Mist

By Seema Jha

A beautician by trade and vibrant by nature, Gul is a divorcee at twenty. In the pursuit of love, she finds much else besides.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse UK
• Release date: Feb 28, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504938341

Seema Jha

Seema Jha is a prolific novelist who lives in Boston, Lincolnshire, UK with her husband and their son.

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© 2015 Seema Jha. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 02/25/2015

ISBN: 978-1-5049-3833-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5049-3834-1 (e)

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

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.

Contents

Disclaimer

Acknowledgements

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

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Disclaimer

The characters in this novel are all in my head

Bear no resemblance to anyone living or dead

The situations and people are born out of my imagination

And can be called my creation

The story might appear quaint

But it is not my intention to taint

The image of Indian people, Spanish or English

Accept it as the flight of fancy it is

I have no malicious motive

Just a flow of ink is this cerebral dish

Other books by this author:

Of Mauves and Oranges (Poetry)

Autumn Leaves (Poetry)

Spring (Poetry)

Half- Asleep (Poetry)

Curry and Kisses (novel)

Moustache (novel)

You and I (novel)

Smitten (novel)

Charade (novel)

The writer, Seema Jha, lives in Boston, Lincolnshire, UK.

Dedication

Dedicated to my son, Bunny, also known as Suyash Jha

Acknowledgements

Thanks to,

My late father, Dr. Surya Kant Mishra,

My late mother, Mrs. Shail Bala Mishra,

My mother-in-law, Mrs. Durga Jha,

My father-in-law, Professor Shankar Kumar Jha,

My brothers, Sunil Mishra and Anil Mishra,

My sister, Sushma Jha,

My sisters-in-law, Ranjana Mishra and Priyanka Mishra,

My late brother-in-law, Prabhakar Jha,

My sisters-in-law, Poonam Didi,

Rupamji, and Anupama,

My husband, Dr. Mithilesh Kumar Jha,

And my son, Bunny, also

known as Suyash Jha,

For their encouragement.

I would like to add that my son typed the whole of my work.

Chapter 1

M y name is Gulmohar Shandilya but people just call me Gul. I came into this world with my bottom emerging before my head did. One of my aunts never tired of telling the story. She loved to tease me and frankly I failed to see her sense of humour. My advent into the planet earth was slightly different, I admit, from most people’s. I suppose even as an infant, or whatever you are called at that initial period, I chose to be unlike many others. I must have been mulling over this in the months I was in Mummy’s womb. When it was I made up my mind to be a breach, I shall never know but I am sure a lot of thought must have gone into it. It is beside the point that Mummy almost died. I was not an easy delivery. Maybe I knew that life could sometimes be sad and was resisting in my own way to leap into it.

But leap I did and here I am. I suppose the date of my birth will not be engraved in people’s minds nor will the date of my death whenever that might be. Let’s face it. I’m no Gandhi. Few of us are. I haven’t been a wonderful human being. Lots of my so-called friendships have ended in disaster and to think that these ex-mates if they can be called that, will be tossing and turning in bed when I breathe my last is being too optimistic even by my standards. I will not be missed, of that I’m sure.

Didn’t ask to be born, yet here I am.

Lying, kicking in this pram.

What life has in store for me, I do not know

Despite that, I suppose I’ll grow and grow

Read books, books, and more books till it hurts my eyes

In my journey to become wise

Yet real wisdom will I ever attain

All my attempts will have been in vain

Of the universe I’ll consider myself the centre

Every step a new adventure

Life will smile amused

As on its injustices I muse

The future will forever be concealed

The blows of the past might never heal

Wither I go, I will not be aware

But I will get there

Like chalk on a slate

I will be erased

Oblivious to it all

Tiny and small

I shall walk on

And be reborn.

When you are a child, friends matter a great deal. Maybe even later. Their approval or disapproval counts. Yellow yellow dirty fellow my friend said and I looked at my dress hating its bright hue. Never again have I been able to view the colour in an entirely positive manner. Green green fairy queen a friend said pointing to her own dress. Mine has been a strange life.

What is it about colours I shall never know

Yet they fascinate me with their glow

I more or less like them all

The different shades speak to me and I hear their call

The magnificent greens

With their understated sheen

The lovely blues

With their gentle hue

Mauve and pink

At me blink

The silvery night

Gives me respite

The gold of autumn beckons

I must go, I reckon

Roses red

Flowery beds

I have even made my peace with the yellow of the sun

It dazzles me when I am glum

White, black, cloudy greys

Enchant in their unique way

I think of Mummy

I miss you, mom

In summers warm

In winters cold

In every step bold

I miss you in spring

In the beauty it brings

In autumn I miss you too

As leaves fall welcoming leaves new

I think of her again

Every tree

Rooted to the spot

I give all I’ve got

In that way I am like your mother

For her look no further

Every tree seems to say

Let me be your mom if I may

I think of her again

Mummy

I am your need

I am your seed

I am your blood, I am your flesh

In me, you lie enmeshed.

But enough of poetry. I need to turn to prose to tell you how it all started.

Chapter 2

I looked at all the girls one by one. To call them girls would be wrong for they were women. I tried to assess their age. Two looked as if they were in their early forties. Three seemed to be in their early fifties. And of the remaining five, one was in her twenties perhaps and the other four in their late thirties. Each one of them had come in with the desire to look beautiful. I had enrolled into the beautician course with only half- hearted passion if that, and a friend of mine who had got into medicine had raised a mocking eyebrow. It could be that my friend was not being silently sarcastic but was registering mild surprise at the news. Sometimes I discerned an emotion that was not there simply because I expected something of the sort.

I became busy doing the facial of another woman who had just walked in. She had booked an appointment a week in advance. Helen was famous for throwing parties and since she invited well- known people, it was a treat to be on her guest- list. I had known her for quite a while but so far I had been to her house only once. Alcohol had flown freely and I had returned home slightly drunk after having had enjoyed myself thoroughly. She was a fantastic cook and unlike some who opted for catering she would prepare every single dish herself with so much attention to detail that one’s taste buds were titillated and enormously satisfied. I left no stone unturned, no avenue unexplored in being nice to her.

I wish I had lovely skin like yours, I really do, I said as I massaged her face with cream. It wasn’t as if it was a totally insincere complement for it was true to some extent. And it didn’t hurt to stroke people’s ego. It would ensure that they came regularly.

You are too lavish with your praise, you really are, she said. She was dressed in a purple salwar kurta. I looked at the purple little flowers printed on it and admired her taste. She had short hair up to her shoulders and unlike most women her age, she did not dye her hair which gave her a rather distinguished look. Curiously enough, her grey hair added to her charm for it spoke of the complete absence of pretense. She had blue eyes inherited from her English father being Anglo-Indian. I surmised she must be extremely busy seeing as she was a lawyer and quite a good one at that. I pictured her in court twisting words to her advantage. Her husband was a respected surgeon and between the two of them, they probably were loaded. There was no conjecture regarding it. It was quite obvious from the enormous house they lived in.

You are invited to a party, my place, Friday. Seven-thirty, Helen said as she paid me. I admired my own handiwork. Her face was glowing. I hadn’t done a bad job. The owner of the beauty parlour had kept the prices a little higher than other parlours, being crafty enough to realize that the high class people saw this as a