Free Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. by Gabbar Singh, Anuj Gosalia, Sakshi Nanda, Rohit Gore

head back in laugh-
ter over something Arjun told her. He had never spoken to her like that.
Well, she did not look like Olivia. Or dress like her.
    Maybe he was having an affair with Olivia. Or maybe they were just good
friends and she was reading too much into it. But what was more shock-
ing was the realization that she didn’t care. Renuka, who had always been
brought up to be the ideal daughter before the wedding and the wife
after, wasn’t bothered by the fact that her husband could be having an
affair.
Till the day she met him, her stalker, as she had started referring to him.
One day, she decided to take the plunge and ask him what it was that he
noticed about her first-the reason behind the stalking, if you will.
    “It was the red in your hair. The fact that you wore your marriage with
such pride. The way you held on to it with so much hope, despite the sad-
ness in your eyes.” With this Sandeep took her hand in his as he leaned
across and tucked away a loose strand of hair that had fallen across her
cheek.
    His words, this time, rained on her like a cold shower on a warm day. She
was married. No matter how much she was attracted to him, she couldn’t
do this. How much she liked him and how close they were was irrelevant.
She would never be able to take the next step. She could not do that to
him, to Arjun or to herself.
    She withdrew her hand from his. This would be the last time. She knew
it. He knew it as well. She pretended not to notice his eyes that pleaded
with her. Kissing him on the forehead, she walked away.
    “Renu, don’t do this to yourself. You deserve much better. You deserve
to be loved and happy.”She ignored the words, like she was used to. This
too, shall pass.
She would miss him. But that was her choice. Like always, she was at a
crossroads and had chosen.
    The next day, she went to the hairdresser’s and got her long, black locks
chopped. The hair that she was secretly proud of, for it hung all the way
until her hips, the hair that had helped fetch a prospective groom for a
homely girl. The hair that she had held on to, as if it were a curtain. What
was left of it now lay in chic layers framing her delicate face. She didn’t
stop there. This was no mere gesture. She traded her saree for jeans and
a thick sweater. And the vermilion? It was washed off.
But like a stubborn stain it refused to leave. It lay in between the pages
of the books that she caressed and found solace in. That would be her
strength later on in life.
    She did continue her walks. But never saw him again. And her husband?
The only acknowledgement he gave her makeover was a nod of his head
that evening when she served him her signature ghee roast and coconut
chutney. And her? She never took to wearing marriage on her forehead
again.

9.
The Birthday Boy
Harsha Pattnaik
It was a dull shade of ochre. Slightly curving in at the corners, it looked
like it had been bunched up in uncertain hands.
    It lay there on the polished rosewood, a yellow leaf on a barren tree. Red
ink splattered across its poker face, a swing, a luscious curve. The sharp
edges were softened with smudges. It came in the morning, probably.
The dew leaving its traces on the blurring red corners.
    The kettle shrieked on the stove. The maid quickly took out the only cup
in the cupboard. When she had first come here to work, she had found
it surprising that there were utensils sufficient for just one person. That
if a guest ever arrived, there would be nothing to offer, nothing to offer
it on. She took out a ceramic plate and placed it on the kitchen island.
Her eyes strayed to the letter on the table, her teeth clamping down on
her dried lips.
The door to his chamber creaked softly as she peered into the darkness.
    The hiss of batter on the hot tava woke Mr. Dopyaza up. Blinking his
misted eyes, he stared at the same ceiling he had seen for the last seventysix years.
No, seventy-seven.
    The realization woke him up