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

with a start. Usually, he spent a few minutes
in bed, marvelling at the world outside his window. The faint shadows
of stars receding with the arrival of dawn. The crooked coconut trees
swinging in the morning breeze. The sun blushing from behind the huts
in the distance. He would take in the songs of the jays, the distant wail
of a child.
    But today, he got off the warm womb he had sheltered in his entire
life and walked over to the mirror. The magic of youth had faded de-
cades ago, leaving warts and moles in its place. The folds of skin around
his neck, the crinkles around his eyes and mouth seemed to deepen like
thirsty soil every time he looked at himself.
    His black-tipped grey hair had started to disappear, like his memories.
Sometimes he felt he would wake up and forget who he was. His eyes
darted away from the saliva stains on the corner of his mouth as he wiped
them away shamefully. The incessant ringing in his ear had increased. He
wondered if he would ever stop hearing the bell of the postman’s cycle
that never came his way, or the laughter of the children he never had.
“Sahib, the food is ready.”
    The distant voice of his maid knocked him into consciousness. Collecting
himself, he turned the knob of his door and pulled at it. It didn’t open.
Momentarily paralyzed, he felt trapped and useless. His pulse picked pace.
In a desperate attempt, he pulled the door once, twice...but nothing hap-
pened. Perspiration laced his skin as his heart stammered. Feeling impris-
oned in his own house, he banged on the door. The door shifted slightly,
before opening altogether. He stood there at the threshold, dazed.
For seventy-seven years, he had pushed that door. Today he had pulled
it.
    “Sahib” the maid called from the kitchen. Mr. Dopyaza shook away the
morning’s misadventure and stepped into the corridor. Walking along the
narrow hallway, he sought the relief of familiar faces on the walls. But
the barren surfaces seemed to mock him, telling him he had none to call
his own.
    The walk through the corridor was oppressive; the walls gloomy and
intimidating as if inching closer, ready to collapse on him. His rubber
slippers dragged across the marble, even his shadow reeked of grief. He
remembered that the bathroom door was to be pulled. Standing in front
of the white-washed door, he pulled it before he remembered that it was
to be pulled from the inside. He gave it a soft push and it eased open.
That day, he spent a little longer than he usually did in the bathroom.
    The chair screeched as Mr. Dopyaza dragged it. Settling into it, he
clutched the glass of water his maid had kept for him. Taking a sip, he
reached for the pills on the china plate. Swallowing them, he stared at the
middle-aged woman in the kitchen.
She had worked for him for more years than he could recall. When he
had first seen her, her hair was black. Oiled and tied in two braids, her
raven tresses shone when the sunlight caressed them. She wore a salwar
kameez, with her dupatta knotted on her side. Her skin, the colour of
almonds. Her eyes, clear and dark. And deep. Soulful. She was a girl on
the brink of womanhood. But her vermillion-streaked parting told him
that she had crossed over the threshold.
    He’d seen her when her belly was protruding outwards, her dupatta
wrapped around her like a chrysalis. Her movements were less agile and
she couldn’t sweep the floors. He’d seen her little boy sleep on the floor
of the kitchen. His chest heaving fast, as if panting for his newfound
life.
    He’d wanted to touch him, but couldn’t find a part of him in that tiny
vessel. Couldn’t find a part of him anywhere. Not in the cries of ‘papa’ in
the parks. Not in the unblinking gaze of infants. Watching, as his tiny feet
would totter, his pudgy arms stretched to grasp him. And the boy would
get tangled in Mr. Dopyaza’a looming shadows, unable to hold onto the
disappearing man. That boy was now a man who