Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. Read Online Free PDF

whose name sounded familiar. And
about anybody who fit into that untitled genre. Simmer the talk back to
a couple: a woman and a man. Tiptoe away from anything that changes a
number or a gender in this formula.
    Ten past ten. We had eaten. People were now taking sips of conversa
-
tion with dessert. Homemade chocolate cake. Only the few who pos-
sessed ovens at home asked for the recipe. Two helped clean the table
up, tucking their duppattas away. And two pushed the table to a corner
and stacked all our bags on it. Staring at the ceiling or the television that
played assorted Bollywood songs seemed admissible, too. Yawns had
started to creep in.
    Thirty five past ten. The women began peeling layers of cotton, elastic
tapes and polyesters, and changed into night drapes to let themselves a
dose of Skin. They mostly folded the three or four pieces neatly and piled
them over their bags. I, ever the patient of Skin, reclined to listen to them
tuck away their layers.
    Eleven. “I wish we could dress like the men,” said the one in a purple
satin gown with frills on it. Two were already asleep. They had peeled
themselves first.
    “Those shirts, the banians and all the hair that idiot, my boyfriend pulls
off,” that was a green t-shirt talking as she changed into her shorts and
clean-shaven legs. To swear and punctuate was to help count the number
of years she went out with him, successfully procrastinating a marriage.
    A lavender nightie filled a couple of water bottles for the night. She listed
all the men of her house and their daily attire. “Father-in-law in banian
and lungi, shorts and a tee for the husband, ‘bermuda’ for the brotherin-law.”
Two past twelve. “Dude, my grandpa never wears a shirt while at home,”
the green tee, in the city to visit her cousins and appalled.
     
“Nor does mine,” I murmured, removing my brassiere through the lon-
ger-than-slack sleeve.

5.
Benched
Abhilasha Kumar
    SCENE: It is nearly four in the afternoon. Two women are seated on a
stone bench, no different from the many others on the pathway encircl-
ing the Hauz Khas Lake. It is an ordinary, calm evening. The lake over-
looks a dilapidated fort that stands still on its rocky foundations. Birds
don’t sing, traffic can’t be heard, and the air is quiet. Several ducks swim
aimlessly in the lake, not quacking.
    Paridhi is seated on the right. She is dressed in a green kurti and white
leggings. Wrapped around her neck is a multi-coloured stole, with bold
patches in green, teal and brown. Her eyes are lined with kajal . Aarzoo is
seated on the left. She is wearing a denim tunic that ended just below her
knees. Her spectacles are large-rimmed and she wears her hair in a care-
lessly tied bun. Paridhi’s bag lies between them both.
PARIDHI: It’s funny, us meeting on a bench like this. We were closer
than that, weren’t we?
     
AARZOO: Why does a bench imply distance to you? We could be a hap-
pily married couple out for some fresh air, for all you know.
PARIDHI: Come on, we could’ve never been a ‘happily married cou-
ple’.
     
AARZOO: Do you mean that we couldn’t have been married or that we
couldn’t have been happy?
    PARIDHI: What? That’s a really silly question.
AARZOO: Not important. Answer it.
PARIDHI: I am already married. To a man I love. In any case, you never
liked my constant need for company.
    AARZOO: Does he?
PARIDHI: Does who?
AARZOO: Your husband, of course.
PARIDHI: Oh. Well, I don’t need his company so much.
AARZOO: Oh, I see.
PARIDHI: What?
AARZOO: Nothing, nothing at all.
PARIDHI: You can say whatever you’re trying very hard to not say. I can
hear it.
    AARZOO (Shrugging her shoulders): But I don’t have anything to say.
PARIDHI: Fine.
    (There is silence for a while. Paridhi frowns, as though regretting this
meeting already. Aarzoo brushes away a small feather that has landed on
her tunic.)
    PARIDHI: What about you? Do you still write?
AARZOO: Occasionally,