A Brigand for a Night and Other Tales

By Madhavi N. Gunasheela

The short stories in this book span different genres from sagas to comedy to horror. Set in different time frames in both urban and rural settings, it makes for a combination of sorts.

The author, having experienced an amalgam of cultures, has fashioned a potpourri, infusing the mystical east into the discriminative west. Prevailing social concerns and common Indian traditions have been played out to question the readers views and will empower them to adopt a new mirror for reflection of outdated societal values and ways.

Women play the lead role in few stories, indicating the authors strong need to highlight issues uniquely known only to women.

An occasional international backdrop emphasizes the coziness of our global village and shrinking boundaries.

Humor sprinkled generously as a tasty topping ensures the reader of a perpetual smile. Every grim thought uncovered amidst hilarious plots leaves the reader laughing at the otherwise dark circumstance.

Light and easy to read, this book would be an ideal companion for a rainy afternoon or a lazy Sunday. It would transport you to different worlds at a dizzying speed, leaving you wanting to quickly return to relive the journey of the protagonist.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Partridge Publishing India
• Release date: Dec 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781482837353

Madhavi N. Gunasheela

Madhavi N. Gunasheela was born in Bangalore, India. Her medical degree from Bangalore was followed by a Diplomate of the American Board of Physical Medicine and Rehabilitation from New York. She relocated to Bangalore to start her medical practice. Initially she wrote medical articles for The Wellness Times, of The Times of India and Deccan Herald. Her tryst with writing happened by chance in 2012. This compilation of short stories is her first publication. She lives in Bangalore with her two young daughters.

Book preview

A Brigand for a Night

and Other Tales

Madhavi N. Gunasheela

14066.png

Copyright © 2014, 2015 by Madhavi N. Gunasheela.

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-4828-3737-7

                Softcover        978-1-4828-3736-0

                eBook             978-1-4828-3735-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Partridge India

000 800 10062 62

www.partridgepublishing.com/india

Contents

Dedication

Foreword

Acknowledgements

Twist of Fate

The Needle

The House Sale

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

The Great African Flood

The Drive

The Contract Killer

The Bus Ride

The Arranged Marriage

Parisian Dream

Geranium Fields

Exam Fever

Caprice Heaven

A New Life

A Brigand for a Night

Dedication

In memory

of

my beloved mother and father

Foreword

I FIRST MET MADHAVI A few years ago when she joined the Women Entrepreneurs Program at IIM Bangalore, where I was one of the program directors. Madhavi impressed me with her attention to detail and the sincerity and joy with which she worked on her project for the program.

I see the same sincerity and the joy in writing when I read this book written by her. Thanks, Madhavi, for giving me the honor of writing the Foreword for this, your very first book. I am sure this is one solid step toward a new direction for you as an author.

A Brigand for a Night and Other Tales is a delight to read. The short stories can take you, the reader, to another world for a brief time; a world where you do not exist and you become caught in the setting and characters in the book. That is the true power of a good story.

The book weaves its way across continents, cities, villages, and more. The settings vary, from India to the USA and even Africa. The stories surprise, with their twists and turns, and leave you wanting to know more about what happens to the various people … and, in some cases, to the animals.

Dear reader, take some time to savor this book with its medley of characters and flavors. The beauty of short stories is that you can read as much as you want, depending on the time you have. This book makes you want to find the time to read. One more … then one more … and before you know it, you have finished reading it. Then you may want to ask Madhavi about her next book and when it will be published and available for reading.

Anjana Vivek, FCA

Founder-Director, VentureBean Consulting Private Limited and

Visiting faculty, IIM Bangalore and IIM Udaipur

Acknowledgements

I AM GRATEFUL TO ALL people who supported me in writing my stories: My friends and guides, Sudeep and Anil, for initiating the publishing process; my children, Amshu and Maanya, for putting up with my passion and allowing me to dedicate time to it; my sister, Devika, who is my greatest pillar of support; Chitra for all her help; and my editor, Abha, who did such a good job. There are several friends and relatives who constantly egged me on that made all the difference between a manuscript in the cupboard and one published as a book.

Twist of Fate

S AVITHRAMMA’S LITTLE HOUSE WITH its off-white walls was within a miniature compound. The house was built on a site given by the government to her husband, Keshappa, at a marked-down price while on his government job. It was one of the few good things he had done in his life, Savithramma mused.

A rusted gate that groaned eerily swung open into a small porch, and in between, a lone tulsi plant blossomed within a square terracotta pot. A ritualistic pooja was done to the plant every morning in a devout manner with kumkum, turmeric, and flowers. The front door of the house opened into the dark hall dominated by the overworked black-and-white TV and a few white plastic chairs. The chairs had small hand towels swathed over their backs like colourful decorations and small compressed cushions of no particular colour cushioned the seats.

Beyond that was the sole desk that Keshappa used during his working days to keep his office files, brought home daily by him, but for no actual purpose. There were two bedrooms on either side of the hall; one was used by Savithramma and her husband, and the other by her son, Harish. When their daughter, Malini, came home, Harish slept in the hall.

The curtains, put up when the house was built, were now in tatters. They had been held together by gold ribbons that had tied Malini’s wedding gifts. These had been carefully salvaged by Savithramma, who had rolled them into a neat ball for future use.

11612.png

Savithramma had grown up in a very different environment. Her life had been in the idyllic village of Tenganhalli, the closest town being Shimoga. The entire lush green landscape, vibrant with the hum of busy farmers and their wives, made one feel in harmony with nature. Her gentle father cared for his family and indulged his two daughters whenever he got a chance. He believed that daughters were incarnations of the Goddess of wealth, Lakshmi, and should be well looked after. Both the girls had an education till class ten.

Savithramma’s younger sister, Kalamma, had failed the final exam but was let off the hook for she was the apple of her father’s eye. Savithramma was her mother’s favourite, bright, chatty, interested in everything, and had done well in her class.

Her mother, a wise lady, knew her elder daughter would survive anywhere, but worried that her younger child didn’t have the same skills.

11616.png

Savithramma was now a 57-year-old lady, living with her aging husband, Keshappa, and son, Harish, of thirty-three years. Her existence revolved around catering to the needs of her family, as was expected of every respectable middle-class woman worth her salt, and she rightly played her part. Expectations were minimal. Her humdrum life didn’t change too much from one day to the next or from one year to the other.

However, some things had definitely changed. Her body had assumed bulkier proportions over time, and this had slowed her down somewhat. The mild arthritis in her knees and hips made some days more painful than others.

Savithramma always looked for ways to leave her house for a little while. The intermittent respites seemed to rejuvenate her and help her cope with her mundane routine.

So on this day, she had accompanied her neighbour Susheela to the beauty parlour. Her thin hair had greyed unevenly and was tied loosely in a plait, and now she was trying to bulk it up with a false hair ‘switch’. The parlour lady had helpfully suggested that using the false hair to bulk up her thinning crown would not only make her look younger and more attractive, it would also give her alternate hairstyles to work with.

Savithramma was willing to pay forty-five rupees for the piece, which was priced at fifty rupees. The price had been brought down by tactful bargaining, which she liked to think of as her special talent.

Savithramma thought she could use the hairpiece when she went for her infrequent outings like weddings, baby-naming ceremonies, or the occasional funeral. What the parlour lady didn’t point out was that the false hair, which had been dyed jet black before being displayed, might highlight the grey-green sheen of Savithramma’s own hair.

The parlour lady taught Savithramma how to incorporate it into her hair. Susheela, who was in the middle of getting her eyebrows shaped, raised them and, squinting into the dull parlour mirror, nodded approval of the ‘new look’. She gushed, ‘Oh good Lord! I can’t believe this! Savithramma, that’s so fashionable! I don’t think anyone will recognise you once you go out all dressed up like that. That will make all the women on our street so jealous, and serves them right.’

In this way, through Savithramma, Susheela would get back at the neighbours for having made nasty comments about her.

Savithramma happily nodded and continued to stare at herself, as if unable to comprehend her ‘new look’. But Susheela’s approval was all that Savithramma needed. After all, who else in the street had her eyebrows plucked and shaped once in two weeks? The eyebrows, being plucked once too often, had reached a point where new hair and old hair mingled freely, giving a rather smudged look. This was cleverly touched by Susheela with her black eye kohl pencil.

Susheela’s high-pitched voice broke Savithramma’s reverie. ‘These neighbours don’t believe me. I have read all the magazines and studied every actress in them. I know all their make-up secrets. But believe me, I am not going to share a word with them. Only you, my dear friend, will be guided in all your make-up problems, no one else. True, these magazines may be a few years old. But not much changes in make-up, you know. It’s the technique that matters,’ she said, flashing an endearing smile at Savithramma in the parlour mirror. She continued smugly, ‘And the looks, of course.’ She felt rather smug about her make-up techniques, proud that all the women in the street consulted her on fashion tips, which she gave very grudgingly, making sure everyone knew she was doing them a favour. She considered Savithramma a favourite friend as she was least judgmental and could never be her competitor!

Savithramma’s fashion expertise didn’t go beyond her Niru’s Vanishing cream and Angel Snow powder. Her blouses were ill-fitting, for which she blamed the tailor, and cut five rupees from his bill each time she made a new blouse. Secretly thrilled by her bargaining prowess, she always hoped the blouse would be a tad too loose or mal-aligned. Her little savings were privately put away in a small purse, carefully hidden in between her frayed saris. She hoped to save enough money to buy a new set of gold bangles someday. Her saris were faded, their bright colours now turned dull. New saris were a thing of the past, but her daughter had given her a new sari for the previous Ugadi, the Hindu New Year.

11618.png

The kitchen was the outermost part of the house. A stove on a concrete platform, a rack for vessels, and a washbasin completed it. The cutting, chopping, and grating were done on a day-old newspaper on the red-oxide floor.

Savithramma prided herself most on her cooking and her spic-and-span kitchen. Her sparkling vessels, the smells of her curries wafting into the street, making the mouths of passers-by water, and her tangy chutneys and pickles were the talk of the neighbourhood.

Cooking for the household was the main event of the day, which she did in a rather bored manner. Earlier she washed clothes and swept the house as well, but now these chores had become too much for her and a maid had been hired to help her.

‘Always late, always excuses, tch, tch, tch … ...no one knows the value of money anymore. All the good money I pay you is a total waste. You come and go as you wish. Only the broom is happy to see you for you just wave it about in the house. Dust everywhere, no wonder my asthma is getting worse.’

The maid would give her a sullen look, but that did not worry Savithramma. ‘Okay, okay, get on with it, don’t get on my nerves’ …,’ she would say. She loved the power she wielded over her hired help; somehow it made her feel in control of her own life.

Savithramma’s neighbourhood was a row of houses on Melkote Street. The road curved into the bustling marketplace and the houses stood jostling each other for space, with barely one person being able to go through between the wall and the house. Various sounds and smells emanated onto the street and mingled with smell of cattle dung and urine. A few neighbours had cows, which they displayed rather proudly. Keshappa himself had pompously talked of buying cows earlier on. The talk had a hint of reality as his daughter’s father-in-law had offered them to him. On working out the numbers, and realising the work involved in the maintenance of the animals, he had quietly dropped the topic.

Every summer, her sister, Kalamma, would send a few sacks of bitter lemons and raw mangoes from her village. As if dictated by an unwritten rule, the women of the street united like sisters consumed by a common purpose. The bounty was carefully and laboriously washed, dried, cut, and mixed with the right proportions of salt, chilli powder, turmeric, coriander, and other spices in a big pot. Peanut oil was then tempered with mustard and curry leaves and poured on top of the mixture. Small jars were sourced from individual households and Savithramma doled out generous portions into them. Strict instructions were given to keep them shut tight for three weeks.

All the ladies on Melkote Street looked forward to this group activity as it meant a break from their daily routines for a few days. Husbands were expected to make do with breakfast for lunch; hot food was served only in the evenings for the week of pickling. The ladies spent their time gossiping and laughing, and the hours flew in merriment. Few events sparked such enjoyment these days.

Savithramma secretly hoped that she could join her sister, Kalamma, in the village during the summer months. They could pickle together and relive their childhood days. She was forbidden from visiting her sister more than once a year. The annual village festival called Jatre was the only occasion when she got to be with her sibling.

Keshappa had fought with his brother-in-law, Nanaiah, earlier on. This enmity stemmed from the fact that Keshappa couldn’t tolerate his wealthy farmer brother-in-law. Nanaiah was a generous man who pampered his wife and was easy to get along with. He embodied all that Keshappa was not, and Keshappa resented him.

Initially, Savithramma’s family had prevailed upon Keshappa to bridge the animosity, but not wanting to create a rift between the sisters, the issue had been dropped. Nanaiah’s sons were farmers and had taken up farming on their father’s lands and made it profitable.

Kalamma, sensing her sister’s plight, was always trying to find ways to be nice to her. She usually gave her a few saris and dried fruits on their occasional meetings. She knew her sister would refuse monetary help and didn’t want her to feel humiliated.

All this was done in a hidden manner so that Keshappa’s ire was not aroused. Keshappa, aware of all that transpired, was covertly thrilled that he didn’t have to spend his money on his wife, something he despised doing and tried to avoid at all costs. Extremely possessive of his monthly pension, his choice pastime was creating imaginary demands from his wife and cleverly drumming up excuses to avoid the expenditure. He frequently congratulated himself on his astuteness and felt prepared for any monetary appeal from his wife. Only basic needs were important; there was no money for frivolousness.

11620.png

Keshappa had retired from the Accounts Department of the Government of Karnataka Housing Board where he had worked all his life. He had been promoted to the position of a senior clerk from junior clerk after fifteen years of service, where he languished for the rest of his tenure. In that tedious phase, he metamorphosed from a cranky man to a bitter, mean miser.

Keshappa had few needs:three meals on time and three cups of over-sweetened coffee. The constant drone of the television was also a must. Every conversation was automatically raised above the TV and carried on quite normally. At times it seemed like a fight was going on in the house, but the neighbours had understood the equations of the household and learned to ignore it.

Keshappa left the house every evening to meet his single friend at the park. They discussed the local news, the state of affairs of the roads, sewage system, and water supply, and he returned quite cheerful after his evening outings. But he darkened almost instantly as soon as he cast eyes on his son, Harish.

However, his daughter, Malini, met with his approval in every way. When she finished her bachelor of arts degree in second class, she had actually planned on looking for a job. She seemed to be making up for her brother’s failure. However, she had been married immediately to a clerk in the Rural Electric Division.

Her early marriage had cut short her plans, and she was made to understand that a working daughter-in-law was frowned upon. With looking after the cooking, packing lunches for her husband, and taking care of her family, she wondered if she was crazy when she had visions of working in an office. She had tried bringing it up with her husband, Vasu, but he had laughed nervously, cutting her short, pretending he didn’t understand.

Savithramma, when asked, had just shrugged and turned away. ‘Your priorities are now your duties as a wife and mother. You have to respect the views of your in-laws and husband and maintain the dignity of the family,’ she said.

Keshappa enjoyed the fact that his daughter could not go and work in an office. He had worked with a few women during his office days and had hated them. He was always bossed around by them, told he was inefficient, and made to feel worthless. He was secretly scared that she might become just like one of those women. So Keshappa had laughed cynically during the conversation between his wife and daughter.

Seeing his wife hover over the stove and chat with the neighbours at the gate gave him a strange satisfaction. It seemed to reiterate his belief in the role of women.

Keshappa’s one ray of sunshine was his 3-year-old grandson, Somesh. Malini lived four hours away and visited only during festivals. Her child seemed to bring out the child in Keshappa. From growling like a dog to mooing like a cow, he could entertain the child tirelessly. But the minute Malini left with her son, he would shrink back into his earlier avatar almost instantaneously.

11622.png

While Keshappa adored his grandson, the perennial presence of his own son in the house somehow just fuelled his temper.

Keshappa’s mouth twisted as he thought of Harish’s birth. It had all happened suddenly. Savithramma had become pregnant soon after her wedding, as at age 24 she was considered an elderly bride in the village. The morning sickness, starting as intolerance to the smell and sight of food, progressed to a perennial nausea. A worsening of the appetite and cramping of the limbs had followed. Her legs were swollen, and several medications had been started by the doctor. Her face looked porcine, her eyes watered incessantly, and a dull throbbing of the head invariably kept her in bed. Her swollen belly seemed to come in the way of everything, almost as if the house had shrunk. She felt ill and fervently wished she were dead.

Her mother came from the village to take her home for the last part of the pregnancy. She was to have the baby in the village as was the local custom. It was only after the doctor prevailed that she agreed to stay on in the town to look after her pregnant daughter.

Complications ensued and the baby was born prematurely after a very prolonged and difficult childbirth. Savithramma’s labour pains lasted over sixteen hours and she had writhed and moaned throughout. Her body had lost all its energy and she barely could push the baby out.

Harish was a scrawny baby who had whimpered and not wailed out loud when he was born. He looked blue-black all over with almost transparent skin showing sinewy veins. The entire body was covered with a fine fuzz of light brown hair. The infant was wrapped in a towel and taken out of the birthing room to be shown to the anxious relatives. The ‘oohs’ and ‘aahs’ followed, with everyone claiming resemblance to the newborn. Keshappa too had craned his neck to look at his first-born child.

Someone then handed over the baby to him to hold as the proud father. Keshappa’s look turned from curiosity to sheer horror and then to a deep coldness.

One long hard look at the newborn had Keshappa’s mind rattled. An explosion of rage strangled itself at his throat, leaving him speechless. ‘This isn’t my child. I haven’t fathered this repulsive creature. It isn’t mine! It isn’t mine! It isn’t mine!’ The words chimed in his head.

It definitely wasn’t from his seed, that he was sure of. He had seen enough children born in his family to know that they were pink and gurgling balls of smiles. No child in his family had ever looked like this. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. This was a pariah! His wife had undeniably strayed.

It never occurred to him that the premature birth and difficult prolonged labour may have had something to do with the way the baby looked. One look at the baby had settled the matter once and for all in his mind.

Over a period of time, the baby became healthy, happy, cute, and lovable, but the thought was firmly implanted in Keshappa’s mind.

The day of his son’s birth was when he stopped talking to his wife. Nocturnal urges were all that he indulged in, that too with a feeling of anger, guilt, and despair. He did have his moments of doubt. Had his wife been really unfaithful, or was he wrong? He knew her to be a pious woman, a devoted mother, and a kind person. But still, how could he be wrong? He was never wrong!

Keshappa had always been a mediocre man, a shrinking violet, shying away from the limelight. He never had an opinion of his own and had grown up being told he was wrong—by his friends when they played cricket in the field, by his teacher on being asked a question, and by his bad-tempered father when he asked him about anything. Even the rude, loud women in his office had done just that.

It was almost like a conspiracy. He was always wrong. But now he was right. For the first time in his life, he was right! And no one could tell him otherwise. Not that he was going to discuss it with anyone. He was too scared that he would be told he was wrong, again.

11624.png

Harish thus grew up devoid of his father’s love. He had his mother’s shrewdness, but was sullen and reticent. He envied his sister, Malini, for all the attention she received from his father, and although his mother showered love on him, it just didn’t cut it.

He grew up in the company of like-minded fellows, who whiled away their evenings at the local tea shop, sharing teas and taking puffs of a common cigarette. School and college was something he never cared about, considering it a waste of time. His mind was always far away in the verdant fields of his mother’s village. Having spent summers there, all he could think of was the swaying palms, green paddy fields, and clear cool streams.

He yearned to do farming like his cousins. Ploughing the field, grazing the cows, and wielding the scythe seemed to come naturally to him.

He looked up to his grandfather as his mentor. ‘Thatha, can you teach me farming? I want to be just like you when I grow up and grow lots of vegetables for you and Ajji,’ a young Harish had said.

The old man had laughingly cuddled him and promised, ‘You will learn all that there is to learn from me, my boy. I will make you one proud farmer.’

The kindly old main tried talking to Keshappa about his son’s future. ‘Let the boy stay with us. I need my grandson to learn the ropes when I am still strong enough to teach him. What is the use of studying in the city when there is so much in the village to look after?’

Keshappa had ignored him.

Keshappa had a few favourite one-liners. ‘A government job gives stability. Retirement pension is very important, and government employees are respectable.’

He had preened, ‘A government job is difficult to get. I will have to use my power and influence to get you one.’ Harish has turned sullenly silent.

Eventually Harish gave up his dream of becoming a farmer, and slowly, ever so slowly, not discernible even to him, he stopped dreaming.

His father’s insistence on him getting a government job made his stomach churn. He had managed to get through the tenth Standard State Board exam with difficulty. His college days were a blur and he couldn’t imagine ever getting back to his books.

His bachelor of arts degree seemed a distant target; one set by his father. Ultimately Harish had given up the struggle. His room was his oyster, his mind a blank. Days inextricably merged into nights and vice versa. The tea shop visits had stopped; with no expendable income, he had started finding it difficult to hang around the shop waiting for friends to fund him.

He sat or reclined in front of the black-and-white TV, staring unseeingly at the images. The sunken old sofa had conveniently contoured itself to his bottom and turned into a sagging hollow. It didn’t matter what was on TV, he watched it like his life depended on it.

11626.png

The day had been long and hot. Savithramma had slaved in front of the stove tirelessly. Malini was expected in two days. The thindis had to be made. From the savoury fried chaklis made with rice flour, lentils, and spices, to the sweet chickpea laddus with ghee, nuts, and raisins, everything had to be perfect. The small fund hidden between her saris served her well here. She always pushed away the thought of her elusive bangles for which she had been saving for so long. ‘Someday, maybe,’ she told herself. Just now, spending on Malini was worth it.

She mulled over her thoughts, standing at the gate fanning herself with the end of her sari pallu. She had a rude jolt when the postman rang his ear-splitting cycle bell under her nose. ‘Elloo, elloo,’ he merrily chanted. Throwing a crumpled blue Inland Letter at her, he was on his way.

Cursing under her breath, she picked up the wrinkled paper and proceeded to smoothen it. She imagined it to be a letter from her husband’s office. She received a letter only once a month from her sister, to which she promptly replied. That had come just last week, again with mundane news of the village and the ongoing harvest. She, as always, had locked herself in the kitchen and read and re-read each word, slowly savouring it. It was her sole window to her past, where she could only imagine the active village going about their lives. She relived all her memories through these prized letters; her sister most unaware of the penned joy she sent every month.

Glancing at the address, she was taken aback to see her sister’s neat rounded jilebi hand. Crumpling it quickly, she shoved it into her blouse, furtively looking around to see if anyone had noticed.

Guilty as a thief, she strolled into the kitchen as casually as she could. Her heart beat so hard, she thought it would expel the contents from her chest. Her mind was working hard as well. Was her old widowed father okay? Was her sister sick? Did anyone set fire to the harvest? Pummelled with questions, she felt ill. She needed to sit down and breathe.

Squatting on the floor, she drank deeply from the copper water pot and slowly removed her treasure. Taking a breath, she took in the contents, slowly, word by word.

11628.png

Her eyes couldn’t believe what they were reading. Kalamma had sent a marriage proposal for Harish. Her Harish! People had said he was the most worthless man on earth. There must be some mistake. Harish had been out of the marriage market nearly a decade ago.

Slowly the story unfolded.

A young girl from the village had been married to a wealthy farmer’s son from the neighbouring village. Spoilt by his parents, he had several vices. Drinking, gambling, and whiling away his money was what he did best. He was also involved in many murky property deals since urban folk had been coming to buy land in and around the village. Working in partnership with city realtors, he had closed a few deals. But they had not gone well. His counterparts in town had short-changed him, and the money he made was a lot less than promised. A number of people in the village had thus been cut out of the money due to them. A hush-hush plan was then formed by local village goons working with the farmer’s son to take on the town agents and settle the score.

Somehow the word about this reached the agents, and one night, after a wild drinking binge, the farmer’s son never came home.

His hacked body was supposed to have been found a few miles down the river, but that wasn’t confirmed. The police themselves didn’t want to discuss it and people spoke about it in hushed tones. No one ever found out who had squealed to the agents.

His 24-year-old young widow had been sent home to her