A House Full Of Men

By Parinda Joshi

Twenty-five-year-old Kittu has left Lucknow only on two occasions in her life. The first trip involved the last rites of her grandmother. The second involved a wedding, thankfully, but she returned home to her mother's funeral. She has never forgiven her mother for leaving her alone in a house full of men. Is there anyone at home she can share her deepest thoughts with? Anyone who can lend an ear to her endless relationship issues, manic obsessions and simple aspirations? Who's got the time? Kittu might live in a full house, but sometimes, she feels like she's all alone in the world. A House Full of Men is a novel about false starts and failed attempts, love and the importance of being understood.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins India
• Release date: Sep 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9789354225949

Parinda Joshi

Parinda Joshi was born and raised in Ahmedabad and later immigrated to Los Angeles with her new husband where she navigated the challenges of starting life from scratch in an unfamiliar milieu, enriching herself with an MS in computer science, testing her limits and redefining herself. She now resides in Silicon Valley where leads growth analytics for a startup in the fashion industry, is mother to her precocious mini-me, a budding screenwriter, a lover of modern poetry, fitness enthusiast, an avid traveler and photographer and a humor junkie. Her M.O. is best described by Maya Angelou's quote: 'My mission in life is not merely to survive, but to thrive; and to do so with some passion, some compassion, some humor, and some style.' She is the author of two novels, Live From London and Powerplay. She has also contributed to a short story anthology, The Turning Point: Best Of Young Indian Writers, and several online publications including GQ India and The South Asian Times (New York). Made in China is her third novel. It has been adapted for a motion picture by Maddock Films starring Rajkummar Rao, Boman Irani and Mouni Roy, Sumeet Vyas, and Paresh Rawal among others. Parinda has co-written the screenplay for the movie. Instagram: @parindajoshi Website: www.parindajoshi.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

I have the worst luck with epiphanies, Kittu thought uncharitably. Each time she had had one, it had crushed her with its overwhelming, undeniable truth; a truth that had evaded her all this time.

She was flipping through some travel magazines one uninspired afternoon in her travel-themed office in the Hazratganj area of Lucknow. That’s when the life-changing quiz drew her in. Mindlessly, she signed herself up for the ride, answering each question with the utmost sincerity, neatly circling the relevant multiple-choice answer. She was nothing if not honest, while taking random quizzes, that is.

If the count of your ‘yes’s is between …

She quickly counted her ‘yes’s as if her life depended upon it. The grand total was fifteen. This better make me win a trip to Bali or some exotic island where I’ll lay serenely in infinity pools watching the hotel staff feed fresh papaya slices to the birds, the enticing thought ran through her mind. She rubbed her palms together in anticipation of the grand reveal and went back to searching the answer group for fifteen yes’s. And there it was.

If the count of your ‘yes’s is between twelve and fifteen, we’re sorry to say that you are a church mouse. Don’t hate us;)

A what? She drew in a sharp breath and read it again. A church mouse? What on earth is a church mouse?! she mouthed, the tension between her eyebrows palpable.

Now she wasn’t really a quiz person. Occasionally, she would get sucked into one, and after much racking of the mind and fessing up more than she cared to, she was usually left underwhelmed. She had little faith in the logic behind the algorithms the quiz people used. Who were these people who put together quizzes in these magazines anyway? she’d muse. Psychologists? Sociologists? Or perhaps a bunch of interns, snacking on heart-shaped cookies and coloured carbonated drinks, frequently glossing their lips and pouting into the camera, giggling and nudging each other while putting together senseless questions and equally irrational answers. Did they ever stop to think how these quizzes could irreparably destroy a reader’s sense of self-worth? Stop blowing it out of proportion, a voice said in her head. Okay, she muttered to no one in particular.

A label whose meaning she didn’t understand had just been ruthlessly thrust upon her. She owed it to herself to get to the bottom of this. And so she set out on that perilous path of seeking the truth online.

A church mouse is a meek individual who attends church regularly and frequently.

That was odd. She was religious and went to the temple occasionally, but this couldn’t possibly be relevant coming from a travel magazine. She continued probing, her heart racing.

The proverbial church mouse is an individual whose entire life is spent in one location. This individual lives and dies in the same location without any exposure to the world outside their habitat.

She gasped. Countless aspirations shattered inside her.

That moment came alive, again, for the zillionth time. She in a cheery yellow salwar-kameez standing at the gate of her house, her bags full of wedding goodies slipping from her hands. They taking her mother away, her body tied firmly with coir rope to a bamboo frame and draped with white sheets, a tulsi garland carefully outlining her face through the cotton. The wailing, the chanting, the insurmountable pain. There was a reason she hadn’t left the city since then.

There is also a variation of this proverb: quiet as a church mouse. That refers to someone who is very quiet, as one would presumably be in a church. Someone seen but not heard.

Just like that, a magazine had punched her in the gut, twice, in less than thirty seconds.

‘You don’t know anything about me,’ she said, grabbing the magazine in a fit of fury, and pushing her chair backwards, she was about to toss it in the dustbin under her desk when the epiphany hit her. Impressionable was not the first thing people said about her, but that verdict was—she couldn’t even get herself to acknowledge it—painfully accurate. She was indeed a church mouse.

Her name was Kittu, short for Kritidhara. Kritidhara Pant. Her late grandmother had lovingly named her that, she was told, for it meant bearer of fame. The only fame that name had brought her was countless hours of teasing all through her school years. She had tremendous stage fright and froze each time it was her turn to read or enact something in front of her class; the kids told her she had two names, Kriti and Dhara, but didn’t even have courage enough for one person.

Kittu was born in Lucknow in a close-knit family of over-achievers on her father’s side. Her mother’s lineage was a bit more content with the status quo for it was full of people who napped thrice a day and occasionally tended to their apple orchards in Bareilly. Laid-back was not a term that did justice to their routine. Which is why all the women in her mother’s family had skin like apples; rosy, shiny and flawless, and instead of dark under-eye patches, they had a perpetual peachy glow. One would presume she would have inherited that. No apple-skin luck for Kittu. More like date-skin, minus the crinkles. She detested napping.

Her maternal grandmother’s death was evidently her only chance to see a city other than the one where she had spent all her life, Lucknow. Well, there was the other time too when her cousin had married a girl from Nainital. The trip had ended tragically, snatching away her heartbeat. She had lost everything to that wretched moment; the womb that had created and crafted her, the hand that had fed her soul, the heart that had comforted her with the warmth of a thousand blankets. All of a sudden life had become fleeting and vulnerable and meaningless. For a while nothing had seemed real, numbness her constant companion. Time had not healed her scars; instead, she had crammed those painful images in a sturdy metal trunk with the biggest lock her mind could imagine and buried it deep into the abyss of the earth. Kittu never acknowledged that memory or let it linger for more than a breath if it somehow hoisted itself to the forefront of her thoughts. It had worked for her thus far.

Back to travel. No one in her family travelled. Her friends, extended family, college, job, favourite picnic spots, preferred restaurants, events, non-events, even her gods were all confined to Lucknow. ‘We have everything we need here, why go elsewhere?’ she was told if she brought up attending a camp or going on vacation with a friend. This was long before her mother’s passing. Not much had changed since then. She had graduated from Babasaheb Ambedkar University with a degree in journalism and had been working for a travel magazine ever since. Her employment offer letter was dated about four years back.

The proverbial church mouse is an individual whose entire life is spent in one location.

The words rang true in her mind and reverberated through her entire body, just like the ‘Om’ sound. But it had none of the calming effects of Om. It was more like a dreary Hindi soap opera sound effect, repetitive and jarring. Mouse? Really?

Most of her grown-up life had been overwhelmingly subdued, if you can call living with five adult men (a brash male dog included) that. Actually, six adult men if one included the framed poster in her room of a smiling P.G. Wodehouse with a cigar clenched between his teeth, dressed in a rounded collar with a suit and tie. She would toss questions at Wodehouse whenever she felt lonely. Most times he responded with something funny or quirky like, you just need a new hobby; try flossing maybe? Sometimes he said life-altering stuff. Other times it was banal. It made her laugh anyway.

As for the flesh-and-blood people, her extraordinarily opinionated grandfather lived with her, in the same house, with her extraordinarily opinionated father. It set the stage for a War of the Titans scene on a recurring basis. Her father, Ravi Pant, was a journalist and unapologetically pledged no allegiance to any political party, whereas her grandfather, Hridaynath Brahma Pant, also famously known as High BP among the grandkids, still brought up stories about Gandhi, Nehru, Bose, Patel and their contemporaries every single day as if they were his cronies. Heated debates about every politician’s motives, policies and fallacies were a constant, inseparable part of their lives. She had been conditioned by their stories to the extent that it was entirely normal for her to hallucinate about studiously scruffy strangers in khadi vests and unkempt moustaches. Then there were the college-going twin brothers whose esteemed company was supposed to be a blessing to her, she was told. Shamik was the older twin, older by a whopping seven minutes to Nishant, and he never let him forget that. His entire life lately had been consumed by preparing for a reality fitness show—Ultimate Beast—on an international digital platform, and he talked incessantly about nutrition, muscles, training and rest. Nishant, on the other hand, was all about stage performances. On most days, they acted insufferable and perpetually-nonsense-spouting and created an environment completely non-conducive for a young, sane-ish woman to survive in, let alone thrive. There was simply no scope to get a word in at the dinner table or otherwise. She had tried for years before she fell silent.

There is also a variation of this proverb: quiet as a church mouse. That refers to someone who is very quiet, as one would presumably be in a church. Someone seen, but not heard.

Kittu sighed. This was devastating. As far as she was concerned you could be perfectly all right, happy even, putting up with something adverse until someone told you that you were putting up with something adverse. Pigs don’t know pigs stink. Try breaking the news to those poor filthy creatures and you would have to put them on antidepressants, she mused.

Kittu was reading her boyfriend Vicky’s ‘Miss you, Dumpling!’ text for the fifth time when her co-worker, Sonali, marched in fuming and tossed her pretty little jute bag across her desk à la Meryl Streep in The Devil Wears Prada. Her layered coffee-tinted hair bounced in the same direction, as if for effect. Then she sank into her chair, her face sporting the look of a brooding assassin.

‘Does the measuring tape need punishment again?’ Kittu quizzed without looking up, trying to conceal a smile. Sonali had the potential of going from a fairly dormant to a catastrophic volcano within a fraction of a second.

Sonali looked away, drew in a sharp breath, batted her eyelids and finally deemed Kittu worthy of a glance. ‘Do you know the hell I’ve been through this week? I’ve had puke-inducing juices for breakfast that tasted like grass, wheat bran for lunch, which frankly I could’ve eaten wood scraps and not known the difference, and some godforsaken kaddu for dinner all week. I started on Sunday. It’s freaking Friday today and my thigh gap is still the same. Non-existent! I’m going to die a shapeless, single woman with terrible food in my lungs.’

‘Intestines.’ Kittu couldn’t resist a jab.

‘Huh?’

‘Die a shapeless, single woman with terrible food in your intestines.’

‘Ha ha so funny. The poor fat girl is also ignorant about biology,’ Sonali fumed.

The apartment she rented had a chronic rat infestation problem, migraines were her frequent visitors, she lived on a tight budget and her two-wheeler was at the fag end of its life. But the measuring tape trumped all her worries.

‘Joking. But seriously, you are deluded and, for the record, voluptuous. If I had to pick a moniker for you, I’d call you Shapely Sonali,’ Kittu tried to cheer her friend up.

‘I’m sorry, is this cheesy comedy hour in the office? I didn’t get the memo. But I could do with the two-drink minimum.’ She glanced at the lower shelf of her cabinet, which permanently housed two bottles of red wine, one a Zinfandel and the other that she switched up now and then. Currently, Cecchi had made the honours. A third was a bottle of Old Monk, for variety’s sake. On occasion she would share it with Rishi, their colleague, after work during that golden hour between the staff leaving for the day and the cleaning crew coming in. She’d invariably find a way to weave these episodes into her conversations with Kittu and other colleagues, wine being her favourite topic of chit-chat. It had definitely earned her a reputation of being bold and fearless, something she openly cherished.

Kittu went up to her and gave her a hug. ‘Sorry, messing. I just want to see a Smiling Sonali. That’s all.’ Her tone was earnest.

‘And I want to see a Skinnylicious Sonali when I look in the mirror. Is that too much to ask for?’ Sonali turned on her laptop, and the keyboard had to bear the brunt of her frustration. ‘You wafer-thin people will not know our pain.’

‘Wait, so I’m the counter-party now? What is an ideal thigh gap by the way? Some impossible international standards you’re trying to achieve?’

Sonali shot Kittu the classic death stare. ‘Did you emerge from a different era when women ate away to glory and big—I’m sorry the word is humongous—was considered beautiful?’ Subtlety wasn’t one of her strengths.

‘I can’t believe you just said that. It’s beyond offensive and insulting to—’

‘It’s not insulting if you belong to the group. Brown people abroad make fun of brown people and get away with it. I’ve seen it on TV. Racists can insult other racists. Atheists can abuse other atheists. Get the drift?’ Sonali reasoned.

‘That’s the most absurd thing I’ve heard all week. And completely illogical.’

‘Well, it’s true. And a thigh gap is the space between the inner thighs of a woman when standing upright with knees touching,’ Sonali clarified. Then she felt the need to get up and demonstrate the same. Her five-foot five-inch frame stood next to her desk, as she pulled up her peach top slightly to showcase her jeans in their entirety, her fingers pointing out how closely her thighs were pressing into each other. ‘Two fingers between them is the ideal gap.’ She pointed two conjoined fingers first at her crotch and then at Kittu. ‘I’m at negative two right now. Which means they practically poke into each other. It’s repulsive.’

Kittu felt a presence behind her and there was Rishi, standing with two paper plates filled with some pinkish cake, his jaw falling open.

Sonali pulled her top down and, face flushed, reprimanded, ‘Did someone fire the peon?’

‘Clearly, being a peon seems to be far more rewarding than being in ad sales,’ Rishi replied with his wry humour.

‘So is being an Uber driver. You should give that a try,’ Sonali hissed.

‘It was Whiskey’s birthday yesterday,’ Rishi said, pulling a face and setting the plates on their respective tables. ‘Just being considerate.’

‘And Whiskey has a thing for pink cakes? How very masculine of your dog.’ Sonali did not believe in world peace.

‘I know why you’re livid.’ And neither did Rishi.

‘Why?’

‘Because I saw the beauty that is your midriff. It’s got the texture and glow of this pink cake you’re mercilessly dissing. They may not be washboard abs, but honestly men prefer cotton candy ones, trust me.’ He winked.

‘I resent that—’ Sonali was frothing at the mouth now.

‘No, seriously, you should share the love.’

‘Just shut it, will you?’

‘Sheesh, how old are you guys, fifteen?’ Kittu could hardly believe the inane banter. ‘Thanks, Rishi.’ She signalled him to swiftly exit.

He reluctantly left with the manner of a new bride Kittu had seen in Bollywood movies of the eighties; slow and attentive with head duly pointing south. He had seen enough to fuel a week full of wild fantasies involving a smooth peach midriff with curves that could make frolicking rivers out of water, she presumed.

‘And pray what is the connection between thigh gaps and being single?’ Kittu turned to Sonali, continuing the fascinating conversation they had been having before Rishi had entered and created a disruption. Sonali was twenty-nine. Surely she knew better than that.

‘Kittu, I feel bad for you sometimes. You have no inkling of what’s going on elsewhere in the world,’ Sonali declaimed in a cutely offensive manner. ‘A thigh gap has become an aspect of physical attractiveness that is associated with fragility and femininity. It’s a beauty ideal. The only reason you don’t care is because you have it.’

Kittu was tempted to take a peek down below and determine where she stood on the beauty ideal Sonali had just introduced to her. She resisted the urge. ‘You’re saying a potential boyfriend would rather go by that than your beautiful face, your saucy wit and everything else that’s so wonderful about you?’ She took a bite of the pink cake and almost puked. Dogs deserved better. She did too.

‘History seems to suggest that. Why else does no one call me for a second meeting?’

It wasn’t her thigh gap or lack thereof but her aggression that men found intimidating. Kittu decided to save that brilliant insight for another day.

‘Hmm. Oh, and by the way, Vicky called me dumpling in a text last night. So much for being reportedly wafer-thin.’

That got Sonali’s attention. ‘He did not!’ she gasped.

‘He did. Why is that so bad? Will I have to kill him now?’ Kittu played along.

‘It’s not just bad, it’s a deal breaker, darling. You must call him at once and do the deed. ASAP. It’s now or never. Hurry!’ She picked up her cell phone and handed it to Kittu.

‘God, so dramatic, Sonali. But it’s okay. I find your irreverence quite endearing.’

‘I’ll tell you why it’s a deal breaker. One, because he’s your boyfriend, there’s a slight chance he can get away with calling you a dumpling in a loving sort of way when he’s drooling all over your third trimester preggers body. Not before that. Two, because it’s far from the truth. And three, um, never mind.’

‘And three, because you don’t like him.’ Kittu completed her sentence. It wasn’t the first time Sonali had alluded to it.

‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve already planned your entire wedding with him on Pinterest,’ Sonali said in a defeated tone.

‘We’ve been together for four years. This is it.’

‘Well, in that case I’m glad that’s sorted.’ Sonali pulled out a stack of magazines from the bottom drawer of her desk and began flipping through them.

‘Sonali, seriously, I’d love to hear your take on him. What is it that you hate so much about Vicky?’ Not that it would influence her, but she wanted to know anyway.

‘My opinion doesn’t matter, does it? And it shouldn’t. You’re happy. He’s happy, I hope. That should suffice. Now where’s that article on the summer music festivals on a budget in Europe?’ Sonali murmured the last line as she continued searching, mercilessly tossing aside the magazines.

‘I’m just curious,’ Kittu said, accidentally eating another bite of cake. ‘Yikes, what in devil’s name is this?’ she tossed the plate in the dustbin under her desk.

‘Let it go.’ Sonali grimaced as she held up the last magazine from the stack.

Kittu leaned against her desk, thumping it lightly with a fist. ‘Say it!’

‘Ah, here we go.’ Sonali had found the article she was looking for. Curating was all that was left to be done. She kissed it gently and placed it next to her laptop. Then she turned to face Kittu. ‘Okay, pay attention.’

‘All ears.’

‘You need an alpha lover. Someone who has the swagger of a bad boy but scratch the surface and there’s the incredible, amazing guy. The guy with thrills and the guy with security. The guy who’ll give you danger, excitement and adventure and the guy who’ll give you love, comfort and protection. In short, the guy you can date and the guy you can marry.’

Kittu tried to absorb that for a minute. ‘I love you for your theories,’ she smirked. Sonali ignored it.

‘This is serious. Vicky only passes the first-half-of-each-requirement test. You definitely need someone who can pass the latter-half-of-each-requirement test too. At least, that’s the kind of guy that’ll make the cut for me.’

‘He’s … well, he’ll get there one day.’

‘Or not.’

‘I’m not even sure if it’s important.’

‘Do you even know how big it is? Small, medium, large, extra-large maybe? I’d hate you for life if it turns out to be extra-large or even a large. So hard to find.’

Kittu’s mouth fell open but no words would come. She shook her head in embarrassment. ‘Not going to dignify that with an answer,’ she finally declared, her eyebrows going as far north as they could. ‘And it doesn’t matter.’

‘Of course it matters. The only thing that should be teeny weeny is a bikini. Hey that rhymes! You should also know how it feels. Is it like a scared puppy or a brave soldier? Does it go looking for uncharted territory fearlessly, go where no man has gone before and conquer it like a boss? Would it qualify for the param vir chakra?’

Kittu let out a tiny laugh.

‘Your relationship is too chaste even by Disney standards. Four years is a long time. It’s like twenty-eight dog years. Thirty-two, for larger dogs. That’s a really really long time to go without sex,’ Sonali put things in perspective.

‘I will neither accept nor deny. You can keep guessing.’

Kittu walked to the office kitchen, stared at the counter for a brief moment and asked the universe the answer to the fundamental life question: coffee or tea?

Was Sonali right about Vicky? He was confident, sometimes a bit cocky. He was direct, never waffling or meekly tiptoeing around anything. Sometimes he was indifferent; he could remain aloof for days. He never worried about what others thought of him. He felt entitled to her and her time. Comfort and security weren’t on his list. He took risks, sought adventure and led a more interesting life than most people she knew. He definitely had a rebel’s attitude. Uninhibited, unpredictable, mysterious; that was Vicky for her, and she loved him for all that.

Which was why she hadn’t told anyone that she was going to do the impossible this Friday night and propose to him. She’d been unsure when the idea had first crossed her mind. Wasn’t it a man’s prerogative to propose? The question had poked at her for days.

One evening after dinner when her father was sitting on the swing in their backyard decompressing and breathing in the scent of the fresh jasmine blooms, she’d rested her head on his arm. She’d wanted to ask him whether it was a good idea to break the norm and propose to Vicky. Whether it would seem unromantic, or worse, desperate. Would Vicky see her as less feminine, himself as emasculated? Could an alternative fairy tale exist?

A dozen such questions had been spinning at breakneck speed in her head. For a second, she had imagined her head against her mother’s arm instead, the soft cotton of her blouse absorbing all of Kittu’s worries, the sandalwood talcum powder liberally coating her mother’s neck lifting Kittu’s spirits instantly. She had imagined what her mother would have said. She would probably have told Kittu to follow her heart, to do what felt right. She had always displayed immense faith in Kittu even when she was a child, encouraging her to form her own opinions, to voice them and to make her own decisions. It was perhaps because she had little time or energy to pander to an older kid after dealing with two bratty little boys, Kittu had suspected on occasion. Nevertheless, she had enjoyed that special treatment.

Things hadn’t been quite the same since her mother’s passing. But her mother would have liked Vicky, Kittu was certain. Taking that transcendental feeling as a sign, she had mustered the courage to orchestrate a beautiful proposal. A secluded corner in a nearby plant nursery had a rustic pergola covered in creepers with coral flowers. They created a breathtaking blanket of pink. That would serve as the venue, and a handwritten poem on handmade paper she’d bought from a nearby art store would serve as a token of love. The store owner had advised her to use an ink pen to write on the paper. It had made the entire experience old-fashioned and utterly romantic. She had imagined herself in a black and white movie, wearing a long dress, seated on a balcony writing a letter to her lover, the wind blowing her hair wild.

The timing was right, as was Vicky. She just knew in the deepest, warmest corner of her heart. But how would Vicky take it? that voice in her head queried. She exhaled.

CHAPTER 2

If there were a contest to create delectable art with ground coffee beans, brown sugar and creamy full-fat milk with ice cubes and vanilla ice cream thrown in for good measure, Kittu was certain she would win it by a landslide. The end product would be something that was too beautiful to touch but irresistible, the kind that’d make your nose dive into it without the slightest fear of cocoa-sprinkled foam smearing it, the kind that’d make you toss your head back as you closed your eyes and ran your tongue over your upper lip in a slow, sensual motion. She would want her judges to know that she didn’t believe in the frenzied assembly of ingredients. She made careful note of their texture, their delicate aroma and their dynamics with each other. She would make the process a touch theatrical, humming her favourite dance track du jour and twirling when the tempo picked up. It was imperative to note that this process of treating the coffee-making process like a magnum opus was only for one man in her life, a man who was her most revered chess opponent, her jogging buddy and her father, all rolled into one. The ultimate tragedy? He didn’t allow her this luxury often enough.

The roll-up chessboard with walnut and cream