Broken Melodies

By Gajra Kottary

From the co-writer of the superhit serial Balika Vadhu Niyati is young, curious and full of hopes and dreams. The process of growing up in a dysfunctional household, however, is proving hard. Her life is becoming like a jigsaw puzzle, the pieces of which never seem to come together.  Her days are clouded by parental conflict, the hypocrisies of a philandering father, the seething silences of her mother and her own personal uncertainties. The presence of her cheeky neighbour Chandan riles her no end, while the sight of her sister Nisha warms her heart at once. Nisha, ten years her elder, is Niyati's touchstone for everything in life. Until here too a revelation jolts her into finally taking charge of her own life. Set in Delhi of the 1970s and the '80s, Broken Melodies is a deeply moving novel about the search for beauty in our lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: Jun 22, 2012
• ISBN: 9789350292457

Gajra Kottary

Gajra Kottary is the award-winning story writer of serials like Astitva, Jyoti, Veera, Buddha and Balika Vadhu, among many others. She has published two collections of women-centric stories. This is her third novel after Broken Melodies and Once Upon a Star, both published by HarperCollins India.

Book preview

1

Like most other afternoons, today, too, Niyati knew she would have to enter her own house like a thief. She fervently hoped Chandan had not heard the school bus trundle off noisily after dropping her at the corner of the lane.

The housing complex, Kaladham, seemed desolate that hot Delhi afternoon. Not a soul was to be seen anywhere outside the neighbouring houses on either side of the lane. Walking towards her home at the far end, she heard no giveaway of any other neighbourly activity, save the sound of Didi’s favourite song ‘Dum maro dum’ blaring from a radiogram. The intoxicating melody was wafting out headily from the Mehtas’ bungalow. The song was from a 1971 hit film Hare Rama Hare Krishna, and still playing two years later. Niyati instantly visualized Didi dancing to it and smiled to herself.

Still, it was better to be safe, Niyati thought, as she virtually tiptoed towards the gate of Shankar Chand Nivas. She could never be too sure of Chandan’s absence here, for he had such an uncanny way of popping up from unexpected places.

Stepping inside her house, Niyati momentarily felt victorious at having got the better of him. And if she just about stopped herself from jumping with joy at this feat, it was only for fear that this might in some way alert Cheeky Chandan.

She threw her school bag on the divan and plonked herself on it, legs dangling from under her tunic chequered with navy blue and white. Her hair, lightly oiled with Cantharidine oil, was tied with crisp white ribbons into two tight pigtails hanging over her ears. The slight smear on one cheek of her round chubby face and the scented eraser shavings collected in the tunic pocket to sniff from time to time indicated the story of another day gone by for the seven-year-old Niyati of Standard 2A at JMS school.

Niyati always wanted these few moments alone at home to linger on, but they seldom did. She always wondered why they scampered by so fast, and why, before she knew it, the lunchtime ordeal at the neighbours’ would be upon her.

She scanned the empty house with her limpid eyes. Mummy had drawn the faded maroon curtains, like she did every day, to keep out the scorching glare of the summer sun; the corners in the house appeared dark and lonesome. A large desert cooler fitted into a rectangular window stood guard in silence. Every now and then its heavy fan rolled lazily to one side as the loo outside invaded the framed straw and teased its blades. The air in the living room was heavy with the stuffy scent of khus. Everything looked exactly as she had left it in the morning, and this at once reassured and tired her seven-year-old innocence.

Her searching eyes stopped at the centre table. Strewn on it were several pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. Old, jaded pieces of coloured cardboard that Didi had played with ten years ago, just as she did now. She had been trying to solve the puzzle this morning before she rushed out to catch the school bus. Mummy knew that she didn’t like her puzzles messed with, so she had left them on the table, untouched.

Niyati came down the divan and knelt on the rug beneath the table. It was a rough khadi rug that Paaji had purchased last year from Khadi Gramodyog Bhavan in Connaught Place. The rough fibre scraped against her tender knees, yet Niyati was almost oblivious to the discomfort she felt. She strained her neck over the unfinished puzzle.

‘Oye Khotti,’ came the familiar voice – that repulsed her so much – with precise timing.

It was Chandan, Nimmi aunty’s fourteen-year-old son. Chandan Chopra or CC, as everyone called him, stood impudently at the door, arms akimbo. Niyati of course had always felt that his initials were better suited to being elaborated as ‘Cheeky Chandan’.

‘You are not hungry yet kya? Chal! My Mamma is calling you!’

Niyati didn’t answer. She just rose and crossed the threshold. As she did so, Chandan moved to the side, eyes scornful at her silence. Niyati latched the door and walked past him, onto the pathway leading to the gate of her house. Then she paused in front of the neighbouring house’s gate and readied herself one last time. After that, going up three steps, she soon stood at the main door to the Chopra household.

Chandan hadn’t cared to follow her on this natural course. He had climbed up the low wall common to both houses and separating their small frontal precincts from each other. So by the time Niyati reached the steps leading up to the door, he was already there.

Nimmi aunty peeped from the window adjacent to the door.

‘What happened, puttar? You got late again?’ she called out to Niyati. Then she quickly disappeared from the window and almost instantly reappeared at the door. ‘Come fast! Let us all eat aawar lunch,’ she trailed cheerily as she always did.

Nimmi aunty’s round ruddy face had now lit up with a broad smile. Her pink polyester kurta-salwar accentuated her proudly self-proclaimed fear skin, even if it did not match the shade of the red lipstick she always wore. Her georgette dupatta wrung her neck like a hangman’s noose, several miles away from covering the shapeless chest that it was meant to drape. The red daub on her forehead originating from her lipstick – the economical and best way to make a bindi – always matched perfectly according to Nimmi aunty’s own frequent proclamations.

Nimmi aunty caught Niyati by the arm and led her to the dining table. The skin of Nimmi aunty’s hardworking hands against hers felt rough, like the khadi rug at home.

Following them in, Chandan seated himself on the chair opposite Niyati’s. Nimmi aunty opened Niyati’s dabba and served in a big steel plate the food that had been packed by Mummy in the morning, and which she had so patiently heated up a few minutes ago. There were two rotis, masala-stuffed lady’s fingers, yellow dal and rice. Niyati began eating quickly. Nimmi aunty now proceeded to serve Chandan from the serving bowls kept on the table.

‘Niyati, you want some palak p’neer puttar?’ she asked. But before Niyati could answer, Chandan butted in, throwing a disdainful eye on her food.

‘Don’t you get bored of that kind of stuff every day?’ he queried, unashamedly contemptuous.

Niyati smarted. Flashes of Mummy cooking in the mornings swam up in her mind. Saree pallu tucked at her waist, she would hurriedly pack tiffin for Didi and her, with no time to improvise much on her hasty dishes.

‘No,’ she said, as haughtily as she could. ‘I like what Mummy cooks,’ while still glancing at the delectable blobs of paneer ornamenting Chandan’s plate.

Nimmi pretended to be offended with Chandan.

‘Oye, you are such a bad boy Chandan! Don’t you know Sumiran aunty works in office the whole day? Poor thing cooks in the morning and then leaves. How do you expect her to cook exotic dishes like your mother does every day?’

Nimmi aunty sat heavily on the chair next to Niyati’s. Niyati continued eating, her throat tightening at the prospect of the ensuing conversation. Chandan smiled insolently. Nimmi aunty picked up a hand fan lying nearby and flapped it to and fro in the air near her face.

‘Oho! This heat is so killing!’ she complained and then paused purposefully. Niyati now knew for sure where the conversation was headed.

‘It’s different for me… I never worked outside, because I knew my children needed me more,’ said Nimmi aunty. By now the smugness in those very familiar words was suffocating Niyati.

‘It is so hard for a working woman,’ Nimmi aunty continued. ‘Poor Sumiran, she must be feeling bad too, but then if one has a dire need, there is no way out. Which mother likes to leave her children to their own means and go to office every day? I felt so bad for the poor thing having to rush home from office at lunchtime just to feed Niyati bitiya hot lunch that I insisted on cooperating with her. I myself offered to feed Niyati since she is too small to reach the gas to heat the food herself. Sumiran was feeling very bad but I said what are good neighbours for after all?’ Nimmi aunty went on explaining herself for the nth time to no one in particular.

Then suddenly, as if overwhelmed by emotion, Nimmi aunty got up and grabbed the paneer bowl. Doling out a portion of rich green gravy clinging desirously to white angelic chunks of paneer onto Niyati’s plate, she exulted, ‘Take some! Don’t worry Niyati, Mummy will not say anything. I cook this p’neer very well….isn’t it Chandan?’

Chandan, his mouth full of food, could only smile at his mother’s self-appraisal. Niyati ate a spoonful of the temptation offered to her. It was like heaven seducing her taste buds. But almost immediately, a pang of guilt and Mummy’s sareed image nagged at her.

‘Arre Niyati, you are OK na?’ asked Nimmi aunty, noticing her stricken face. ‘By the way, your Mummy… how is she?’ Nimmi aunty rattled on. ‘I thought I heard her shrieking last night at someone and then wailing. She’s OK na…?’ Niyati thought she heard a chuckle from the deep of Nimmi aunty’s throat, but then, maybe she was just imagining it.

‘Or maybe it was someone else…’ Nimmi aunty trailed off, unsurely.

‘No aunty, Mummy didn’t shriek at anyone,’ came a meek reply from Niyati, now on her last few chews.

Thankfully Chandan wasn’t paying any attention to their conversation now. Or maybe he was. Niyati couldn’t make out. She couldn’t make out many things about this family so often.

Nimmi aunty kept the paneer bowl down and continued to flap the fan. Niyati suddenly felt full. The last few morsels were just not moving down her throat. The lady’s finger and paneer were just hanging in there, coalescing uncomfortably together, and making her feel breathless. Niyati suddenly stopped eating.

Just then, thankfully, Pinky arrived. The dead discomfort got a break and everyone was distracted. Pinky alias Roshni Chopra, Nimmi aunty and Prakash uncle’s daughter, and Chandan’s sister. She breezed in with an exaggerated walk. Her stylish sky blue salwar kameez with short laced sleeves obediently swished to add to her persona. Her georgette chunni clung deliciously to her heaving chest and then exulted in its freedom as it fell from her shoulders to her hips. Going straight to the sofa, she slipped her feet out of her high Karol Bagh heels. Then, resting her head on the sofa, she fanned herself with the end of her chunni with practised grace.

‘Hello Niyati! How are you, deary?’

Niyati opened her mouth to answer but Pinky didn’t seem to be waiting for a reply. She wasn’t even looking at Niyati, and her eyes were seemingly downcast, studying her own budding cleavage.

‘All right, Pinky didi.’ But Niyati’s voice was lost in the din of Pinky’s indifference.

Pinky took the bottle of cold water kept on the centre table and began drinking from it. Nimmi aunty was up on her feet that instant. She grabbed the bottle from her daughter and declared dramatically, ‘Hayo Rabba Pinkiye! I’ve told you so many times: wait for five minutes when you come from outside, then drink water!’

‘Oh Mummy, nothing happens to me. You just worry too much!’ retorted Pinky, her sharp nose curled up in irritation. Pinky’s nose was the pride of the family, apart from the fact that she was ‘very beautiful’ as per colony sources, because she was extraordinarily ‘chitta’. Fear, like her mother, you see.

‘You should look after yourself, my dear. You will be married sometime soon,’ preached Nimmi aunty.

Pinky smiled shyly. This was her favourite topic. ‘Mummy, first I’m going to finish my home science in two years and only then will I marry. Don’t break your head over it just yet.’

Despite the dig, Nimmi aunty was pleased with her daughter. She giggled.

‘Hai so intelligent my Pinky is! Haan bhai, first marriage ki tyari – this home science and all – and only after that marriage. Isn’t it absolutely right, Niyati?’ she proudly declared as she turned to her.

Niyati was startled out of her passive listening and quickly nodded. Then she came down the dining chair and stood near Nimmi aunty.

‘Aunty, can I go home now?’ she asked, looking straight ahead to see Nimmi aunty’s round protruding stomach almost blocking her line of vision.

‘Arre, is your lunch over? You didn’t eat anything, my child!’

Niyati nodded. ‘I’m full, aunty. And

I’m feeling really sleepy.’

Nimmi aunty relented.

‘Okay dear, run along… I’ll send back the tiffin after it’s washed in the evening.’

Niyati stole a suspicious glance at Chandan. He was staring straight at her, as usual, scrutinizing something she didn’t want him to notice. She ran to the main door feeling three pairs of eyes digging into her back. She ran down the stairs and out into the street, the cruel sun chasing her as she entered the gate of her house and then its door. Then she closed the door behind her and ran to the divan. Panting for breath, she lay down on it and shut her eyes.

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Niyati felt Didi gently nudging her shoulder to wake her up. Didi looked beautiful to her as always, and she wondered why Nisha so often complained about nearly every feature on her face. Nisha had large, dark eyes, long and lustrous black hair, and she was fair, though not as fair as Niyati. She had a squarish jawline that often made her look more determined than she actually was. She also complained that her gums showed if she laughed out aloud and that made her slightly self-conscious. But to Niyati, Didi was pretty, not in a very feminine but in a strong and distinctive sort of way.

At this stage in their lives, only their not-so-pert noses and their well-formed proportioned lips resembled each other completely. But Niyati really hoped that she would look much more like Didi when she grew up.

‘Niyati! Get up, my dear. How long will you sleep?’

Niyati squinted through the shaft of the setting sun falling on her face, having squeezed its way through a slit in the drawn curtains. Sitting up, she found Nisha seated next to her on the divan.

‘Won’t you wake up today? How was school? Tiring…?’ Didi’s pace of questioning only muddled Niyati’s after-nap stupor further.

She nodded sleepily and placed her head in Didi’s lap. For a few seconds, Nisha played her fingers on her forehead. She pushed back the strands of hair and tucked them one by one behind Niyati’s ear.

‘Now get up, Gudiya. I’ll warm up some milk for you to drink.’

Niyati didn’t stir. A little while later Nisha lifted her sister’s head gently and placed it back on the pillow while warning her to keep her eyes open. Then she rose and went to the kitchen. Niyati could hear her humming Zeenat Aman’s latest hit number, ‘Yaadon ki baaraat nikli hai aaj’, as the metal of the pan clanked against the gas stove. She shut her eyes smilingly, feeling the warm comfort of Didi’s voice.

‘You’re sleeping again! Get up, Niyati! You missed the best time of the day already, my doll. Even Chunmun came to call you to play, and I sent her back an hour ago. It’s really too late, Gudiya,’ said Nisha, gently tugging at Niyati’s arm, prodding her to sit up, before she went back to the kitchen to pour out the milk.

Niyati sat up, rubbing her eyes. She could see that it was already getting dark outside. Chunmun would be upset with her tomorrow for not having come to play again this evening. But Niyati was glad that she had slept through it all today. She knew that if she had gone out to play this evening, Khanna aunty and Vandana chachi would veer towards her as they marched on their evening walk and ask her the same questions they did every other day. ‘Is all well at home…? We heard all kinds of noises, and we are just concerned, that’s why we are asking,’ they would go on and on.

Niyati could always sense the glee of naked curiosity in their eyes. She would alternate between shaking and nodding her head confusedly, until Chunmun would come to her rescue. Bless Chunmun of course, who never ever asked her anything about her family, unlike everyone else.

Niyati had been spared all the questions today, never mind if she had missed playing her favourite I Spy with Chunmun. The puzzles were as interesting a company as Chunmun.

Nisha came back with a glass of warm milk. Niyati sat up lazily and took the glass with both hands, eyes still drooping. Nisha, now free from her allotted duty, switched on the radio. It crackled lustily as she turned the big tuner to Yuva Vani station.

The strains of ‘Dum maro dum’ suddenly caught on. As Niyati drank the milk, Nisha began tapping her feet to match the beats. Her shapely hips held in tight denims swayed rhythmically as her arms and legs went back and forth, her entire frame grooving to the trance-like feel of the young tune.

Niyati smiled from behind the glass at her Didi’s carefree jaunt. She realized that Didi was even lovelier now at seventeen than she had been last year, when she referred so often to herself as being ‘sweet sixteen’. Niyati was proud that unlike Pinky, her elder sister was no airhead. And unlike Pinky, in her silly salwars or tight churidar and kurtas, Didi always looked so smart in her well-fitting denims or flared bell-bottom trousers.

There was a loud knock. Nisha danced her way to the door and threw it open, knowing already who it would be. Mummy came in, half-amused and half-displeased at this ritualistic display of Didi’s penchant for dancing to such filmi songs.

The room immediately began to smell of Mummy. A quaint mix of sweat, pickles and scented washing powder from her clothes.

Mummy gave Didi a stern look. ‘Nisha, for God’s sake, at least lower the volume a bit. You don’t want some troublemaker in the colony to poison your father’s ears, do you?’ She kept her purse on the open shelf near the radio and lowered the volume herself.

Nisha smiled: ‘Just a few minutes more Mummy. Paaji’s return is still half an hour away,’ she pleaded lightly and turned to Niyati.

‘What an irony!’ Mummy said. ‘A film with a name like Hare Rama Hare Krishna and absolutely nothing godly about it!’

It was not that Mummy was against film music per se. In fact, Gudiya had often caught Mummy humming several Lata Mangeshkar songs from the films of the 1950s and 60s under her breath, her favourite being ‘Naina barse rimjhim rimjhim…’. Only that Mummy’s humming was almost a secret, barely audible even to her own self.

‘Niyati, sweetheart…please,’ she beseeched.

Niyati’s face was upturned to take in the last drop of milk from the glass. She kept it down and scrambled to the window next to the door, grinning from ear to ear. She stood guard behind the curtains as Nisha danced with fresh impetus in the last few moments of freedom that remained.

Mummy had already entered the kitchen. Niyati could hear the furious clank of vessels as she hurried to prepare dinner. ‘Dum maro dum’ reached its second stage, melting into Asha Bhonsle’s crescendo.

‘Didi…Paaji!’ whispered Niyati, fiercely.

Nisha abruptly ceased her adventure. This time ‘Dum maro dum’ hadn’t been able to make it to its last chorus. Nisha switched off the radio and dashed up the stairs. Niyati opened the door slightly and hastened to the centre table, positioning herself on the khadi rug to toy with her unfinished puzzle.

His footsteps at the threshold were now distinct, carrying along the squeakiness of his jootis.

‘Niyati beta, tell Mummy I’m here,’ he boomed.

Suddenly, the room was full. Fuller than it had been with three people in it. Niyati ran to the kitchen and returned with a tall steel glass full of water from an earthen pitcher. Paaji had shed his jootis just outside the door and was sitting in his big armchair in the master bedroom adjacent to the hall. Niyati went in and offered him the water. As he gulped it down, she gazed mechanically at him – at his mop of soft wavy hair, greying temples, handsome features, the long distinctive north Indian nose, his fine linen kurta and soft white mulmul dhoti. When he handed back the empty glass to her, he smiled at her gratefully but curiously.

‘Where is Mummy?’ he asked

‘She is making tea for you,’ Niyati replied.

‘And Nisha?’

‘I’m here, Paaji.’ Nisha stood smiling at the bedroom door. Niyati looked at her as she came in and sat near Paaji on the floor. The jeans and tee shirt had disappeared. She was now dressed in a cotton salwar-kameez, hair tied in a neat plait behind her neck. She met Niyati’s glance and winked at her mischievously. Niyati suppressed a smile and went back to her puzzle in the hall.

2

Mummy entered the room with the tea and extended the tray before Paaji. From where she was sitting, Niyati could only see Paaji’s back. He took the steaming cup in his hands and glanced at Mummy once, but didn’t say a word.

Niyati sat trying to complete the picture in the jigsaw puzzle, comfortable sounds of familiarity edging her concentration – the cooker whistling away in the kitchen, the water running from the tap in Paaji’s bathroom as he washed his hands and feet after finishing his tea, the rustle of the newspaper being read by Didi in the living hall.

Mummy came out of the kitchen to open Paaji’s almirah and put out a fresh kurta and his favourite mustard-and-blue checked lungi on the bed, and went back to the kitchen again.

Five minutes before eight, Mummy called out. ‘Nisha, Niyati, come help me in serving Paaji.’

Niyati deserted her game, and Nisha the newspaper. Soon Paaji sat at the dining table. Nisha served the chicken in a large bowl and placed some salad in one corner of his plate. Mummy brought hot, fresh chapatis one by one. Niyati sat on the chair next to him.

‘What did you learn at school today, beta?’ he enquired gently. As he spoke, he made a small measured morsel dipped in chicken gravy and held it over his plate, waiting for an answer.

‘Lesson two in English and number multiplication up to one hundred in Maths.’

Paaji fed her the morsel he held and nodded approvingly.