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

touched Mr. Dopyaza’s
feet when he came weeks ago, to bring groceries. He studied in a college
in the town, one of his mother’s many sacrifices while he lifted bricks to
pay his fees.
When their eyes met, Mr. Dopyaza had been the one to look away first.
    White tendrils crept out of her bun, indicative of the time that drifted by.
She hung on his walls like a painting. Unnoticed. Whose presence wasn’t
acknowledged, but whose absence hung heavily in the air. A subconscious
habit. He never said her name, just a few grunts and barked orders.
    He thought about it today:he didn’t know her name. Never had asked.
Never knew the name of the stream that filled the empty spaces of his
life. The fragrance of freshly baked parathas, stir-fried beans and the tang
of curd tingled his nostrils. The delectable plate clattered on the table.
He took a whiff and wondered how he had never enjoyed food as good
as this.
The clinking of her bangles resounded in the silence.
     
“ Suno, what is your name?”
    His voice cracked around the edges. The lack of decent conversation had
rusted his chords. His voice had changed drastically from his memories
that sagged like his skin. Hollow like his withering body.
Her eyes widened as she took in her employer’s words. “Savita.” she re-
plied with a shy smile, “Savita is my name.”
    “The beans are soft and succulent. The parathas are crispy as I like it.
Good job, Savita.” He was taken aback by her smile . He had never seen
her with it around in his house. He looked at his plate, his lips stretching
into what he felt was an oddly familiar curve that he had stopped wear-
ing. He took a sip of water and resumed eating, ignoring the presence of
another human. Savita understood it to mean that she was dismissed. She
walked back to the kitchen, her anklets thrumming.
    Mr. Dopyaza finished his food in silence. Leaving the plate on the table,
he washed his hands at the sink. He stuffed a newspaper in the nook of
his elbow and receded into his chamber.
    Walking over to the desk that he had spent his days and nights pouring
over cases as a lawyer, he sat in the plush chair. The cupboard behind him
had many leather-bound records, along with presents from clients. Lean-
ing back, he glanced at his table. Amidst the bank receipts, old papers and
books, he found a new addition. A yellow envelope.
“Savita!” he shouted, “Savita!”
     
The sound of shuffling feet answered. Savita appeared, panting as she
leaned against the wall.
     
“Did the postman come?” he asked, eyeing the envelope.
    “No, Sahib. I found it when I came in the morning. It was stuffed under
the door. I kept it in your study.” Looking down, Savita tugged at the
ends of her sari, “Sahib, I forgot. I’m very sorry.”
“It’s fine. You may leave.” Sahib huffed out. Picking up the envelope, he
turned it around.
     
Happy Birthday
    Mr. Dopyaza’s breath stuttered as his brain processed the words. He had
spent more than fifty years of his life without being wished once. Who
remembered him? Perhaps , he thought, this was for someone else. Someone
who shared his birthday. That gave him something that resembled heart-
burn. He searched for any stamp, or postage mark, but found none. Hand
delivered.
That stopped him. Someone had cared enough about him to come to his
house and give it to him.
    But why in the morning? Why not ring the bell? Why not try to contact
him earlier? Why now? A million possibilities flashed across his mind.
But the lawyer in him caught hold of his ankles, preventing him from
flying any higher.
    He walked over to the window and looked over the little town. The hay
cottages peeked shyly from behind the concrete buildings. Each house
had a colour of its own. The smoke rose in the distance, touching the lim-
itless canvas with its wispy fingers. The rolling blues of the hills meshed
with the azure expanse of the sky. The green blurs become more defined
as one traces