the airplane roof had already begun to cave in. Dimpy gripped the arm rests, staring out of the window at drizzle on the tarmac. She began talking to herself, “Recite the Japji Sahib you idiot, this is ridiculous……why is your heart racing?” Fighting a rising panic, she froze in one position, letting the sweat run rivulets on her scalp. A howl began to build up in her throat. The cabin had hushed down, some passengers already in slumber-land. She willed the monitor in front to come alive, anything to loosen the steamrolling constriction in her chest. "I am locked in, there is no way out," her mind whirled. Just as she made to hoist up violently, there was a hum of the engines, some cranking and the wheels began to turn.

Dimpy shut her eyes. Her psychiatrist’s words hummed in the ears “Mrs. Dhar, does your family know of your worsening claustrophobia?”

“No Doctor, there has been no time. One has to get on. Life has been so busy.”

“You need to grieve your grandmother’s unnatural loss completely Ma’am.  Please, I appeal to you…..do not short-change the mourning process. Let the pain wash over and away. You must heal before moving on. Your body is telling you something. ”

Reversal (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

Pic by Aqseer

Shekhar frowned at the thought of his son. He talked all too much about feelings. “What’s with the boys these days?” he complained to his wife, “I don’t remember airing my thoughts and emotions so much. We mostly kicked ball or spent time doing house errands. All Pat does is jabber and sit around with friends over God knows what all; they call it chilling I believe. I hope he is not doing drugs?”

Shamita shooed him off, too busy surveying her pantry. Growing boys were such hogs, dinner time was approaching and she had her usual challenge of putting both quality and quantity on the table. “The snacks vanish from our cabinets before I can get them in, Prateek demolishes the reserves too. I feel so nervous when guests visit; there is nothing in the house to offer them.”

“Pat! Sam! Mug! What a waste of those elaborate naming ceremonies, why do we Indians even bother, these children are ruthless with shortening their original names!”

“I feel so disconnected with this “want it all” generation, may God bless them with wisdom and patience!”

The father gathered up his papers, unperturbed that neither the wife nor he was hearing the other, they both had peeves to air and time came at a premium. Pat had miraculously come home for the night and Shekhar was not about to waste this event. The youngster often slept over at his friends’ and was so self-absorbed  at home, an array of digital gadgets plugged into his physiology that it took forbearance and tremendous self-esteem to break through the opaque exterior.

Reaching out with trepidation now, Shekhar knocked at the teenager’s door, Pat liked his privacy. “Could he be watching pornography?” the father shook his head to clear the thought. He entered hesitantly at the silence from inside. There was the sound of water rushing in the toilet. Brushing aside his ‘deer in the headlight’ moment, he decided to wait, lowering himself on the single bed in the room. He skimmed the usual disarray in the room, looking up at the sound of the latch clicking. Pat had frozen at the sight of his father bunking in his room.

“Dad, please say you are not parked here to discuss my future plans! We have gone over that an umpteen number of times. ”

“Well, I did hope to bounce some thoughts off you…..” Shekhar trailed off lamely.

“I am good on email father, how about shooting me one, I promise to be prompt.”

Shekhar stared at the floor, his heart heavy and then heaved himself up, fighting down images of the two year old toddler he used to carry on his shoulders. His dismissive young son had already busied himself with rummaging around in his dresser. ‘How trustingly the baby would snuggle into his neck that lifetime ago’ Shekhar continued to reminisce. Back then, the roles had been reverse, Pat was the one seeking closeness. The older man nearly tripped over the doorway on his way out but what was this, Pat indeed was calling out to him, “Hold it Dad, have you any use for these? I am going off action for a while, need to keep it together, my SAT and all, you know how it is. I can’t afford distractions at this stage of my life.”

The room went suction vacuum still as the man squinted with his mid-forty vision at the packet the boy was holding out.

A cheerful pouch of Kamasutra Wet n Wild! 

Lifetime (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

It was her last day at work. She collected herself and entered the imposing black gates one final time. There was some trepidation, also a state of wonder at what the place had come to mean to her. How could a concrete space take on life in one’s gut, she berated herself silently.  It really hurt! 

Butterscotch light and sharp green reflections beamed off the red of the school building. She dreaded going up to her class room to look out of the window at the brilliant white canopy over their basketball ground with that thought that she would never again stand there in a teacher’s capacity. Oh yes, it was a bonnier, sunnier campus now that she was leaving. 

“Was it just the lighting and the wide open spaces punctuating the concrete structures that made the organization so appealing?” She had heard many voices credit the school’s inherent cheer to the proximity of temples close by. How wondrous that a brick and mortar place have affection and humour drip off its columns, the corridors humming with cheerful chatter. Smiles hovered on faces in that building and there was time for the purely human. Impervious to the world spinning busily outside, the school went about the business of learning and teaching at a calm, confident pace.

“So much to etch in the mind for a takeaway!” she told herself on that final meandering.

It felt terribly alone on the climb up the stairway to the top floor. Her mind kept up the monologue to self, “There are inanimate places more powerful than living, breathing souls.” Pausing at the landing, she exhaled. The air washing over the bannister pulsated with bits of those who had built this institution. There it was, enveloping her, the pride, the pain, the appreciation and lack of, the investing of selves, the presence of an entire community gone by.

There was also the other, slightly acrid note "Like the oasis in a punishing desert, organisations keep you going, just about paying you to exist”.  At the end, you get to leave with gratuity, pension, provident fund and this echo in your ears, if at all “I kept the legacy going”. There are no great riches, no grand growth except for the sum total of a 7^th pay commission or so, bonding with colleagues over half-pay leaves, rainy day holidays and staff welfare events……hail the sisterhood of harmless, half-serious, posturing office politics that keeps the juices flowing.

At the entrance to her classroom, she paused, remembering the first day she had entered the space all of those thirty three long years ago. It was going to be a busy day. There was a farewell tea in her honour and a few formalities to be tied up with the administration.

By way of gesture, there was also an audience with the institution head, “We wish you all the best Madam. But we cannot write you a letter of appreciation or recommendation. Staff in the past has taken us to court, claiming promotions or increments based on our commendation letters. We wish you the very best Madam.”

Not all that many hours later, she stood outside the structure she had helped breathe life into. It felt like a shorn stone, chewed around and spat out as though by a giant, placid, unmovable giant anaconda. All that throbbed in her mind were the words, “Thirty three long years.”

Shell (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

“My brothers are perfect fathers and husbands,” Kanta willed herself to stay calm through this routine idealization, briefly locking eyes with Vani, the younger and only other daughter-in-law in the family.

“What is our karma that has brought us into the same clan,” the two would often wonder aloud to each other. They shared the bond of alterity, of being the other, outsiders in a way. But for now, it was self-glorification time for the biological band. “We had a wonderful childhood, everyone is blessed…the two brothers in particular are saints for nurturing their families in so complete a manner,” and so on it would go.

Having heard the aggressive praise once too often, Kanta tuned it out, the exaggerated words becoming a static behind the raw flashes in her mind. Her healer had warned against entering a circular thought pattern of pain with its mortal effect on her cells and tissues but the violent images would not abate.

Kanta’s eye caught a movement. Vani was plucking at her sari fold, caught under Nawab, their golden retriever. The tug intensified, drawing Kanta’s attention to a purple bruise on her pale forearm. “We can help you budget your finances and manage living expenditure smarter so that our brothers are less stressed,” the sister was intoning, as the sari discreetly crept up over what was quite certainly a marital night’s fruit.

“We are a very close knit family, our parents could not have done us any better, our mother stayed alone for our education, our father was a thoroughbred professional,” the folklore continued relentlessly. While the family beamed patronizingly, in a self-conscious bubble of smugness, the two outsiders struggled with force smiles. Centuries of conditioning and a lifetime of Bollywood viewing had rendered them incapable of recognizing abuse.

“Oh, it is nearly four thirty, time for tea and snacks,” the two got up as though on cue, dropping their masks once safely inside the kitchen. Vani held out the bruised arm for Kanta’s inspection, “Last night, there was an argument over house repairs. This building needs constant maintenance……you are fortunate, at least Bhaiyya Ji does not hit.”

Kanta turned away quickly, placing the pan on the gas range, grabbing for the makings of tea. Her wounds were invisible but she carried a chronic sore from her own marital space. Her husband hid so well under the family mantle, his position as the paragon of virtue set in stone. To all appearances he was gentle and thoughtful.  She alone knew his secret armour.

He practiced his sabotage from behind a brick wall, unavailable and distant. Her family would have called her crazy if she ever admitted to feeling alone, unimportant and rejected.  Who would believe how invisible it felt to be among such a mutual admiration society? 

Affection (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

“My generation is commitment phobic Auntie, just look at us! No one wants to marry.”

Simmar gave Guncha a thoughtful look, taking in her merry wise youth, tinged with that faintly fatigued resignation. Driving always relaxed her; put her in a meditative trance. She guided the car, thoughts in tandem with its smooth turns. There was no panic, she told herself, the Kathak performance they were attending was nearly an hour away and there was Olivia to pick up from the Instituto Hispania. She enjoyed engaging with her daughter’s group of diverse friends.

The Honda flowed seamlessly with the traffic until their next stop. “Tell us about Spain Olivia”, she queried of the newest entrant in the car. There was the slightest pause as the Latino leaned back, having made herself comfortable in the rear seat! “Well, it is the women who are ready to set up house and raise families in Spain but the men will not bite. It is as though they do not want to grow up. There are all these rovers, well into their middle years, chasing and winning teenage girls. They see no incentive in committing to one person for life?!”

Guncha was quick to retort, “In India, it is an institution still, in the slow process of becoming elective of course. Most people my age are questioning it big time. More and more, they will not marry just for the sake of marrying or because it is the next stage in life. ”

Marvelling at her luck in finding a vacant parking slot, Simmar eased the vehicle in and the trio was soon enough settled on the red ply chairs over Paneer Kulchas at the Auditorium canteen. “We have a half hour before the curtain rises, let’s wait here for Sonal.” For a while, silence reigned, punctuated by appreciative sounds of gastronomical delight. Simmar resumed the conversation, patting an extra Kulcha down for her daughter Sonal, “So what do today’s young expect of marriage?”

“I think the men in my country are able to meet all their needs outside of marriage. Either that or the unrealistically high expectations of marriage that appear to call for too much effort,” Olivia prised the Kulcha open to peer into the filling. Guncha sighed, turning at the sound of Sonal approaching, “There are times I think arranged marriages were so much simpler.” 

Plaintive strains of the Sarangi began to pluck and nudge from inside the hall at this pensive band.

They waited for Sonal to settle in; she wanted chocolate powder on her coffee. “Ten more minutes,” Simmar announced with that typical parental inflection. “Maslow’s hierarchy of needs,” Sonal leaned forward, warming up to the subject and the reheated Kulcha, “Mum, your parents were happy enough to pool in resources; for you and Dad, it was companionship of sorts but for us matrimony is nothing short of self-actualization. It is about self-expression, personal fulfilment, core growth.”

“There are these endless check boxes Auntie, chemistry, looks, books, music….almost as though…well, let’s put it this way….we either want it all or none at all!”

Simmar sighed, pushing back her chair. Her mind spun in sync with the dancer’s pirouettes on stage. She turned in the dark to gaze over the three young heads aligned next to her. Her heart quaked for them. She bit back the words, chewing them down the oesophagus, “Girls, chuck the actualization, where are you going to find the time for it, will you settle then for plain affection and respect!!”

Permission (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

The young hostess pushed back a tendril, her smile fixed to hide the latent irritation. She hated having guests mill around in her kitchen during serving time, making polite offerings of help, it upset her rhythm of serving the food at the perfect temperature so. In this house, the bowls had to be piping hot and then there was her phobia of leaving a dish forgotten in the family sized refrigerator.  

While she bustled garnishing, sprinkling and finishing up the dishes, her fairer part of the family began dropping their guard, a voice at a time. “What’s that you are sipping Guddi, don’t tell me it is tea in the steel glass!” Guddi drained her glass in a long gulp, rinsing it quickly under the tap, “Actually, Gary has permitted me to enjoy vodka on one condition, I must camouflage it so the family does not know.”

The kitchen lit up with knowing smiles, “I stop trimming my split hair months before this trip home. A false braid does the rest, particularly in the gurudwara,” heads shook a little at the sight of Pinky’s discreetly draped dupatta over the nape of her neck.

Goldie beckoned them close, her voice falling to a hush, “Listen, for your ears only, please do not pass this on. Lovely and her husband are undergoing infertility treatment. It seems Lucky’s sperms are sluggish but no one will talk about it, bad for the male ego you know!”

They turned sharply at the choked sound from Kittie, what was wrong with Montu’s new bride? “I am so sorry, I can’t help remember what happened yesterday.  Mummy Ji had given me some minor repairs to sew and I was rooted with confusion at the presser foot sewing machine, we had a hand wheel model at my parent's. And guess what? Montu pulled the pile from under my arm, banging the door shut with one heel and settled down, to guide the seams under the needle like a perfect pro.”

The women threw back their adorned heads and tittered with glee. “Come on, come on, quit gossiping, we are blessed to have such nice families, let’s get the hungry horde to the table.”

The colorful group filed out carrying the cutlery and serving bowls. They entered the dining area in a respectful and solemn procession, having sagged and shrunk in their bearing, a look of appeasement on their faces, treading thin ice with their indeterminate half smiles.

All was well with their world.

Unfair (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

Red, green, purple!  Every time Keerat  pulled off one romper and put on the other, her eight month old wiggled and chuckled, chubby hands grabbing at the young mother’s arms as she fretted over the colour that best lightened her dusky baby’s skin tone.

“She looks dark in each of these,” Keerat wiped her brow, straining for impending sounds of departure. Ten minutes at the most and someone would be at her door announcing the car was loaded and ready to roll. A wave of exhaustion washed over the new parent and she plunked down on the settee, defeated with rage.

“Who does she take after? Have you been outdoors a lot with her? You are so fair, she looks nothing like you! People are progressive these days; no one in their right mind would obsess over a fair complexion.  Don’t worry; the next baby may turn out lighter. I think she takes after that aunt of hers; the one in Australia, we hear she is very bright at academics otherwise! Are you using “ubbttan” on her after the daily massage?”

Keerat pulled the rattle gently out of the baby’s busy mouth. She gazed at the diapered mite in wonder, trying to visualize her inside the womb. “Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood,” her eyes welled up with tears of fury. “How dared they? They had some nerve sticking daggers into her heart! Why would they judge so?”

Her agitated mind pummelled ahead. This twiddling, gurgling bundle on the Dalmatian print counterpane does not hear the slights nor see the distaste on faces yet. A day will come when the barbs will tear into her soul, clouding her mind with self-doubt and confusion. She will never be picked to play the lead role in a school play. No boys will text her constricted notes. There will be the unflattering eyes of sales persons outside trial rooms. What happens to the colours she wants to wear but cannot because, “Blue is your shade, goes very well with your skin?” The well-meaning will go on to console her with, “But you have very nice features! And dark skin is healthy, all said and done, there is more melanin there.”

Keerat sprang up restlessly and punched her mother’s chat id, “Is this late for you Mum?! Why are people so judgmental?”

The luminous screen affirmed in green the typing at the other end, “That is the world Keerat, people will slot you no matter what. If it is not your colour, it will be the thick ankles or prematurely graying hair or an ample behind or the hair tint you happen to be using. People assess so they can feel better.”

“But my defenceless child Ma, my baby who doesn't have the adult’s capacity for resigned acceptance. She needs to hear she is gorgeous!”

“Yes Keerat, hold fast to that. This you can do, you have to get to her before the rest do. She will believe you the most.”

“Mum, I am going to do more. I am going to break this horrible pattern of a colour put down. Be prepared for hurt family feelings!”

“I am with you Keerat, this is only family, she has to face the world soon. Unless we give her a strong core at home where we exercise control, she will crumble and dissolve in the harshness outside.”

“Thanks Ma, love you!”

Keerat threw open the door and walked to the group chafing with impatience under the portico. They turned at her determined gait, “I am sorry but I will not be accompanying you all today!”

Doomsayer (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

The tea and samosa could wait, Shirley told herself as she made to tear open the envelope an agitated parent had left on her table. She had ten minutes before the faculty returned from the dining hall to resume the parent teacher sessions. Shirley pushed her glasses back up the nose and held up the pale yellow paper.

Dear Teacher Progressive,

I am sick and tired of your patronizing and judging.  Please stop telling me not to push my kids and take some time off your high horse to learn the difference between nagging and motivating; diminishing and enabling; projecting and nurturing.

The air is thick with educationists spouting fonts of wisdom, Oh I have heard them all: just let your child be happy and stress free; let them follow their hearts; try not to live your dream through them; you could end up embarrassing and alienating them.

Have you any idea dear madam? Do you not smell the violence in the air, the lack of conviction in our leaders’ voices, the horrifying truth that there is no lofty peg the buck stops at? For all my desire to retain a benevolent view of life and mankind, the fact is that I see queues everywhere. I read and hear and feel the system that rewards ill-gotten power and money. Every morning at the bus stop, it feels like I am sending my little one into the war zone. Do you really believe that your polka dotted and star laden bulletin boards camouflage the real world we all inhabit?

Of course there are struggles and more but the most poignant of them all is my fight as a parent to keep faith and hope alive for my kids. I see strange things. My children come back from competitions with stories of favoritism and partiality. I shuddered the day they spoke of having their teacher suspended. I no longer know what to tell them about patriotism, truthfulness, sense of duty.  Anything and everything seems to go. There is that hollowness in the air, a dry throat-ed scratch to sounds of humanity, the public aura is clogged and clouded. A new attribute is being lauded in children: street smartness. Am I being foolish, telling my children to be nice and decent and responsible?

Petrol costs 71/-, the dollar has touched 62/-, hospitals take 20,000/- upfront for simple registration, food is adulterated, public transport unsafe, the land I just bought may have come with a forged deed, the courts are corrupt, schools overloaded, clinics understaffed, airwaves compromised, water and air polluted and you are calling me a doomsayer!!

The only armor in the face of this claustrophobic hostility dear Madam is education, influence, self-sufficiency, marketable skills. It is out of my hands. I cannot but push my kid. It is my moral obligation to equip him/her for survival in the future. So save your harangues on letting the kids be or else, for a day, only for a day, come wear my shoes.

Sincerely yours,

Middle class parent

Shirley looked up at the knock on the door, “May we come in Ma’am?”

She nodded, gesturing the couple towards the chairs. Folding the note carefully, she turned to the parents, “Please guide us Ma’am.  Our child finds it very difficult to get up in time for the school bus. There is too much stress in school. We want to spare him this daily hustle and bustle. What is your opinion on home schooling?!” 

Change (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

Mandeep did not flinch. Her daughter’s eyes flashed brilliantly with the light of angered betrayal. “You created my profile on a matrimonial website? Oh God, my friends will never let me live this down!”

“What are the odds bete, them finding you there or caring one way or the other? You are my child, too precious not to cover all the bases over!” her mother looked on calmly at the daughter’s puckered face, “Eeew Ma, its creepy, the whole idea!”

The two sat in bristling silence, their coffee mugs growing cold. “Look Mum, this is not something I have slotted into my life’s blueprint yet.” Mandeep nodded her head sagely, “I know and I am not about to force you into anything. Just trust that these things take time and if we are going to go the traditional way, there is something called the window of opportunity.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Well, if you had met someone at school!” Mandeep’s voice dipped.

“Hey,” the young voice went up a notch, “You told me to avoid entanglements in college! Focus on learning and growing was the theme song, remember?!”

The mother drew a long breath, “I still think there is a time for everything in life. It is just that the variables are so many with strangers, it frightens me!"

“Didn’t you and Papa meet through a newspaper ad?” Mandeep smiled wryly at her daughter’s question, responding with a laugh, “We’d be considered crazy in some cultures. Look how we jump into ‘till death do us part’ arrangements with people we had no idea existed until then.”

“They would call it certified lunacy Mum. What a tradition, entering nuptials believing we are ordained to do so over seven lives with that one specific person. What did Beeji call it? Sanjog ? Destiny?!”

Mandeep gathered the cold mugs, “Let me heat these up on the range, I don’t enjoy the taste of micro-ovened fluid!”

The daughter followed her maternal into their spacious and clean

kitchen. They stood over the steaming pan, the rain falling rhythmically outside, a perfect score for their whirlwind thoughts. Mandeep poured the last dreg and turned to her daughter, “Hear me out, all right. Patiently! This is not a belief I started out with but I choose to hold it today that marriage is foundational, the canon in fact of family life in society. I can’t imagine an ordered social structure without these islands of commitment. It is in fact what distinguished our species, something that is intrinsically good and long term, quite the antithesis of instant gratification.”

“It is a social contract mother!”

“Oh no, it is way beyond that and the wedding planners, believe you me. Our scriptures have called it a sacrament; a lifelong relationship within which the two partners get to evolve spiritually."

“You mean be real soul mates?”

“Not in the Archies cards and Valentine way, no. In fact, I am not sure one would want to marry a well-fitting glove or a Siamese twin or a band aid or even a mirror image. Soul mate in real terms translates into someone you do your soul’s work with!” Mandeep answered with the firmness of retrospective wisdom.

“Hmmm……so what has changed since?” the young voice took on an impatient edge.

“Your great grandmother was married off at 12 years of age; she bore her first son at fourteen; your grandmother never got to meet your grandfather, he sent his college friends as spies to check her out! Your Dad made sure we got to spend a decent amount of time together before tying the knot but this was only after our formal engagement. And here we are having this candid conversation on the metaphysics, epistemology and ethics of that thing called matrimony…if that isn’t change!”

Reminiscence (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

Lovely was your typical Punjabi bride; audible from metres off. Her bells and baubles bespoke of life’s promises. The one discordant note in her squeaky new life was her mother-in-law. “I think your Mum may be a latent hypochondriac,” she had begun to make tentative sounds around her groom. 

Mummy Ji regularly updated her list of ailments. If it was, “The smoke from the sheller is burning my throat,” one day, it would be, “The pesticide on the okra has upset my stomach,” on another. Her irksome aches and pains were rivalled only by an intense distrust of the medical fraternity. She refused to present herself to what she called a “plain MBBS.” Her physician had to be a specialist with published research and an award or two.

Fatigued with this on-going saga of ailments, the family had all but tuned her out. Lovely was Mummy Ji’s uninitiated and obligated listener. This one way monologue formed the basis of their flaky familiarity over the next decade or so. Lovely learned to mask a growing impatience with courtesy and silence. “I think her mind plays tricks,” she would tell herself.

There was more; an obsessive preoccupation with cleanliness and an ever present insecurity over religion and rituals. “There is so much to be grateful for, why can’t Mummy Ji be happier?” Lovely had graduated in her communication with the husband. But there was no insight forthcoming from the family other than a hurt withdrawal.

Until one day.

The house shot into an overdrive. Beeji was coming home from the hospice. With her terminal prognosis and a life expectancy of three months, she had expressed a desire for reunion and reminiscence. Lovely did not know what to expect. She had never heard anyone speak of Beeji. A mute spectator, she watched the bed ridden elder wheeled and settled in.

It was one of those lazy summer mornings when a lone hawker’s cry wends around tree lined lanes. Lovely sat playing cards with her nieces and nephews. Mummy Ji was hovering over Beeji, concluding the diaper drill. The patient lunged suddenly, the room going still. Everyone turned to the bed. Beeji was holding Mummy Ji’s hands, tears rolling down withered flesh, “I am sorry, so so sorry.”

She had carried the bitterness of her son marrying below him half her life. “I would not acknowledge your mother-in-law while we lived together,” she looked at Lovely. “My hurt ego preferred hospice care to being dependent on a daughter-in-law I did not consider fair, cultured and religious enough for my son. I was wrong.”

Lovely turned to her Mummy Ji, suddenly seeing it all. “Do you see how Beeji’s dismissal affected your DNA, your cells? It made you compulsive and obsessive. How can you bear now to change Beeji’s diaper after a lifetime of painful rejection?”

“That was her karma; this is mine,” the smile was wan. 

Correction (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

Cantonment bungalows can take you on flights of fancy. Everything can seem right with the world as you step out of the car, swinging a tastefully wrapped gift, hugging to yourself cosy thoughts of the waiting hospitality. “What a fabulous lawn!” Komal turned to her husband, the fairy lights throwing her warm smile into soft focus.

They picked their way carefully over the cobbled path, Garv keeping a steady hand under his wife’s elbow, thoughtful of her party footwear.

The host couple was waiting graciously at the other end and soon enough the evening flowed along on smooth rounds of drinks, music and effervescent banter. “Is your son home today? How have the auditions been going?” Komal had heard from Isha about their twenty three old aspiring actor son. “He will show up for dinner,” the hostess responded, looking away.

With the bonhomie having reached comfort levels, acerbic anecdotes had begun to roll off artful tongues. Before long, they were all moving in to Isha’s elegant dining hall. A gastronomic high was clearly guaranteed if the visual treat was anything to go by.  Komal lowered herself onto an ethnic chair with a plateful and looked around.

A tall young man had entered from the rear door. She watched him stand still near the table, gazing down at the prawns. He seemed as though he was in a bubble wrap, unseeing and unhearing of others.  He reached for a plate. There was the slightest hesitation when he reached the table end. Beckoning him close, she patted the chair besides her. He came over and sat down obediently.

“Hi! I am fascinated by your choice of work,” she began. He responded instantly, “You know Auntie, acting is a very dirty line. There are mothers who bring their daughters to directors; you understand what I am saying. Also, any idiot can get a six pack at the gym these days. Have you read the Laws of success by Napolean Hill? He talks of the mastermind. I shut my eyes often and picture myself on the screen; I hear the hall resounding with ovation, it is as though the audience are chanting my name.”

Komal placed her plate down gently on the peg table, narrowing her

eyes. “You did not go to NSD or FTII, so how do you plan to crack this?” her voice was tentative, a little unsure at his stilted intensity. He sprang up, “Oh! Would you like to see my blueprint for success?” Komal was led at a brisk pace to his study, “Here, I have organized myself,” he pointed her towards the computer chair. The two turned to a medium sized green board. There were grids and columns under heads such as: personal, social, professional, emotional. Subheads included: make four influential friends; put on 8 kilos; play basketball 45 minutes daily; clean up spoken Punjabi; don’t be picky; NETWORK. Her eyes stopped at ‘BHAI!’

His high strung voice nagged at her “We skyped with my brother last night. He was depressed over some exams. I don’t know man, here, look at this book. He wrote this when he was twelve! See all those shelves there; he has read them all. He is a champion shooter; a phenomenal dancer. At our school, everyone would tell me, “You can’t be Karan’s brother?!” All my life I have been compared with him; he is better built, fairer, scores more. It hurts.”

Conscious of the sudden silence from the dining hall, Komal got up. She parted the curtains, feeling an odd sense of guilt at having glimpsed something painful and private. Isha was seated right across the study. Their eyes met, held briefly then broke contact in haste.

Forcing herself to stay upbeat through the goodbye speeches, Komal let the mask drop as soon as their car pulled away. She gnawed at her lip, brows furrowed. At the red light, she turned to her husband and asked quietly, “Garv! Have we been too ambitious for our children, pushing them beyond what their caliber justified? Time for a mid-course correction?”

Dilemma (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

“Where will I learn the most Dad? I want to do great things.”

Sandeep stared at the young face, fearful at this talk of life and passion and motivation. “This kid is setting himself up for disappointment,” he thought gravely, casting about in futility for something, anything to help him base his castle upon.

“The National Defense Academy is a great institution Sonny, you would be our third generation graduating,” he made another, half-hearted attempt. “NO way! Never!! Too much discipline and structure for me. I want to fly. I want to do what I love,” the young voice rang resolutely.

“What is it that you love son?” Sonny fell silent before admitting quietly, “I am figuring that out. I am only seventeen, remember!”

The liberal, modern parent that he was, Sandeep walked Sonny into the city’s foremost college, a day later, togged out in their crisps, the two. They walked through the color and splash of dreams beyond the high gates, “Yes, German would be a good option, let him take Statistics as well,” they struck off the subject options at the academic department.

For days after, the father would search his son’s face on his return from college, waiting for the rays of knowledge and inspiration to light up. 

Sonny hung on for three months, believing the fire would find him eventually. He had made friends yes, but he was also fighting fatigue with the omnipresent academic indifference. “No one cares if we learn anything at all,” he admitted to his friend out of earshot of the parent. “My science practicals are antiquated; the lab assistants help with precipitates and residues. I am not sure the reagents are pure.”

Sonny watched his professors busy themselves with petty staff and administrative politics, wondering when they would turn to nurturing his spirit of enquiry. No one had spotted his desire to know, his ability to reason, his stamina for the good and the just. “If this is among the first ten science colleges of the country, what intellectual mayhem must there be in lesser portals!” He flopped down in front of his laptop, clicking on the link reading:

http://www.upscexam.com/upsc_examinations/national_defence_academy_nda/nda-na-examination-i-application-form.html

“Dad,” he called out with urgency.

Separation (Micro Fiction)

Follow @Honeysangha

Cataract surgery does that to a face. It takes the character and substance away. The eyes that appeared bigger through powered glasses all of a sudden look shorn and two dimensional, the face somehow seeming flatter. 

Meha looked away, reluctant to acknowledge the welling shimmer in Vani’s eyes. “You need to sit down,” she gently lowered her friend onto the bed.

The untidy apartment bore signs of a departure. There were old baggage tags strewn around as also discarded packages of newly bought goods. An untidy heap of processed food and toiletries laid in one half of the sofa, they had to be shed so as to account for the baggage weight, the weighing machine had not moved back to its designated slot in the house yet. And there was that pall loved ones leave when they bid goodbye, that heart wrenching vacuous hole in the space they until recently occupied.  Vani was beside herself with grief and guilt, “He is gone. I was so, so harsh on him! What a terrible mother I have been. Oh God, I told him once I wished I had not given birth to him. I am downright evil. Cruella, I am Cruella!”

Meha dunked the tea infuser in a big pot, turning to get some fruit from the refrigerator, “Don’t be silly Vani! Get a hold on yourself. Nobody is a perfect parent ever, it is too difficult a task. You have poured yourself into this college admission of his. It is time to look at yourself and get your strength back. Let’s rustle you some nutritious oats.”

Vani sat vacantly, eyes glossing over at the memory of his packed luggage along the wall. Her moist eyes paused at the corner where his guitar had stood, the “fragile” label dangling from the stem cover. His folder of travel documents had lain right where her hand rested on the bed today. She clenched her fist, feeling the onrush of another panic attack. A claustrophobic sensation seized her, making it difficult to breathe. “Meha,” she croaked, flopping back on his bed.

Meha hurried back with the two cups of steaming tea, “I made Kahwah, it will soothe your stomach. Do you smell the spicy aroma?” Vani was not listening, “I was a very demanding and impatient mother, always criticizing him, calling him a duffer even, hammering at him to become self-sufficient. Oh why, why, why did I use such harsh words, berating him for not scoring as well as my cousin’s daughter? He’s gone now. Too late!”

Meha punched the power switch on the brand new laptop, “Here, let’s get on with our Skype lesson. You have to let go Vani. He is on a journey you cannot follow him on anymore. I bet he barely remembers any of the horrifying past you are kicking yourself for. Here, give me your phone, let’s place a call to your Mum. Talking to her will help ease your mind a bit.”

As Vani held out the instrument listlessly, it stung. A sunny envelope lit up the screen. There was a message. “Ma! Thank you for sending me to such a great school. I love you. In class right now. I am at the right place, just as you always dreamed I would be. Don’t worry. I am telling you. Will do you proud!”

The mother sat up with renewed vigor, holding out her hand briskly, “Would you hand me that cup please Meha?! What were you saying now about the skype lesson?”