short story
Sometimes life hands you lemons so that you can become really good at making lemonade. Of course, there are some who simply cry hoarse about the lemons that life keeps giving them.
Mrs. Karthik fell into the second category. Her misery knew no bound. The whole mohalla was aware of her misfortunes, her useless husband and her delinquent children – literally!
Every morning at the crack of dawn, Usha Karthik would make it a point to startle the Rooster awake with her lament, which inevitably started with the dramatic exclamations of “Hay hay hay…”
Umapathi, the useless husband, worked in the field and made a quick getaway early morning in the guise of work. His land lord appreciated the extra effort Umapathi put into coming so early to work.
Life was routine until Usha decided she needed some money and rented out a part of her Chawl. After much screening, she settled on Laxmi Bai, the wide-eyed, tongue tied and rather stupid looking maid who worked in a nearby apartment complex.
Next morning the unprecedented happened. Both Usha and the rooster were startled awake at the sound of crashing utensils. Soon, this was followed by the sounds of several other crashes and curses. Usha, forgetting her routine, went to investigate and found a bushy tailed butterfingered Laxmi with the house in array.
In the days that followed. Usha discovered Laxmi Bai was the most uncoordinated butterfingered maid she had ever come across. Between the dropped dishes and the litany of curses coming from her tenant, Usha soon lost her daily listeners. All she could do was wait for Umapathi to return and then start her complaints.
As the months progresses, even this became problematic as Laxmi bai was as good at dropping things after dusk as she was at dawn. Usha changed her strategy and started to meet Umapathi at the outskirts of the mohalla and complain on the walk back.
Of course, walking back and forth through the mohalla meant Usha had to put on her finery and dress up, which went against her lifestyle. But what is so small a sacrifice for being able to complaint to an avid listener again. So, the mohalla found itself shocked by the specter of a dressed up Usha Karthik walking by on a nice evening.
But Umapathi never came before dusk. That meant Usha had to put up with the noise through out the day. So she made a little more change in her lifestyle and started visiting the neighbours and actually talking to them instead of her usual complaints. That wouldn’t have done much good to her plans of getting invited in.
Six months to the date Lamxi Bai took over the rooster call, Usha found herself in a dhaba with her family having a decent meal, on the rent money of course. Life had changed. Suddenly, Usha could find no lemons in her life to cry about.
Then news came that Laxmi bai had finally broken the most coveted family heirloom in her employer’s house and had to be dismissed. Usha’s sigh of relief was well heard even a few blocks over and she tried hard not to smile at the prospect of silence.
However, she did wonder why Laxmi Bai was so happy to be fired. Laxmi, too preoccupied in her own thoughts, never noticed the contemplative expression on Usha’s face. She was already thinking about how she was going to start a tea-shop. After all Umapathi had been generous with his payments. It was indeed lucky for her that Umapathi’s employer liked stage shows.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
Heart burn or destiny!
A Short Story
Life leads people to weird destinies. When I was ten I dreamt of becoming a driver. The white uniform, the cap and the ability to drive the four wheeled monster was in my eyes superhero stuff. When I was 30, I was already on my way up in life and had a driver who drove my luxury sedan. Driving in rush hour traffic, the news papers wrote, is the top cause for young men’s death.
Life had been good to me. I put in my hard work at school and college and found myself among the ever growing bunch of successful businessmen. I had champagne at night and wrote down numbers in my blackberry. Life was good.
But sometimes, right between the morning cup of coffee and closing the car door, there would be a few seconds when something like an ache will build in my chest. Some ones lost voice will whisper, wasn’t there something else you were suppose to do? My first suspicion was indigestion, followed by an EEG for the fear of heart trouble. And last but not the least a counselor to test my stress level.
Things were normal for months after my panicked rush. Being a bachelor, my panics was however not noticed by any and I felt safe to continue with my life. Looking back I think I would have been alright if I hadn’t fallen in love. In fact I fell in love twice within the space of seven days. First with Laura, the vivacious teacher from Goa. And then Kusum, the half blind rag picker and one of Laura’s students.
Let me tell the story properly. I was attending a seminar on social responsibilities of the young and rich. It’s among this mixed bunch of fresh young tycoons and tired social workers that I met Laura. She was not actually beautiful, come to think of it. She was however supremely confident of what she spoke. It wasn’t passion, it was conviction that set her apart. As I stood there talking to her and listening her plans for teaching rag pickers, I suddenly realized I had no clue what I want from my life.
Next Sunday, when I walked out onto my terrace and the ache in my heart returned, I didn’t call a doctor. I called Laura. Surprised and to some extent skeptical about my interest, Laura took me to her “school” nevertheless. The drive to the slum was uncomfortable, even though I was not able to slam the seal of “social worker types” on her.
It was dirty, smelly and chaotic. I hesitated at the door of the car. I don’t know what Laura saw in my face but I found myself facing the delicate outstretched hands of that woman. Swallowing my ego and long dead chivalrous thoughts, I actually took the hand and stepped into my destiny.
In the school, which was small ground in the middle of the small slum, there sat 12 odd girls and boys, faces dirty and dresses torn, laughing like mad. I think I must have stopped to stare at their face, because I felt a tug on my trouser legs and looked down to see Kusum. Small for her age, with a serene expression that looked years older, she led me to an upturned drum, cleaned it with her already dirty dupatta and set me down.
It was an experienced that made my skin crawl. I had no time to give to this people. They had always existed and always will. It was not for me to interfere. But Laura was doing it, happily. An architecture graduate, she was from my side of life. And somehow, I felt as if she had crossed over somewhere better. And I was stuck in limbo.
My return to professional life wasn’t smooth. The ache grew to the extent where I actually had to consult a doctor and was diagnosed as having mild ulcer. I was told to reduce stress in my life. I was lost. I had met Laura a couple of times after that visit and had found myself falling for her. And I shut up the little voice inside by arguing that it was love that clouded my perception.
But I kept thinking about Kusum and her serene face. The un-seeing eye seeing more then mine. The kind gesture, which I didn’t reciprocate. And then came the clincher. Laura informed me she was moving back to Goa, where she believed her work was needed. For a 30 year old in love, break ups are very confusing. I was very mature and told the love of my life I understood. I didn’t. I felt like smashing vases.
With Laura gone, my life was again thrown into chaos. The little voice was pestering me to see Kusum, now that I could not argue about love. I lost the debate and after years of making a professional life and career, I suddenly felt happy about handing in my resignation. There was twinge of pain in seeing the shocked look on my mothers face when I told her. But I was giddy with love. I was going to see Kusum.
In what has been the most dysfunctional relationship in my life, Kusum led me through hoops as I led her through childhood and puberty and then teenage. She was destined to be kind caregiver though and chose her path in following me as a teacher. I was, by then, an old teacher with a small school. Laura was by my side. Not as my wife though. Our mutual destinies never intertwined, though I always had her with me in every step of my life. And when I sit in my wicker chair with a glass of chai in the hand, I know the pain in my chest is definitely a heart problem.
Life leads people to weird destinies. When I was ten I dreamt of becoming a driver. The white uniform, the cap and the ability to drive the four wheeled monster was in my eyes superhero stuff. When I was 30, I was already on my way up in life and had a driver who drove my luxury sedan. Driving in rush hour traffic, the news papers wrote, is the top cause for young men’s death.
Life had been good to me. I put in my hard work at school and college and found myself among the ever growing bunch of successful businessmen. I had champagne at night and wrote down numbers in my blackberry. Life was good.
But sometimes, right between the morning cup of coffee and closing the car door, there would be a few seconds when something like an ache will build in my chest. Some ones lost voice will whisper, wasn’t there something else you were suppose to do? My first suspicion was indigestion, followed by an EEG for the fear of heart trouble. And last but not the least a counselor to test my stress level.
Things were normal for months after my panicked rush. Being a bachelor, my panics was however not noticed by any and I felt safe to continue with my life. Looking back I think I would have been alright if I hadn’t fallen in love. In fact I fell in love twice within the space of seven days. First with Laura, the vivacious teacher from Goa. And then Kusum, the half blind rag picker and one of Laura’s students.
Let me tell the story properly. I was attending a seminar on social responsibilities of the young and rich. It’s among this mixed bunch of fresh young tycoons and tired social workers that I met Laura. She was not actually beautiful, come to think of it. She was however supremely confident of what she spoke. It wasn’t passion, it was conviction that set her apart. As I stood there talking to her and listening her plans for teaching rag pickers, I suddenly realized I had no clue what I want from my life.
Next Sunday, when I walked out onto my terrace and the ache in my heart returned, I didn’t call a doctor. I called Laura. Surprised and to some extent skeptical about my interest, Laura took me to her “school” nevertheless. The drive to the slum was uncomfortable, even though I was not able to slam the seal of “social worker types” on her.
It was dirty, smelly and chaotic. I hesitated at the door of the car. I don’t know what Laura saw in my face but I found myself facing the delicate outstretched hands of that woman. Swallowing my ego and long dead chivalrous thoughts, I actually took the hand and stepped into my destiny.
In the school, which was small ground in the middle of the small slum, there sat 12 odd girls and boys, faces dirty and dresses torn, laughing like mad. I think I must have stopped to stare at their face, because I felt a tug on my trouser legs and looked down to see Kusum. Small for her age, with a serene expression that looked years older, she led me to an upturned drum, cleaned it with her already dirty dupatta and set me down.
It was an experienced that made my skin crawl. I had no time to give to this people. They had always existed and always will. It was not for me to interfere. But Laura was doing it, happily. An architecture graduate, she was from my side of life. And somehow, I felt as if she had crossed over somewhere better. And I was stuck in limbo.
My return to professional life wasn’t smooth. The ache grew to the extent where I actually had to consult a doctor and was diagnosed as having mild ulcer. I was told to reduce stress in my life. I was lost. I had met Laura a couple of times after that visit and had found myself falling for her. And I shut up the little voice inside by arguing that it was love that clouded my perception.
But I kept thinking about Kusum and her serene face. The un-seeing eye seeing more then mine. The kind gesture, which I didn’t reciprocate. And then came the clincher. Laura informed me she was moving back to Goa, where she believed her work was needed. For a 30 year old in love, break ups are very confusing. I was very mature and told the love of my life I understood. I didn’t. I felt like smashing vases.
With Laura gone, my life was again thrown into chaos. The little voice was pestering me to see Kusum, now that I could not argue about love. I lost the debate and after years of making a professional life and career, I suddenly felt happy about handing in my resignation. There was twinge of pain in seeing the shocked look on my mothers face when I told her. But I was giddy with love. I was going to see Kusum.
In what has been the most dysfunctional relationship in my life, Kusum led me through hoops as I led her through childhood and puberty and then teenage. She was destined to be kind caregiver though and chose her path in following me as a teacher. I was, by then, an old teacher with a small school. Laura was by my side. Not as my wife though. Our mutual destinies never intertwined, though I always had her with me in every step of my life. And when I sit in my wicker chair with a glass of chai in the hand, I know the pain in my chest is definitely a heart problem.
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