Secret Diary of An Incurable Romantic: (Um . . . and a closet alcoholic)

By Chitrangada Mukherjee

Meet Madhubala Ray, a thirty-year-old brand-spanking-new widow in Chennai. She lives with her seventy-year-old mostly-silent MIL— whose name she can' t remember, teaches Social Science to bratty teenagers, and suddenly has a life filled with unpredictable men, catty colleagues, a bisexual best friend, and . . . heart-wrenching memories of her late husband. How does she deal with all of that? By baring it all, in her diary. Join this oddball-widow who tries to survive a tragedy through wine and vodka, her quirky sense of humour, and refuses to give up on love. Despite its oddities. The question is: does she survive and find love, again?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fingerprint Publishing
• Release date: Jul 5, 2019
• ISBN: 9789389178043

Book preview

This is my diary.

I am Madhubala Ray.

January 1, 2016

Friday

11 am: It’s been a month. Of hiding. Avoiding. Despairing. . . . With intermittent suicidal tendencies. This morning, while browsing idly on my mobile, I bravely googled how to die painlessly. A step-by-step instruction popped up on screen, making it a bit difficult . . . you know, to muster courage and die.

Disconcertingly casting my suicidal tendencies aside, I poured red wine and vodka—on some days I do both—without telling her. My mother-in-law. She lives with me, is about seventy, has long jet-black hair, and no place to go. Her daughter has her family, life, and sanity to look after. After all, an old and extremely opinionated woman—she counters arguments and speech with unshakeable silence—can’t, for all understandable reasons, be anyone’s priority.

Lalita Pawar—that’s her name. No, no, wait, that’s not her name. I call her that. Shit! I’ve forgotten her name. What was it? Hemlata, Barnalata . . . Mahasweta? Fifties’ kind of name that Bengali women used to have . . .

Anyway. Things have been bad. Like real bad. Since December first. The school where I work gave me a month to recover and re-join.

Fit as a fiddle. In a month, Mr Subramaniam, our muffin-topped principal, who likes to talk in silly similes, had whispered, as he sat cross-armed across the large wooden desk in a small, musty room. He only whispered when he wanted to be taken seriously. Or when things were serious.

Okay . . . s-sir, I had murmured.

Good. He had then smiled and let me go, not looking at my breasts—this time.

I hadn’t broken my bones in an accident nor had I been diagnosed with Dengue. My husband, for god’s sake, had passed away. A month back. Leaving me to live. Survive. Go through all this shit alone.

So today being the first day of the New Year and all, I had decided to stand up. And wax it. My upper lip. In the large and plush salon few metres away from my apartment. First thing in the morning. However, my high hopes of turning into Princess Mia had evaporated once I took one good look at the mirror. For unfathomable reasons I had ended up resembling a sixteen-year-old teenage boy, who had just had his first shave—after the wax!

I thought I had done the smart thing by opting for upper lip wax, instead of threading through my woman-moustache. Even the young and slim north-eastern girl had nodded in agreement when I had suggested a wax, which had made me take an instant liking to her.

She was so funny. She had roared in laughter when I had let out an aaaaahhh while she mercilessly ripped the white cloth off my face, scaring some of the masked aunties, and on-phone working girls—getting their legs waxed and simultaneously tackling their concerned-about-safety and hyper-about-marriage moms.

After paying hundred odd bucks, I had returned home feeling worse than how I had felt in the morning. Right after Pintu’s call.

Earlier in the morning. 8-ish.

Somewhere in between paranoia over missing a stair and finding I don’t have legs in the first place, I heard a shrieking bell. Leaping up from bed, I found a room with white walls and a large turquoise wardrobe. I sat on a bed that felt familiar. Staring blankly.

It took me some time to snap out of it and find my mobile phone, which was ringing obnoxiously. I had forgotten to put it on silent last night. Blame it on the red wine infused dementia.

Hello, I said groggily, fighting morning breath.

Happy New Year, babes! a male voice boomed.

Pintu? I cried.

Who else! You naked? he said.

N-no, I mumbled.

You are. I know you don’t wear any when you slee— he continued in a jeering tone.

Long time. How are you? I cut in hastily.

Blushing, babes? I know you are, he said, breaking into laughter.

Happy New Year! I wished, almost shouting. I needed to divert his mind and do it quickly.

Are you sure? Happy, really, babes? he said and stopped laughing.

Ya-no. Not happy, I conceded.

You’ll be, though. Because I—

You’re coming. When? I asked.

Tomorrow, he announced dramatically.

Oh . . . great. But why suddenly? I asked, trying to sound cheerful.

Seriously? You don’t want to see me? He sounded hurt.

Well, Pintu can read my mind. We’ve known each other since the time he sat in class staring out of the window, dreamily digging his nose. And I swooned over a cute senior at school—a wannabe rock star and my demi-god.

"I do want to see you," I said with enough stress, hoping this would undo the damage.

I know, babes. Put on your sexiest outfit and meet me in my hotel at six, sharp. Will ping the address, he ordered and hung up.

Pintu’s impending visit had been reason enough to scare the daylights out of me and send me marching to the parlour. I certainly didn’t want him to take one look and go: Wow. That’s new, babes. A stubble!

1 pm: Hair out of the way, I started to ruminate about the sexy outfit. Not that the outfit needed to be particularly sexy. Because last time I checked Pintu was in love with Sujit—an uncannily beefed up wannabe model-actor, and Brishti—a doe-eyed married woman with a disinterested husband. At the same time.

After rummaging my wardrobe for hours, filled with saris, salwar-kameez, dresses, tees, and jeans, I found nothing to wear. Each garment in my closet triggered a colourful memory though. I saw Pyare making love to me; taking me to late night movies in our red Figo; surprising me with dinner dates; stopping the car to kiss; arguing sweetly why chicken hariyali was so much better than tandoori chicken as the bored waiter looked on . . . And I broke down, weeping like a child lost in a large departmental store.

Alternating between muffled sobs and staring blankly at the wall, I sat for hours. Until someone knocked, hesitantly. Slowly standing up, I dabbed my cheeks and opened the chocolate brown wooden door that separated my room from the rest of the apartment. Lalitaji, resplendent in a fluorescent green and pink printed sari, stood like a monk—blouse less. She didn’t wear one at home.

Maa? I muttered.

The owner called. Rent, she said, looking through me.

When? I was suddenly hit by a wave of panic.

Yesterday, she said calmly.

"Shit, shit . . . I cursed. Did he sound angry, irritated? Urgent?" I rambled.

I’ve some money in the bank. About a lakh, she said casually.

I suddenly got this urge to kiss her dry and creased lips, but my logical mind pulled me back.

U-uh. Thanks, I said with gratitude.

When does your school reopen? she asked, peeping into my room.

Day after tomorrow. I can join by tenth, I said, blocking her vision with my body.

Take bath and eat your lunch, she said turning away, like she’s done dealing with a sick child. And for a moment I wondered how she was taking it. How does an ageing mother who loses her thirty-two-year-old son in a freak accident and is forced to live with her daughter-in-law take anything?

She sat on the black leather couch and turned the TV on. A Bengali channel came on. Pretty women in gorgeous saris got angry, jealous, worried, and disheartened by incredible situations.

Switching the geyser on, I stepped into the bathroom. A long, hot bath. Maybe that’s what I needed . . .

January 2, 2016

Saturday

Morning. 9-ish: Woke up to the sound of my mobile bellowing unconcernedly. It was Maa, my mother. A woman of sixty who believes the classic Indian woman is of her height, which is about five feet zero inches. She loves spicy non-veg curries, cooked the Bong way, and consumes those on most days of the year, wears her non-veg curry obsession as a badge of honour on all the wrong places in her body, and bellows in laughter at incidents which are guaranteed to make one cry. Like this one time when our hale and hearty and slightly obnoxious middle-aged Bihari neighbour died of a heart attack and the maid came huffing and puffing to break the sad news, Maa fell off her easy chair, in peals of laughter. Making us question her sanity. Humanity. And some other -itys. Quite obviously I braced myself when she yelled on the phone:

"Kire! Guess kor, guess!"

I: "Ki? Maa?"

Maa: What did I make today?

I: Mutton curry.

Maa: How did you know!

I: It’s my birthday.

Maa: Exactly.

I: You shouldn’t be eating mutton, Maa. You had a heart attack.

Maa: And I survived.

I: Exactly, my point . . . you almost died.

Maa: "Don’t say such things on your birthday. Happy Birthday!"

I: Mmm . . . Baba?

Maa: Reading his newspaper in the toilet while he does—

I: W-w-what else did you cook?

Maa: You don’t cook anything else when you cook mutton. That’s the thumb rule!

I: Says who?

Maa: "Now, now your baba is here. And he is not wearing his pyjamas! Uff! Ki go—"

Baba: Happy Birthday, Modhubala!

I: Thanks, Baba.

Baba: So what is special . . . today?

I: Nothing much. Pintu is in town. Will meet up.

Baba: Your school friend . . . Isn’t he working here in Kolkata?

I: Runs his business actually. He is here for work, I guess.

Baba: "Good, good. Ask him to drop in and check on us, whenever he’s in Patuli. He lives in Alipore, taina?"

I: You remember.

Baba: I do, Modhu. His dad Parthoda is a gentleman.

I: Mm . . .

Baba: Why don’t you come visit us? For a while . . ."

I: Got school and—

Baba: Will you continue?

I: Yes, mid-session; can’t leave now.

Baba: Did you . . .? When did you start reading Bangla literature? . . . Are summers really hot in Chennai?

I: Yes.

Baba: Hmm . . .

I: "But tourists do flock the Marina beach during summers. You can see women wearing shakha and pola talking to their husbands and kids in Bangla. Playing with the waves . . ."

Baba: Is that so?

I: Yes.

Baba: Then your maa and I will come down. Your school will be closed in May?

I: Yes, Baba.

Baba: Take good care, Modhu. We’ll see you soon.

And without waiting for my response he hung up abruptly, like he always does. My father finds it difficult to say goodbye, even on a phone call.

Noon:

After reading few pages from a book named All the Light We Cannot See and constantly checking WhatsApp messages and Fb, I finally realized that reading the thick book on another day would be a better idea.

So I walked into the living room, grabbed the remote from Lalitaji, and watched back-to-back movies on Romedy Now. None of which made me cry. Lalitaji was irritated about the TV sabotage, but let it slide when I assured her I won’t be around in the evening. Just when I was about to admire Lalitaji for her maturity owing to age, she grumbled, "Today I will catch the repeat telecasts of only five serials."

3-ish: Bored with the marathon movie watching, turned the TV off and got into several imaginary chats with Pintu, in which Pintu said this and I said that. Lalitaji, meanwhile, had retired to her room for a nap.

4 pm: After being confused for twenty minutes straight, zeroed in on a mustard yellow silk-cotton sari with a navy blue pallu, purchased from Nalli on a whim, few months ago.

5.30 pm: In the lift, bumped into the next-door neighbour, Mrs Ramya Kapoor—the middle-aged seductress and leech-like Tupperware seller on the side. Dressed to dazzle in a yellow and jet black leaf-printed net sari.

Going somewhere? she smirked, flicking her long, thick hair at an imaginary lover.

Yeah. Actually— I mumbled.

You don’t have to tell me, she said, winking like a co-conspirator. Adding with genuine interest: Started going to school?

I . . . w-will soon, I muttered.

Good. Career woman! You know, something’s wrong with young career girls like you. She shook her head and pouted her bright pink lips.

What? I asked nervously.

"You don’t eat, na. Ghar ka khana. That’s the key to staying healthy. And—"

And? I cut in, all ears. Like she’s guru Ramdev and I’m her most devout disciple.

Slim, she said, rolling her eyes.

Oh.

"Yes, that’s why you need to pack lunch in nice and pretty lunch boxes, so you want to take those lovely dabbas out. And eat healthy," she said, wrapping up her elevator pitch.

Ahh . . . I get it now! I exclaimed.

So will drop in and show you some, she offered, all Zen.

What? I asked, confused.

Lunch boxes. Pretty ones. She cooed like a candyfloss seller.

Oh. I, uhh, am not sure, I said.

Just then, the lift door opened but instead of stepping out, she leaned seductively closer and whispered near my cheek, "A few hundreds only. And you can pay in instalment."

5.45 pm: While wrapping my head around Ramya’s sales pitch and home cooked food being directly proportional to body fat, I booked a cab to reach Pintu’s showy hotel, somewhere in T Nagar. Of all the places in Chennai, Mr Smarty Pants had to stay in the busiest part of the city, where traffic moved like shit during constipation!

I knew I wasn’t going to make it by six. So decided on WhatsApp-ing him. Pintu’s display picture was a selfie from yesterday. Dressed in a grey tee, he looked serious as hell. His head inclined at an angle that highlighted his cheek bones and not his baby-cheeks. Unsmiling. And un-Pintu. I smiled at my phone and wondered what my closest friend was doing right now. What was he thinking about? He wasn’t online. But he had pinged.

Babes!

Where r u?

Am in hotel

Chennai isn’t bad

Not as good as Kolkata

Driver spoke English in Tamil

  

Do they speak Hindi now?

Ok, talk later

Oh! Pls change your DP!!!

I zoomed in and stared at the display picture. Our selfie at KFC. Smiling at the camera . . . Pyare in his favourite black tee, laughing at the couple next to us who were sharing chicken wings like a couple breaking fast after Karvachauth. I was in my black maxi dress, the one I got from the fancy store without a discount. Hah . . . Good old times . . .

Living in Chennai wasn’t my choice. It was Pyare’s. Not because he was kicked about Rajnikanth or idli or the beach, but because he got a job offer with a hefty package in an IT company he found rather hard to refuse.

6.45 pm: As luck would have it I reached the hotel forty-five minutes late. And hoped Pintu, who has not been punctual in life even once, wouldn’t make too much of it. Only good thing about the painfully long commute: the moment when a clean and fluent-in-English cab driver showed the bill amount on his GPS-enabled smartphone to be fifty. Owing to a discount. Yay!

Thanking the driver profusely, I walked up to the lobby of the old and large hotel and asked for Mr Pintu. And gasped in horror like a rookie call girl meeting an anonymous client, when I realized that I didn’t know Pintu’s worldly name! Pintu, unfortunately, was his nickname—the name every Bengali boy is identified with even later in life. To the boy’s despair, of course.

I wrecked my brain for a couple of minutes. Pintu could be Pranab, Pradeep, Pankaj. Not getting anywhere with the first name, I tried recalling his last name. Was Pintu a Brahmin? But then chided myself for having casteist tendencies. In this day and age! But I didn’t find any caste-related incidents to bring to mind Pintu’s last name or a first name, for that matter. Only faces of grumpy teachers, bored friends, cheerful relatives, and intolerable neighbours appeared, calling Pintu PINTU!

Meanwhile, bored with my searching game, the red lipstick-ed young woman at the reception counter, gave me the I-know-why-you’re-here look, when I said I didn’t know the guest’s name. To counter which, I stood straight and gave her back a you-are-a-bloody-receptionist look.

Minutes later she reluctantly called up room number 601—when I threw the room number at her face. Well, actually I just told her after scanning Pintu’s WhatsApp message. Anyway, after she confirmed that I was indeed a visitor, she let me go to Pintu’s suite.

In a desperate attempt, to let her know that I’m a woman of honour, I turned around like a diva in a sari, only to trip and fall on the large vase with real and bright lilac orchids next to the reception desk. Collecting what remained of my dignity and fighting my inner demons which yelled: she still thinks you are a call girl! A call girl! I scurried to the lift and let out a long sigh as the door