Fiction: The Clown

Rana Preet Gill

Rana Preet Gill

He had a head full of golden curls, a nose, swollen, red and shoes so ugly that I laughed in contempt. Was there any need for them to put up the clown in this supermarket? It was bustling with shoppers at every conceivable hour of the day.  I tried to buy things early in the morning before the start of my shift, late afternoon, early evening, late in the evening, in the dread of the night but it would be full of expatriates like me. The natives had an upper hand since they would have separate queues while we struggled to get our things together, looking at their shorter queues and envying that they had it so easy.

I hated the Agha supermarket and now this clown. Like an imposter towering over small frames of children looking for potential victims it seemed.

“They rape and mutilate the bodies of the little ones only to hide them in the giant bulk of their costume.” I babbled.

Athiya was hardly listening. She was aware of my contempt for the locals, for anything that seemed to differentiate us from them, for everything that brought a warm scent of sweet memories from home afar.

And this clown, this man in the garb of a clown was making me nostalgic, choking me sick with feelings like a marmalade spreading on the wafer-thin mint, buttering it up like a toast, full of sweetness so repulsive that I rushed to the nearest rest room to vomit. A meagre breakfast of an oily poori dipped in the spicy concoction of channa.

I stepped out to see Athiya grabbing the bulk of the clown in her hands as the impersonator hugged her in an embrace. But his arms, fluffed up in this giant mess of clothing made the gesture appear funny. The children giggled, laughed out loud, now pulled Athiya away from this embrace.

My turn, my turn! 

They shouted out loud.

The clown lets go of Athiya, turns towards them, points out to one lean girl, afflicted with polio walking tormented by one short leg in prosthetics and other normal leg. As she placed her normal foot in front of the artificial one she made a strange creaky noise. The clown proffered help extending a hand, but she walked straight into his bulk of a belly nestling her head deep, fitting it into a crevice as she brought her hands close to grasping the folds of the clownish clothes.

“And now he is going to feel her up?” I hissed while Athiya looked at me shocked by my derision.

“Let’s go on some other floor. Where there are no clowns and imperfect children. Did you see she had polio! I mean, how could she! We eradicated it from our country. And this place, look at them with developed infrastructure, but midget mentality.”

“It could have been something else. And why rebuke a child. She might, she will grow up to be an amazing personality.” Athiya, the eternal optimist always makes the endings beautiful. All well that ends well! She would often intone, conclude and rest her case.

Athiya and I were roommates in this alien land. She was not my sister, nor my lover, we had demarcated our boundaries in the room, we were confidants. Two Indians in a land so far away from home. We were in the same university, different classes, different courses, altogether different timings yet we found time to navigate the Agha supermarket once a while.

It was her generosity that she allowed me to co-habit with her. Before she came into the picture I was sharing a room with ten of my ilk. I had tried to fall in love with her in those initial days. I imagined what would happen if we slept together in one bed instead of two separate beds but it never happened. I had tried to peek into her life to find the traces of a boyfriend back home, but whatever she told me about her family it did not include a love interest. She might be hiding, I would think. But Athiya, the girl was so pure in her intentions that I had to let go of my wanderings. I returned her panties, her camisole and the brassiere, silken and soft, which I had sneaked up to work up my fantasies in the dead of the night. Athiya is a lesbian, I made my shitty mind mug up this line and deserted her longing in the desert, the barren land where when they found no nourishment, they died down. Athiya was, after all, only a roommate.


Why she offered me the luxury to live with her will always remain a mystery to me? She had financial stability. Her father was a stockbroker back home. He sent her enough. She did not work. She lived in this upscale locality on rent all alone, which was again a luxury. While I worked in shifts before and after classes in the grocery store she did not.  I wanted to share her moolah by making her my girlfriend.

“I don’t want to complicate my life with relationships right now. Too young!” She minced no words. I lugged the weight of this new realization, this clarity of purpose in her dictionary of life berating myself for the recklessness of having no purpose at all.

But all this happened a long time back. We never talked about the possibility of a relationship, I stopped thinking, she stopped explaining. I respected the boundaries, she did not define them again and again and we fell into this familiar rhythm of life.

That night when we switched off the lights Athiya spoke in a soft hum from the other corner of the room. Her voice travelling little distance sounded far removed from this world, coming from a distant land, a neighbour country with which the mind of my own country shared peaceful relationships. Two worlds squeezed into a room, two personalities jostling for space, two human beings making their own rituals in a land unclaimed, unchartered, undefined.

“Why were you so nasty to that clown? He might be someone like us. He did not seem like a local.”

I smirked. She must have sensed my indifference.

“What if he is someone from our country, doubling up as an artist only for money. Some extra money!”

I did not answer and her voice feeble with concern was soon blocked from the recesses of my mind.

I slept with an unease that night. Images of my home town, a mother and a village fair swam through the interstices of half-awake mind. A happy childhood, those figurines decorated with markings, the clown of the villages, making us children laugh. But all that was far removed from my life now.  The mother alone, father dead, I ended up studying in an alien country. The village metamorphosed into a suburb, no village fairs, where would those people who dressed up in crazy costumes and markings deep red on their face would have gone.

Early morning as I called back home, I asked mother if she ever went to that fair. Seen those people, clumsy, clownish, a treat for village children, waiting to entertain others, waiting for some scraps of money from their elders.

“I am all alone. Who will take me to the fair? It does take place, but at a different venue. Do you need money?”

I disconnected the call. She could always hitch up a ride with someone from the locality of the village, the quasi city. I do not know what that place was anymore. Not my home. This was my home. But this was not home either. I was an outsider here also.

I avoided the Agha supermarket for many days. But that day when Athiya had the shopping list ready I could not say no.

“I have classes. And you can pick these things up before your morning shift.”

I nodded and moved out. She was diligent as she calculated the expenditure in advance and paid me her half of the bill. So, calculative with her vast resources!  The stockbroker in making! I laughed at her stinginess some days and marveled it at other times.

Athiya, I do not want to see that damn clown! I left the words unsaid in my heart and moved out with heavy steps.

He might not be there this early morning. He might be in his home, his safe cocoon, I wondered. My mind still agitated with my mother’s concerns about my need for money, her inability to take charge of her life in my absence, those village fairs, the clowns, my denial to go home, to forsake everything and yet trying to find routes to associate with things back home.

No, I shouted to myself. I want to disconnect. Everything that reminds me of home.  It’s been three years and I have not gone back once.

Why? I question myself. Did I want mother to find a way out of her life, with the money and property, sell it, find a support, a help and carry on and not look forward to me coming back and take charge of everything?

Why should I complete my education and go back?

What for?

There was so much bitterness inside me, creeping into the corners of my mouth. This rootlessness. As if after the death of my father I uprooted myself from my nativity. But there was mother. I had ignored her pleas, forced her to sell a precious part of land cherished by my father and left. Left, right after my father’s death when I had so much to take care of! But mother, she had managed, without me, but then, why cannot she go to the village fair and see those smeared bodies with paints, laugh and giggle. Is she still waiting for me? For such a simple job when she had undertaken the task of managing bigger things by herself.

I switch on the music putting an end to painful thoughts that crowd my mind day in and out. I would love to play possum to dank these thoughts but it would not come easy. The letting go would not happen.

As I park the car in the basement of Agha market I notice the clown. But it’s a man, I rub my eyes. Hs is wearing the costume of a clown, the head full of golden curls rests next to him. He is sitting in the basement with the blob of a nose fixed atop. He smiles as he sees me getting into the lift. His shift must not have started yet. Athiya was right, he looked like us, our man, not a native, an expatriate, fooling the world into believing that he is one amongst them. Beneath the mask he is one amongst us, a foreign being, a non-native.

I do not smile, neither wave my hand. I see his smile die for the neglect of reciprocation. He will soon disguise it under the fake head full of golden curls.

In the university, I check out with my supervisor to find out if I can travel back home for a few days. He is gracious to allow me a break. I book a ticket, an empty slot for the night, as if waiting only for me. I pack my bag, write a note for Athiya.

 I am going home to bring back the lost cuddles.

Setu, June 2020

Fiction: The kitty party

Rana Preet Gill

Rana Preet Gill

She dazzled in red! She knew, she always did and today was special because she was organizing the monthly kitty party. She had made special preparations for the day. From getting her nails done at Bilal’s to her usual pedicures which were upgraded, and her face waxed, bleached with everything done on it to make it smoother, fairer.

“But I look the same, Bilal!” she muttered after a week of spending thousands of rupees on the efforts of diligent hard work by his staff.

“Of course, darlin’! You do not expect me to make you a different person!” He laughed as he kissed her fingers.

“No, you do not get it! This is my kitty and I do not want to look the same. I want to look different!” she looked at her image in the mirror feigning an expression of horror.

“But you look so pretty.” He cackled, now playing with her hair, rotating the long strands around his fingers spreading the curls in front of her shoulders.

She looked peeved. Only a day was left before her kitty was hosted at the most expensive outlet in the city that charged a fee even for your presence at their domain. And despite assurances by Bilal that she looked radiant she was not happy with his services at all. He had laughed off her complaints telling her that his staff did their best, and she being the royal client, they used their best products and if she was still not happy she needed to look for another parlour.

“As if you will find it, darlin’!” Bilal had said mockingly when she had looked back at him in anger for being so upfront about catering to all the rich people in the city.

“But they all come here. Don’t they! And you pamper them all so how that makes me different from them.” She had created an uproar with her diatribe and Bilal had a hard time explaining that she was the most special client to him in the entire city. But she would not listen and the next appointment had been waiting for the past half an hour. He tried to brush her of his back by waving his hand absent mindedly indicating her to leave.

“The beauty lies deep inside you. We only manifest it on your face and body. But if you do not feel beautiful despite all this, there is nothing I can do. Go home and find your own. We all are beautiful in our special ways.” He blasted off to another cubicle and she could hear him greeting other customer with the same gusto. She grated her teeth in anger and marched away not before soaking in the words, taking them inside her, wondering what he meant.

 How can beauty lie deep inside me!” If Bilal is hopeless at his job and I do not feel beautiful even after spending so much money it is his fault, not mine.

On the D-Day, she had felt listless and a lack of desire lingered on her mind. She had gazed absent mindedly on the clock, ticking away the seconds. While the time slipped away she felt weary without doing any chores. She had received umpteen messages from her group, expressing excitement at the venue and on the day, that held promises to titillate them because they knew she always did the best. But none of that excited her today. As she pulled up the dress from the cupboard and donned it, the maid came to ask her about the day’s cooking.

“You look beautiful, madam.”

“But what if I looked like them. What if someone else chose to wear red and not one but all of them chose to wear the same. And we all look same and eat the same dishes. How would I be special?” She had spoken her thoughts loudly as she looked at her mirror image in a strange way making her feel absurd about blurting it out so honestly.

“But that will never be! We are all different. We look different and feel different. And you look nice.” The maid left for the kitchen after taking the usual instructions from her.

How simple it is! What does she know about having an identity! She does not know how hard it is to be different from them!

She took all her paraphernalia and deposited them into several colorful bags and was the first one to reach the venue. The staff greeted her, led her to the kitty hall booked by her in advance. Hectic activity started to unfold around her. The stoic place sprung to life. They began tidying up the immaculate hall as she sat pondering over her thoughts.  How she wanted them to wear anything but red to avoid the sameness that made her edgy as she sat chewing her fingertips!

The liveried waiters who mulled around her stole glances at her, feeling good about her presence in that kitty hall. They looked at her, sighed and exchanged surreptitious looks. One of them chose to stand by her side like a sentry waiting for the orders that could come gushing out any moment. She was oblivious to all the ripples being created in the hearts as her thoughts only concentrated on her being different. While the staff hurried to and fro from the kitty hall the manager too decided to jump in the fray and gushed towards her to make his presence worthwhile. She nodded absentmindedly and smiled at his kindness.  They all swooned, looking at her, mesmerized, for she was the most gorgeous women to be present right there, making their day, spreading cheer with her mere presence.

And now the ladies started to trickle one by one, sun kissing, analyzing each other, the make-up, the dresses, the hair do’s. They all lapped it up and took note of everything that could be minutely dissected later on. Some of them wore red and this was a reason good enough for her to feel sullen. Her shoulders slouched and her mood turned somber as she snapped at the waiters and the staff mulling around to make it special for her. Her wide spread halo began receding and the manager who came a second time to enquire if everything is going fine beat a hasty retreat.

The murmurs of discontent were being circulated amongst the staff at her undue harshness and those who were obsequious now did their job but without a smile on their face. Some of them excused themselves and took the work of other tables to find more pleasant customers. They were not even looking at her pink cheeks, red luscious lips or her enamoring tresses that had seemed bewitching when she strode in. She lost her charm and they only took her as another foul-mouthed, rich customer.

She reached home cranky and irritated by their behavior. She did not enjoy a minute of being a host. She felt the place was too cramped and the staff too rude and her friends feigned that they had a good time while overall it was a disaster.

“Why dear, that’s the best place in town? And the staff is over courteous, they say! And they must have been mesmerized by you. You dazzled in red today.” Her husband held her in his arms but she sulked at the day’s happenings.

“They were rude to me. They stared at me all the time as if I had come from the moon. And we all looked the same. All of us. And those who wore red looked awful. Because they all go to Bilal’s and he gives all of them the same treatment and care. And they all must have brought the same duty free make up. How will I ever be different?”

He sighed and moved away and propped his head on the soft, sunken pillows and drifted off to sleep while she fretted and fumed at his insouciance.

I need to find a dress and a color and a make that will make me different next time. And I need to get rid of Bilal and his antics. He takes me for a ride when he tells me that I am the special customer because I do not see him treating me any better than others.

 The hunt for that special dress kept her at tenterhooks as sleep evaded her eyes and she spent a better part of the night searching online sites for something more than the ordinary. And the next day when she woke up she was groggy and more vicious as she found faults with everything, anyone did. No sooner had the staff accomplished their tasks they tried to slip away from the household to escape her notice.

As days went by, her obsession to look different initiated as an innocuous desire acquired strong proportions and a better part of the day went into negotiating ways to modify her looks and her appearance. The visits to Bilal were curtailed and a new spa around the corner looking for new clientele was marked. The moment she set her foot inside, she was impressed by the furnishings and the sleek setting of the interiors.

A bevy of women sat in lounging chairs relaxing their feet in hot dips reading the glossy fashion magazines. She knew none of them and this thought comforted her. Now she can aspire to look different from all the women who went to Bilal’s.  She cringed thinking what Bilal might interpret of this treachery but she immediately put a stop to all her punishing thoughts.

But he never was able to make me different. He made me look the same and then to hide his own flaws he was telling me that I am the one who can make it different. Beauty is deep inside!!!! What was that?

She laughed at his assertions but was soon gripped with a morbid fear.

What if they reach here as well! The women from her kitty group! And then they will be getting the nails done the same way, their hair coiffed in a similar fashion and their face treated with same lotions and creams.

No sooner had this thought taken a hold inside her mind she rushed back to her car. The girl who was waiting with the hot water and a towel wondered and looked at her all perplexed as she kept on calling her name but her steps acquired a speed and she dashed outside discombobulated and feeling dizzy. By the time she was seated in her car her head throbbed with an unknown pain and she held it in her hands for comfort.

While they drove home the driver kept on stealing secret glances at her taking clues that she did not seem very well. She looked outside and saw the heavy flow of vehicles moving in the same direction. They all looked the same, the same make and color and the size.

“Why are we all moving in the same direction?” She implored in a queasy voice. Coming from her, it sounded like a weak reinforcement of her pleas as if asking him to make a change in the travel plans of all those with indeterminate journeys and minds. The driver cocked up an eyebrow but did not seem to understand the futility of such a question. He let her words ping pong in his head before letting his mind shape an answer to such a silly question. He regarded it as some kind of joke on him choosing to ignore his desire to make a befitting reply to her query.

“And why are they all travelling in the same car? “She repeated the question that made no sense to the driver. Obviously, they were not travelling in the same make. He sniggered! Did the madam forget that she was travelling in a Mercedes and all the other cars were not the same? Is she doing it on purpose or there is some kind of hidden test that she is undertaking on behalf of sahib. Nervous beads of sweat glistened on the driver’s forehead as he wished for the drive back home to come to an abrupt end. He had always enjoyed the pleasure to carry the memsahib to and fro. He liked to steal a glance or two at her while driving. One look at her face was enough to illuminate his life and he secretly desired a wife as beautiful as her. He had always regarded her as different from memsahibs of other sahibs he had worked till now. She smiled more generously, ignored his silly queries some days and offered him knick-knacks for his sisters but today she seemed to be acting strange. Not different but strange. He was a little sad at her confusion but he could not find a reason for it to take hold in her mind at the first place.

He was reminded of a man in his village who used to ask silly questions to passersby all the time. The people had regarded him as the mad man of the village. The little boys and girls used to tie a string of old cans to his backside and he used to run away from the strange sound that kept on following him oblivious to the fact that his movement was the source of all the hullabaloo and later on his running exacerbated this noise.

They reached home. The memsahib floated like wind in the knowledge that her home is at least different. He looked at memsahib’s derriere intently trying to find that chain of cans tied behind her back but all he could see was her pathetic walk as she was unable to find a coherence in her steps any more. He had the inimitable desire to go and hold her, to tell her that all is well with the world but he kept on watching and made no attempt to move for the sake of propriety. Even when she fell on the cobbled pathway leading to the front porch he was unable to move. He kept on standing stoically wondering if he would be blamed in some way if something happened to her because he was the one who had driven her home.

As she tripped on the concrete, her head hit something sharp and she slipped away into a bottomless pit. The last she remembered she was falling freely, unhinged, unchained. Just down and down without any sense of gravity to hold her. She woke up with a splitting pain making her body ache and her head sear in pain. As she touched her forehead it was all bandaged. The warm touch of her husband comforted her as he made her sit up in the bed.

“You cut your head open when you fell on the floor. The sharp end of the hoe was struck deep in your forehead. How many times I had to tell the stupid gardener not to leave his tools unattended!” He seethed in fury at the irresponsible action of the gardener that had led to this freak accident injuring his wife. She calmed him down by pressing his hand tight and speaking with a little difficulty but still trying to bring her act together.

“I was not well. I might have tripped on my own. Please do not blame him.” She closed her eyes bridging pieces of the puzzle wondering why she was not feeling well. She let it go and closed her eyes feeling loved in the warm embrace of her husband. After being in the hospital for more than a fortnight she was back home nursing a little bandage that was the only remnant of the terrible injury she sustained on that fateful day.

The driver, the maid, the gardener, all were happy to have her back. She smiled at them in the most beatific manner. They all smiled back. The driver looked for any signs of distress but there were none. The maid took the usual directions to cook the home coming meal, the gardener fell on her feet asking for forgiveness but she shoved him away with a wave of her hand. The house was running as smooth and efficient. It was as if she never left it in the first place. It looked the same. ‘The same’ she repeated to herself trying to put some weightage on the words but she was unable to place any special connection with those words.

 Her kitty friends came to enquire. Bilal made a phone call to know about her well-being. She promised to pay a visit soon. When the bandage came out it left a scar that was quite discernible on her face. She was a little taken aback with this unexpected development. The scar stood like a sore thumb on her picture-perfect face.

Her husband was perturbed when he saw the scar. “You had such a flawless skin and see what happened. But I have talked to the doctor. They can make it go away. You just meet the skin specialist.” She fixed an appointment that was still a month away because the doctor bore the burden of perfection and was much in demand by all his clientele.

In the meanwhile, the invite for the monthly kitty came up. A very close friend was hosting it who ended up extracting a promise from her, to attend. She applied a liberal dose of foundation on her face and especially her forehead but the scar still showed. She tied a bandana around her head and now jacked up like a pirate she reached the venue to the amusement of everyone.

They were a little put-off to see the bandana that covered the better part of her head.

“I look ugly without it. Please do not make me remove it. The gash was very deep and it has left a scar.” She lamented but they would have none of it. They removed the bandana and after the initial round of disapproval one of them marveled as if reaching a sudden discovery that has eluded them till now.

“Isn’t this scar looking like the one on Harry Potter’s forehead?”

“Oh my god!“

“Ditto!!”

“Same to same!”

She was amused at their reactions, the bandana forgotten she became the star of the kitty and her scar was the only thing discussed that day. They fussed over her, pampered her and listened to all she had to say. She was pleased with this new development.

On her way back home the driver as usual stole a few glances at her to give some relief to his tired eyes. He was sorely disappointed to see that the scar has taken away the sheen from her face. She did not look the picture of perfection and her skin too looked a little saggy with her face a little puffed out. He was drowned with disappointment at the changes that made the memsahib look flaky and not at all beautiful, her usual self.

She made a phone call to the dermatologist’s assistant cancelling her appointment though she was warned that she would not be able to make one soon, not as soon as six months because the doctor was way too busy in the beautification regimens of the rich of the city. She disconnected the call and smiled a little to herself. She touched her scar a little self-consciously as if she had gained an unprecedented win over her doubts and fears. She rolled down the windows and let the moist wind bring a few showers.

The driver panicked, “Memsahib, please don’t do that. The seats will get spoiled.”

But no matter what he said she was not listening today. She let out an uproar of laughter, a cry of glee, rich with feeling of fulfillment. She was not the same anymore. Finally, she was different and she bore the mark of this difference valiantly on her head. 

Setu, January 2020

Fiction: Letting go

Rana Preet Gill

Rana Preet Gill

I only gazed at him, once before marriage, through the grimy screen of a computer. I could only acquire some hazy resemblance to a picture of a man I had been shown, on a video conferencing. That day I was surrounded by a gaggle of my cousins, uncles and aunts who laid siege to the office of the travel agent who had patched up this alliance at the insistence of my mother. It felt strange, awkward to chat with my would-be husband in front of so many prying eyes. The travel agent kept on giving me salacious glances, all the while, standing in one corner. I was sweating profusely in the dingy room that was becoming unbearable to sit in with the presence of multitudes of relatives, ever ready to claim their share of the pie. That I was going to be a passport for the rest of my family members to move to Canada was no secret. That I was going to be used as a ladder by the creepy crawlies of the family, who always needed something to hold on to, was a disgusting thought. Why me? Why not the little sister Satti?

On the way back home mom was ebullient with the success of the video conferencing, of the meeting that was successfully negotiated between two parties sitting in opposite parts of the country. Yes, this was an alliance they were patching up for their own sordid reasons. Satti was to be sacrificed at the same altar but she had already conveyed her idea of love and marriage that included dating someone and knowing him thoroughly before tying the knot. No one opposed her, no one suggested her to fall in accordance with their wishes. They only needed one girl from the family to move abroad. They only needed one sacrifice and I was the chosen one.

The groom arrived a day before the wedding. I did not even get a chance to meet him or see him properly. At the pheras in front of the Guru Granth Sahib, our holy book, I was bedecked in the chosen finery and asked to lower my head, my sensibilities in front of the Guru. While I sat with my would be husband I looked at his hands which held on to the ceremonial sword with an elan. They looked aged and gnarled indicating a life of hard work. I looked at my gentle hennaed hands and wondered if this was going to my fate. I dare not look at his face. I did not want to know if it looked as extinguished as his hands! Not now! Not in front of the Guru who was watching my actions and must be berating me for finding faults with my groom on the day of the marriage.

When he came into my room, that night, his breath stank of cheap country liquor. I shut my eyes tight for I did not want to see him, face this reality that I have been married to a middle-aged man. A man, who might be a little less aged than my father, a man who was not swathed in the luxury of youth, a man who will always exercise his superiority on me, a man before whom I will always have to act deferential as a bride, as a woman and as a human. That night passed in blur. There were no sweet nothings, no introductions, not even gentle kisses on the nape of the neck as I imagined love must be like. It must have been the love he was accustomed to. A few violent thrusts and a searing pain inside me. He lay spent on one side and I walked out of my room for a whiff of fresh air.

He took me for a honeymoon but rarely exchanged a word with me. He was always on the phone laughing, chatting, conversing with someone. I had a nagging suspicion that it was a woman on the other side. He would seek me a few times in a day. His only conversations initiated with my body, he never touched my soul. After a few months of merry making he left me with my parents. I waited for months but he never came back. Perhaps he got all his answers and now there was nothing much to seek for!

The reconstruction of a life that recommenced after my marriage, which was termed as a sham by many, was painful. That I was a Holiday bride, that he only came to seek me out for timely comfort made me angry and bitter. I felt resentful towards my family who led me towards this unholy alliance for their own selfish reasons. My mother, who would not stop exaggerating about her son-in-law would cast her eyes down in shame. She must have been disillusioned by this terrible blow of fate towards her foreign destination plans for the entire brood.

 I held on to this grudge against my mother for a long time. I lived in the same home but I stopped communicating with her which pained her to no extent. Most of my anger was only reserved for her because it was my mother who was supposed to be my protector. My childhood bears subtle imprints of existence of my father, who worked in the Gulf, throughout his youth. It was all about mother taking in charge of me and little Satti. It was she who donned the mantle of the man of the house in the long absences of my father. And though she rarely travelled to these countries where my father was employed as a mason she did acquire those grandiose and shiny dreams of settling abroad.

She walked in the home like a zombie now. I have put up a fight against my absconder husband by joining a forum which routinely fights such cases. I go and meet the officials, and political leaders, along with other debased women. We are united in this fight against men who lure people like my mother to marry their faceless, indeterminate daughters to them. I do not tell my mother anything about the goings on. I am just so angry with her for letting all this happen to me.

“Mothers are the saviors, protectors of their daughters. They do not rush them into hell just because they see it decked with flowers and promises.” I shouted at her one fine day. She collapsed in the middle of the courtyard whereas I rushed outside. She had a mild heart attack that day. I came back to find her in a hospital room. She looked frail and withered like the crumbled wall that had battered intense storms but was merely able to hold on to itself by a timid push. The doctors told me that her heart was failing her. That she had been under tremendous depression and this stress has made her vulnerable. A little more trauma would debilitate her condition and may even wipe out the essence of life from her. Something broke inside me. My wails echoed in the hospital corridors and I had a hard time composing myself. The hurt, regret and the bitterness which had scalded me and her, melted down with long gusts of tears.

It has been years now. I did not choose to marry a second time. It is painful even to think of getting into the embrace of a man. I fear my own father some days. He realizes it and disappears in the shadows of the house to let me be. Satti got married in the neighboring village and is living her dream life. When she comes home with her kids, I play a second mother to them. I give him all I can ever give to a child who will never be mine in entirety.

 The anger inside me was enough to keep the flame of self-immolation burning bright but it singed my loved ones more than it did me. I had to learn to let it go. I had to forgive and move on. It was the only choice I had to exercise to save my mother. I know things will never be same but I am taking baby steps towards making a new life in ways that matter to me. And I hug my mother tight every night to let her know that I love her more than ever. The warmth of her body seeps into the corners which are still coated with resentment. As I keep on holding her, the sun seems to shine inside me in the dearth of night and all the anger dissipates in the vicissitudes of unspoken pleas. Every night a little of hurt, let’s go of itself. 

Setu, December 2019

LITERARY DISCUSSION

Rana Preet Gill

The probing questions have been posed by Dr. Sunil Sharma, the dynamic Editor of SETU Bilingual (Pittsburgh).

Dr Rana Preet Gill is a Veterinary Officer with the government of Punjab, India. Her articles and short stories have been published in The Tribune, The Hindustan Times, The Hindu, The New Indian Express, Deccan Herald, The Hitavada, Daily Post, Women’s era, Spillwords press and SETU, Bilingual. She has compiled her published pieces into a book titled Finding Julia. She has also written two novels: Those College Years and The Misadventures of a Vet.

Subhash Chandra

Dr. Subhash Chandra, a former academic and distinguished scholar, has earned accolades for his short stories, one of which was declared a winning entry in a contest. Recently, he has been designated ‘Literary Brigadier,’ by STORY MIRROR, a large Online Portal with global reach. He has been awarded Nissim International Prize for Fiction, 2019 by ‘The Significant League, a Literary Forum, comprising writers and poets.

He has to his credit two collections of short stories, Not Just Another Story, and Beyond the Canopy of Icicles and about sixty short stories published in national and International journals, together with four books of literary criticism.

Chandra has presented papers at funded conferences in Australia, Canada, Hong Kong, Israel, Nepal and India. He worked on a post-doctoral project on a fellowship at the University of Toronto.

He is on the International Advisory Board of Intersections: Gender and Sexuality in Asia and the Pacific (Australian National University, Canberra) and on the Editorial Board of induswomanwriting.com

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Sunil Sharma, Editor, SETU: What is writing?

Rana Preet Gill: Writing for me is an expression to raise my voice, to write about things I would like to change, to write about things I feel good about. Writing for me is creating protagonists. I like imagining things, giving them shape and letting them flow.

Subhash Chandra:  Writing is both self-expression and communication. It becomes communication when put into the public domain through publishing mostly, or in any other way. Otherwise it remains expression of the self for the self, like the Diary writing.

Being a portmanteau term, writing subsumes all genres, such as, fiction, poetry, drama, biography, autography, memoir and even Diary writing.

But for the purpose of this discussion, we’d keep the focus on fiction,(SETU would follow up with discussions on the other genres) and ‘writing’ would refer to fiction writing.

Talking of fiction, it is representation of reality that has been processed in the inventive crucible of the writer. It is a mix of reality and creative imagination

SS, Editor: What does it mean to you?

RPG: I look upon writing as freedom from what people perceive me to be, what they want me to do or what I am supposed to be doing. Writing for me is passion to be my own being. Writing for me is a very important part of my life now. I try to write every day. I want it to stay and become a part of my daily routine.

SC: Writing is cathartic by nature and, therefore, it’s therapeutic for me. I am not able to often articulate my feelings of anger, hurt, or guilt because of social-personal constraints. Such bottled up emotions cause affliction, even suffering. Once I’ve made them a part of my writings, I am purged of them, and my peace of mind is restored. 

Writing is also self-discovery for me. In the process of writing, I find, sometimes to my dismay, I have nurtured biases and prejudices (for or against) which colour my perceptions and attitudes. We have been told by the masters of fiction like Dostoevsky and Tolstoy, that it is the element of compassion that makes works great. Even the negative characters are treated compassionately. And that is possible only if the author is free from biases.

Besides, writing has also trained me in holistic thinking. I no longer think of life or people in binaries of white and black. I’ve realised there are shades of grey. People are a mix of contrarian traits, and qualities. Writing, therefore, has shifted my horizon. 

SS, Editor: How did you begin your career as a writer?

RPG: I started writing middles for The Tribune and the Hindustan Times. I got accepted and was published over and over again in these newspapers. Later on, I started writing for The Hindu, The New Indian Express, Deccan Herald, The Hitavada, Women’s era and the Daily post as well. I compiled my middles into a book titled ‘Finding Julia’. I have written two novels- Those College Years and The Misadventures of a Vet.

SC: When I was in class VII, one day the English teacher was absent and a science teacher walked in instead. He was a phenomenon and an inspiring role model. He loved literature and life and spoke fluently.

During his conversational lecture, he asked us if we liked reading stories.

All of us said yes. Then he asked whether any of us felt he should have been the writer of a story we read. No hand went up. I half raised mine and hastily withdrew. But he had noticed it, called me to the front, patted me and made me promise that I would write stories.

He went on to exhort the whole class to write about what happened during the day before we went to bed. That would help us to write stories and that is how great writers were born.

I betrayed my promise because of unavoidable factors. However, the seed of the dream was sown and it saw fruition in college, when I published my first short story in the college magazine.

SS, Editor: What constitutes fiction?

RPG: Fiction for me is imagination. I love to write, conceptualize, create people, situations which might or might not happen in real life. I like to play with words and most of the times I fall in love with characters I create. When I read books, I start loving the characters created by other authors. I think I relate more to the written word than people in real life.

SC: E.M. Forster outlined the constituents of fiction in his classic, Aspect of the Novel as story, characters, plot, fantasy, prophecy, pattern, and rhythm. For me the most important are story, plot and characters.  Though for Forster, story is an element lower down on the spectrum, but I resonate with Khushwant Singh who believed there cannot be a novel without a story and, therefore, it is the most important constituent in the fictional scheme of things. Also, as I said elsewhere, in the early stage of orality, the atavistic men listened to stories at night sitting around the campfire. If the story sagged, they either went off to sleep, or killed the story teller.  

SS, Editor: Do you think, fiction should aim at social reforms?

RPG: I think fiction can be a way to mend things in society. After all the fiction is nothing but contorting non-fiction in ways that is legible and acceptable. A book that makes me think and overpowers me in subtle ways is always welcome. Every book should leave an imprint and that happens when they have a strong voice which cannot come without challenging the existing norms.

SC: No. At least not overtly. That is a job best left to the social reformers. A writer imaginatively portrays society. It holds a mirror to society and in the process draws attention to the ills afflicting it.

But a writer should not be hemmed in by any type of commitment – ideological or otherwise -- or constraints. Or else intrusive didacticism in his writing would adversely affect the quality of his creative works.

SS, Editor: What is most appealing in fiction?

RPG:  To me the most appealing thing is when I find snitches of my life interspersed in my writing and in another people’s writing. Though fiction is supposed to be all created in the mind yet we often put ourselves on the pedestal and revolve the story around ourselves and spun it into magic. Its fiction and yet our lives. This intrigues me. If I find a little bit of me in a story I love reading it.

SC: It provides aesthetic pleasure and also offers insights into life. In our life, we meet only a limited number of people and undergo some experiences. Fiction enables us to live many lives. Each novel and short story is about the life of a protagonist. We tend to identify with him/her -- his feelings, emotions, and perceptions, thereby living his/her life. Fiction, therefore, enriches us and we learn how to avoid pitfalls and the resulting complications; it teaches us how to live life.  

SS, Editor:  Favourite fiction writers?

RPG: Rohinton Mistry, Khaled Hosseini, Nirupama Dutt

SC: The list is long and varied. But I would like to mention a few:  Munshi Prem Chand,  Phanishwar Nath Renu, Bhishm Sahni, Rajendra Yadav (Hindi), Somerset Maugham, Graham Green, Nathaniel Hawthorne, J.D. Salinger, Morley Callaghan (English), Saadat Hasan Manto, K.R. Meera, Chekhov, Gorky, Maupassant (translated into English from Urdu, Malayalam, Russian and French respectively); and among Indo-Anglian writers, Manohar Malgoankar, Kiran Nagarkar, Anita Desai and (take a deep breath!) Chetan Bhagat.

SS, Editor:: Your recurring themes and concerns?

RPG: I want to write against the dualities of life, the crime against women, the inequality in everyday life.

SC: I like to write about the marginalised -- the oppressed, discriminated against, and the exploited. For example, my first collection, Not Just Another Story contains “Catapult,” (about an exploited landless labourer), “That Many Splendoured Thing,” (Lesbian), “Amma” (Hijra),” I Have No Name” (Prostitute) and “Siblings,” (girl foeticide). My second collection, Beyond the Canopy of Icicles, includes “Mother and Daughter,” (Circus Joker) and “Good Morning Sir, Good Evening Sir,” published in MUSE, India is about women’s assertion and empowerment.

Writing about ghosts and animals also fascinates me. For example, “Believe It Or Not, “The Ringmaster,” and “The Wonders of a Smile,” appeared in SETU Bilingual (Pittsburgh). “Dusk” and “The Skinny Man,” were published in Confluence: South Asian Perspectives (London).  

I often wonder how it feels to be a beast of burden. “My Sister, Aaliya,”  (in Beyond the Canopy) is from the point of view of a cruelly treated horse who ferries passengers in a tonga every day.     

SS, Editor: How can the process of writing fiction be refined further? Are workshops necessary? Or is self-learning enough for improving the craft?

RPG: Writing requires time, patience and commitment. You are on your own when you write. I believe reading helps a lot. Every good writer ought to be a good reader. I do not think writing workshops make a difference. Writing is hard work and pushing yourself to think beyond the boundaries

SC: Yes, workshops play an important role. One gets to learn the finer points of writing from the peers and those who are superior to us in knowledge of the craft and have more experience. But having said that, I think, plenty of mindful reading and writing are the key to becoming a good writer.  

SS, Editor: Can IWE (Indian writing in English) compete with the best of the West?

RPG: Yes, we can compete with the West. We are doing very good. I love reading Indian authors.

SC: IWE is successfully competing with the best of the West. Several books have gone on to win prestigious awards including the Man Booker and have been globally appreciated. Arundhiti Roy’s The God of Small Thing, Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss and Arvind Adiga’s The White Tiger won Man Booker Prize. Jhumpa Lahiri’s Namesake was turned into a successful film an English film

SS, Editor: How can the books be sold and writers recognised by the mass media dominated by few well-connected names only?

RPG: Marketing your work is important. Bad books marketed well, sell sometimes and good books are lost because of poor marketing. This is how publishing industry works. I market my books as much as I can. Most of the big authors are very good at marketing besides being good writers. 

SC: Writers should ensure visibility of their books on Social Media like Facebook, and Instagram and organise discussions about their works, inviting reviewers from newspapers, magazines and academia. Acclaimed literary magazines should showcase the books and the Editors, who are held in high esteem, give their views on them.     

Setu, December 2019

Fiction: The Twins

Rana Preet Gill

Rana Preet Gill

He carried the stench of death within him. I had no idea Karthik would be damaged inside, the day I let him know that his twin did not survive in my womb. That he had a twin at all, was not known to him, earlier. But now when he knew that he was not a single child, there was that other who had taken semblance of birth inside my womb, he contemplated if he was a killer.

“Mamma, did I eat him up like those ghouls in the story you narrate to me all the time. Did I actually kill him?” I was at a loss of words at such an innocent question. I could only smile as I held him close to me till tears soaked his puerile face and I could no longer hold the flow of emotions which threatened to spill if not checked. I had to save Karthik from this onslaught of guilt that took its course over the couple of days.  He was not even a complete being lest a human with a thinking brain, definitive actions and a conscience when it happened. How could he think he was responsible for anything that happened when he was not fully formed with just the identity of a fetus. Fetuses, don’t kill, I told him?

I hope I have been able to plug the flow of guilt that flows unabated in the veins of my son. A young adolescent boy who should have been fighting with me over his independence no longer cares that I am checking the texts of his phone with an impunity. Something is taking hold inside my loveable son and whatever it is, it is decimating his powerful self. I knew I had to make amends. I fix an appointment with my gynecologist friend who doubles up as my psychiatrist.

“I told you Priya, Karthik is sensitive. You should have never let him know that he had a twin who died in the womb while he survived. This is the kind of information that often damages the kids for they hold themselves responsible for the deed. They have no idea what biology is all about. We need to shield them from such unwanted information.” I held on to my chair, kept on looking at her with hollow eyes as she explained to me a few cases of her other patients where parents ended up divulging the story of a shrivelled fetus which  was found hugging his other half born alive. The child later on slipped into depression considering himself as responsible for the death of that other one. I shut my eyes. Fear and anger writ large beneath the eyelids. I berated myself for the folly I had committed.

“Will he be okay, know?” I ask her hesitatingly.

“Well, you need to be patient. Don’t push him too much. Let him mourn the death of his long dead sibling. But why did you tell him in the first place what happened thirteen years ago?” She looked at me with accusing eyes.

“ He kept on asking why he doesn’t have a sibling. Again, and again the same thing. We did try after his birth but it did not happen. I thought if I will let him know that somewhere, someday, a brother, a twin did materialize and if things had not gone horribly wrong inside my body he would have taken shape along with him.” I broke into tears which gushed with full force. Soon I was crying in fits, lamenting the death of my other son. When he was delivered still born I was torn between grief and relief at the same time. Grief for the one who was not able to see the light of the day and relief for the one who survived. Child birth was a bag of mixed emotions for me.

“Priya, control yourself. I have patients outside. I do not think Karthik would carry it for long. We will meet outside the clinic. Now, if you do not mind I have cases to attend.” The clinician in her dictated me to keep myself in check.

When I came out of our room several pairs of eyes followed me and saw me flip flopping on my shoes. A nurse came running out and supported me, making me sit on a corner bench. I accepted a glass of water and composed myself. You do not live your life grieving for the past. I knew that I had to save Karthik and make him come out of this grief. I had to help him from this self-inflicted web of guilt. I walked home with determined steps.

As I reached home, a morbid sadness hung in the air. I was struggling to breath as if the stench of putrid odor had percolated my home. The foul smell of rotting flesh that often emanated from the nearby tannery affected me all the time. I called up the broker and asked him the status of our plea in the court. We had filed a petition in the court for the closure of this tannery unit operating in the heart of the city with an impunity. The carcasses of animals hung in the open, their skin being leafed through their body so deftly was a common sight available from the balcony. I would often retch at this sight. And now I visualized the unborn fetus hanging from the string and someone stripping the fleshy form of new skin away from it. I shouted and I kept on shouting till the men in the unit stopped their work and gaped at me. Karthik collected me in his arms and took me inside. I hobbled. I had lost the strength to walk even a few steps.

“I am there for you, Mumma.” He cried and we sobbed holding each other in our arms. He made soup and warmed up some bread for me. I shoved the dry bread in my mouth and drank the lukewarm soup. Later on, I pushed the empty utensils under the bed, curled myself and lay there for a long time. I could hear the sounds in the kitchen. I could hear the creaking of cupboard and a packet being shuffled outside. Karthik must have been making Maggi for himself, his favourite. I tried to get up but my body had been sapped of all energy and vitality.

I closed my eyes and my mind dabbled in past. The day of my first ultrasound, I was so ecstatic when doctor told me that I was carrying not a single child but twins. Though she did not tell me the gender of the kids I was sure that I was carrying twin boys. I somehow, knew but I did not know that one of them will be shorn of my love and care so soon. Everything went well on the outside but my boys seem to be on a war inside. Now my mind drags me to the second ultrasound which was conducted in the second trimester. The worry lines stretched taught on the face of the clinician as he told me that one of the siblings is weak and not growing properly. In the subsequent ultrasounds, my fear grew manifold when the doctor announced that a competitive spirit in the twins is common. And often one of them gains more weight and more share of nourishment. But death!! This never crossed my mind. It never did.

A sudden warmth engulfed my body as I saw Karthik covering my curled body with a blanket. I smiled a little keeping my eyes tightly shut. He kissed me lightly on the cheek and switched off the light. I knew he was fine. I knew he was overcoming this loss about which he came to know a tad late.

The next morning when I woke up Karthik was gone. I checked for his school bag but it was missing too. His room was all neat and tidy which came as a surprise to me. I did not pack his tiffin, a sudden revelation jolted me. What kind of mother I was? Who did not care to send his son to school and even forgot to give him something to eat? I called up his school and there he was on the line assuring me that he did eat bread omlette for breakfast and he would share lunch with his best friend. I calmed my frayed nerves and started with the housework. I knew, to remain sane, I will have to carry on with my routine.

I collected all the washing clothes from the bin and moved upstairs to put them into the washing machine. I opened the door of the room, and an air of nostalgia hit me, the guest bedroom with an attached washroom. Since the room was not in much use we had shifted the bulky washing machine upstairs. This was my room in good old days when I lived with my in-laws and two brothers-in-law and their families. The house was alive with the scent of the people. But where has everyone gone. I felt dizzy and ran downstairs and dialed the school’s number.

“Karthik, why is there no one in the house? Why do I feel so alone?” my voice quivered.

For a long time when there was no answer to my query I lost my patience and shouted again.

“Mamma, I will be home. I am there. There was an accident and they died. How can you forget? Just lie down and I will be home.” He disconnected the phone with his customary plea of not to disturb him in classes.

The accident? I reminisced the old times. Yes, there was an accident long time back. Long before Karthik was born. I was at home expecting my twins. And they went to the Vaishno devi yatra when a truck full of pilgrimages rammed into their car. Was it the grief of death that killed my unborn baby? I was overcome with a debilitating sadness those days. I ate less and was emaciated by the time I had to birth my kids. Was I responsible for the death of my son who was not strong enough to hold on inside me? Do we kill those we love by shielding them from love and compassion or do we live for those who have left us in throes of pain and memories?  Do we live for the living or for the dead?

I walk up to the balcony, the stench of dead animals fulminating my senses. I called up the agent and told him that I am vacating the house by the end of this month. This house carried the weight of dead memories which I needed to escape. I stood for a long time contemplating this rash action. But what about the memories of the dead fetus for whom my womb turned out to be the grave. How can I escape that? I hang dangerously from the balcony edge. I just had to put an ounce of weight and this illusion of carrying the death inside will end.

“Mumma, I am home.” Karthik looked at me inquisitively while I step away from the grill. Some people on the street who had stopped their walk to watch me now resumed their journey. I knew I had to do the same. We live for the sake of people who are alive, I murmured it to myself and hugged my son as if I had seen him after an eternity.

Setu, November 2019

Fiction: Number 21

Rana Preet Gill

Rana Preet Gill

Ek do teen… ek do teen… Suhana was gyrating her hips in perfect sync with the girl in front of her. She seemed to be a new entrant; young, confident, wanted to be seen and noticed by the dance master, as they called her dance guru, who did not pay special attention to anyone. They were viewed in entirety, in numbers, rather as an individual participant. She did not even remember when was the last time she was called by her name. For her she was no. 21, a number designated to her amidst hundreds of other dancers who were initially enrolled but later on sent back because of the lack of requirement. She had been doing background dancing for the past many years and now in her thirties she was a little lax, unenthusiastic and only doing a part that fetched her a little money and afternoon meals. As she stood in the queue for food the young girl stood behind her. She was smacking the empty thali to the beat of a popular Bollywood song rummaging around with her excited eyes, looking for something to engage her attention and someone to talk to while unable to contain herself standing in the line doing nothing after the abrupt ending of one rigorous dance schedule.

“When will the next one begin?” She asks enthusiastically making Suhana flinch and uncomfortable while all she wanted was to gather some peace and quiet around her. Suhana ignored her query, which she found disrespectful, aided without any salutation, directed at her as if she was not having any importance in the grand scheme of things.

“Why does the heroine have to be so nakhrili?” She barged again into her thoughts like an unwanted entrant into a locality that does not allow any trespassers but is unable to let the world know because of fear of seclusion. Suhana pursed her lips and kept on looking forward as if connecting some invisible dots while the girl behind her tapped her foot impatiently, unable to stand still at one point of time.

Suhana was cursing her, all the while in her mind, keeping her lips shut tightly, a little worried, that she might end up being nasty to her when she knew that these young girls carry a world inside them. The world that makes them think that someday they can replace the heroines and become the star of this industry. She laughs at their audacity because she knew that after working for many years they too would be confounded by this dream and it will get lost like countless other dreams which did not materialize because of lack of action. But in this case even if they do their part nicely they would not be able to achieve anything substantial, this thought has always comforted Suhana, made her smile, that at least she was not alone who mourned the death of her dreams.

“What is your name, tai?” the girl asked her gently. Finally, mellowed by the respect intoned to her, Suhana had no reason but to thaw a little bit to this new entrant but only enough that she should not superimpose her rest time with her questions. This was one thing that Suhana hated the most. Questions! Every time a new girl arrives on the set she is full of questions, hundreds of them which they want be answered. As if all the time they spent outside the sets was only to mould their questions so that they can be answered by someone as unassuming as Suhana. She looked at the queue that was moving at snail’s pace which infuriated her a little because she wanted to get rid of the new girl who kept on getting chattier despite her unwillingness to talk.

“Tayi, Bolo na, naam kya hai?” She again poked her, inviting her to speak as if words are utmost important for speech. As if there could be no connection between them if they are unable to put it into the conformity of few syllables. But unable to hold onto this confusion of them being into any kind of secret sisterhood Suhana decided to blurt out in a rather gruff voice.

“Suhana!” Despite her attempt to appear mean and vicious the voice that came out of her was gentle and somber.

“Do you know it is the name of Shahrukh khan’s daughter who is studying in Amerika? But she will come back home to become a star.”

“Hmmm…”

“What hmmm... Tayi, look at the similarity. You, Suhana are Shahrukh’s daughter.” She laughed a little and closed her eyes and moved her body a little, swaying gently like a breeze, creating ripples of discontent in Suhana as she observed her, engorged with ripe desires of stardom.

The girl was still dreaming about Shahrukh or the daughter but soon she was jolted by a rude shake as the person behind her nudged her to move a little forward. She opened her eyes and shuffled her feet forwards muttering profanities at the one behind her.

“Arre, don’t push nah!” she spoke in an imploring manner, smiling a little, drawing awkward glances from Suhana who observed her through the corner of her eye.

The line finally moved along and Suhana dropped some sambhar in her plate, took the oily pooris and moved in haste to get away from the girl. She searched for a secluded spot so that the girl should be given a signal that Suhana does not want to engage with her. Her eagerness to talk made the veteran uncomfortable while she only wanted to be left alone with no talk of the industry lest the stars. The mild mannered Suhana wanted to dance and blank out everything else from her mind except the fact that she would be paid a little sum for her labor at the end of the day. And this made the dancing worthwhile.

No sooner had she put the first spoonful of sambhar in her mouth trying to cut the hot, oily poori into small sections with her hands she heard the familiar voice again.

“Suhana tayi, can I sit with you?” And without waiting for her reply she nudged the girl sitting next to Suhana who was done with her food and gladly vacated her place making her way towards the washing carrying her now empty plate. Suhana, who had divided her poori into small sections started with her ritual of draining every little piece with the sambhar without giving any importance to the girl now.

“Tayi, you did not ask my name?” She jabbered again munching on her food without any ritual, looking everywhere but not at her plate while next to her Suhana was observing the oil that was dripping from the poori and flowing towards one corner of steel plate.

“Kareena!! Karishma ki sister aur Saif ki wife!!” She smiled shyly as if just being the name sake of a famous actress made her a cog in the web of relationships that entailed their allegiance to her as well. Suhana laughed at her audacity, all the while in her mind, tried not to titter. And now Kareena had closed her eyes as Suhana observed the contours of her face with more clarity. The flaking foundation was falling off like cheap bits everywhere. Instead of giving a uniform texture to her face it had caked on to it and now unable to hold its forte was making her look funny. Suhana touched her face consciously wondering if her face looked pasty as well.

While Kareena seemed to be lost in some kind of silent chanting, Suhana closely observed her lips which were smudged with a dark purple color that spilled out of the corners making her look a little vampish. Suhana wondered if the make-up artist on purpose had done this to make her, the extras look less beautiful than the heroine who no doubt would be having her own make-up artiste using superior quality products on her. Suddenly Suhana saw her own image through the eyes of the girl who was sitting next to her which made her feel very dirty about herself. As she got up to wash her face, Kareena got hold of her dress and smiled indulgently.

“Tai, be friends with me. I do not know anyone here.”

Later at night when Suhana was alone in the aloofness of her one room chawl she smiled at the child like innocence of this girl who made a feverish attempt to get close to her on the first day. A handful of dancers appear on a regular basis and most of them only worked part time. And once their desire for quick money is satiated they move to more fulfilling jobs and do not care to come back to the studios. But Suhana was not like that. Though in her thirties she was a veteran who had never missed a date with a studio. She was a regular of the agency which supplied dancers to different film studios on demand. Over the years she has gyrated her hips with many famous actresses and been privy to their stereotypical habits.

Like one time in Mehboob studio, the actress who was at top of her game at that time, would not let the dance director have her way. She would dance but only to her steps which were rather clumsy and not in sync with the beat. Despite the repeated entreaties of the dance guru who was a known face in the industry the actress had her way. At the end, all the misplaced anger of the dance guru was directed at the extras for whom he chose the most difficult steps. At the end of the day Suhana had her feet aching while the actress was as fresh as dew and walked like a gazelle in front of them as if making fun of their rehearsals and eventual performance that rocked the song and made it a hit. The actress got all the credit despite the fact that she did the least of all things.

Suhana sighed! The industry is not fair. She would have to go soon. With everyday young and energetic girls are flocking the offices to make a quick buck. Her days were numbered. She closed her eyes only to see the smiling image of Kareena flocking her mind. That night she dreamt about her dancing all the way to glory. She saw her standing next to the real life star Kareena Kapoor as she introduces her to her husband Saif and her sister Karishma. Why she even let her hold her son Taimur for a little while! And while all this is happening on stage the entire Bollywood fraternity is raising a toast to Kareena, the dancer, the extra.

Suhana was pleased with herself the next morning and reminisced her dream in all its visual glory. She memorized each and every detail with exact precision to narrate the same to Kareena. She even imagined her surprised reaction to such a bashful dream. She imagined her saying, “Tai, this feels so nice. I can feel the thrill and excitement. It makes me feel that I am not Kareena, the extra but Kareena, the actress, the star of the real world.”

While in the auto making her way towards the office she wondered what if Kareena did not like the way she imagined things. What if she did not like being hailed as Kareena, the extra with Kareena, the star. Suhana hesitated! The girl has starry dreams. What if she wants to be Kareena, the star herself. She would get deeply hurt and resigned being visualized as a lesser known human being standing next to a star. Suhana decided to tweak her dream a bit.

Why cannot I make her Kareena, the star in my dream? She would feel nice. By some weird stroke of fate, the real star meets with a fatal accident and when Saif comes to know about an extra, Kareena he decides to make her part of her life and mother to her child. But then what will happen to the real star, what will she do if not with her husband and child and loved ones. This will be so gross. Killing someone in my dreams who is the heartthrob of a million people. And who knows Kareen Kapoor is the girl with the golden heart!! Who knows she might be a very nice and loving person in real life behind that veil of make up? This is so mean to her and to all the people who love her. I cannot let a star die, not even in my dreams!!!

Suhana decided to drop the idea of the dream and construct a one where she does not have to kill people in order to make someone feel good. She met Kareena on the sets who started blabbering. “Tai, did you know I had a dream. You were the daughter of the star, Shahrukh Khan. His real daughter goes missing and he adopts you. You do not go to Amerika to study but you come to Bollywood and you become a star.”

“What happens to the real Suhana? I hope she is alive.” Suhana asks hesitantly.

“How do I know? It was only a dream, Tai?”

“I mean, you should not kill people in your dreams. It is not good.”

Kareena looked at Suhana reproachfully as they were called by the dance director for the rehearsal. Kareena did not talk to Suhana much that day and took her pav bhaji to other end of the room from where she was being watched with an unspoken plea by her Tai. No words exchanged, they finished their shot and parted that day wordlessly.

Later in the night Suhana was filled with guilt as she kicked herself for being so terse with the girl who had dreamt such a beautiful dream for her.

After all she only said the girl was missing. And missing does not tantamount to imagining people dying. It only means that they are not present precisely at that particular moment. Otherwise, they are very much alive.

That night Suhana dreamt that Kareena, the extra is spotted by Kareena, the star on the sets of an upcoming movie. The star spots the extra for her superb dancing skills and takes her home to meet her husband and son. And the first look at the extra, strikes something and the husband gets infatuated with the extra and decides to divorce his wife. The industry is shocked by this infantile gesture of the star husband but they have accepted this meteoric rise of the extra and the star, Kareena herself has given blessings to this marriage and accepted the second wife.

While moving towards her work place in the auto, Suhana was highly pleased with the caricature of her dream. She smiled in anticipation at the joy it would bring to Kareena when she would know that she actually gets married to the star hubby. Being married to a star husband has more perks than being the daughter of one.

And I did not even attempt to make the aggrieved disappear. And don’t they say, All well that ends well. At the end of the day my dream is doing justice to everyone.

But that day when she did not see Kareena waving at her, anxiously at the front of the studios, she got a little perturbed. The dance director filled the spot in front of Suhana by asking someone else to move from back to the front.

“Nah ma’am, a girl is there on this spot.”

“Where is she? I cannot see her. “She scoffed, glaring at Suhana and gesturing for the other girl to take the spot.

Called from the last row to the front the girl who was petite in frame contemplated it as a giant lap to her fortune as if being in the front row would bring a windfall in her fortunes making her enter the door that had been drawn close to her for quite some time. Suhana looked a little defeated and could not copy the dance moves properly. The girl in front was doing all in the right way but her mere sighting made Suhana brim up with unnecessary angst.

“She is doing all the moves wrong.” She shouted while the dance director was doing her usual ek..do..ek..do..moves. The lady in red who was supporting a cap did not take this insubordination lightly and took out a clipboard and pen as she asked Suhana to speak up her number and her agency. All the girls looked at her in mutual resentment as if acknowledging and hailing the decision of dance guru as right. They were all equals and Suhana had no reason to get perturbed and superimpose her superiority, not even on a newcomer. The girl in question pursed her lips and murmured some words of discomfort to the girl who was standing next to her, accepting her approval and looking at Suhana as if mocking her for her promptness and directness in engaging with the dance guru who was known not to like the extras for any specific reason.

That day Suhana ate her lunch all alone in a corner with no one inundating her with questions making her aware of the need of someone to talk to for companionship. Listening to Kareena was indeed a joy as her gibberish flayed a comfort net around Suhana making her survive the onslaught of her questions. The few days that she had been with her had given her a warmth of words. Though she had been irritated initially by her continuous chatter, lately she had enjoyed every interaction with her. Today as she sat desolate she felt herself falling into a vacuum without that web of words to support her. The next day was the harbinger of bad news for her. She was reprimanded by the boy who was the in charge of her engagements.

“No. 21, you have been complained by the dance guru for your insubordination and this is not acceptable. Dance nahi karne ka kya!”

She nodded her head and lifted her finger, feeling a little soporific, defeated and demoralized by all the accusations that were being hurled at her. As she was being ushered in the bus for her ride to the studio she looked at the boy who must have been at least ten years younger than her but who chastised her with the panache of an adult. She had never seen him before donning the role with such candor. He was only the shy, young lad of the authoritative father and now in his absence he was the one doing all the needful, managing the job adroitly without any prior experience. How easy it is for him despite the inexperience of a job that was bequeathed to him by the sake of a relation? She grumbled and rued for her mother was only a domestic servant. And she had often taken her to mansions making her sit on the steps while she cleaned and rubbed the shining marbles which gleamed at all times of the day and rubbing them more was only taking their shine away and doing nothing good to them. Even then Suhana saw her mother cleaning them making the little girl suppress her disappointment at such passion and zeal devoted by her mother to one task that did not require an exaggerated, a task that was accomplished despite her misplaced zeal.

Suhana wondered that if she had to don the mantle of her mother’s work life it would have been tough. Working in someone’s house was never her calling and even though her mother would have liked her to work in an office and dreamt of her daughter living in mansions and occupy the biggest of them in Mumbai, Suhana had plans for herself. She had always wanted to act and though she desisted singing and dancing she ended up becoming an extra at the insistence of a boy who assured her that this was her ticket to Bollywood. She would only later come to know that he was given a commission for bringing young girls to agencies who later on directed them to different dance studios as per requirements. Though there was no written contract yet she decided to stick to the same profession for the past ten years. It had been enough for her to support on a day to day basis. Her mother long left for heavenly abode, the boy, a lover left her with little but memories of few stolen kisses and empty promises and a job at the studio. But life was good she contemplated though she had become a loner, not expecting any one to elicit interest in her, making herself dwell in the surroundings and happy just being a number, a figment in their imagination.

Her mind again ricocheted at the thought of Kareena. She wondered if she would come today. She wondered how long the shooting would go on. For once the requirement at Mehboob studio ends and the songs are all done they would be proffered towards the next destination. And she would lose her connection with her forever. She should have taken a phone number or an address at least.

As she alighted from the bus her eyes searched inquisitively but she could not sense the familiar presence of the cherubic young girl who took pride in being the namesake of the famous actress. The rehearsals were painful and stretched out like a long day for Suhana who detested the presence of the same girl who had been made to occupy Kareena’s place. The dance guru interrupted the rehearsal many times and pointed out Suhana, calling her names, mocking her for her clumsiness, letting other girls giggle and take pleasure. Today was the last day of rehearsals for the final dance that was going to be shot tomorrow with the lead actress. As Suhana went for lunch with the usual and staid affair of greasy pao and tasteless bhaji her eyes shone with excitement when she heard them discuss Kareena.

“Do you know where she lives? Do you know her number? Please tell me.” Suhana implored.

The girls laughed at such eccentric questions. They nudged each other and giggled.

“Aa gayi ek aur Kareena ki diwani. She is coming tomorrow. Didn’t you know that she is the one who is dancing with us? You can take her phone number yourself.”

“Oh!!” Suhana was a little disappointed at the mention of the film actress. Even the thought of seeing the famed actress in person and dancing in her close proximity did not excite her. Though she had worked with many of her ilk in the past, she had never seen her from a close proximity nor worked with her. Though it might have created ripples in ordinary situation for she heard that the actress often gets into a conversation with the talented extras and once or twice was instrumental in getting them a good role in movies as well. But not today, not at this time when Suhana only wanted to see Kareena, the extra and not Kareena, the star. She wondered if her friend was the one dancing in the first row she might had been able to strike a conversation with the star and might have amused her with the knowledge that they share the same name. And she might have nodded and laughed and joked about the same and later on recommended her name, her name in actuality for a small part in the movie. And who knows that could have become the turning part in life of Kareena, the extra. But then it was all a possibility only if the girl in question turns up but there was no sign or her presence.

After lunch and the recommended break time when the rehearsals ensued there was fresh enthusiasm amongst the girls. The breaking news of Kareena, the star being part of that song had added a zing to their steps.

Suhana stood in the second line when the actress who was as fair as the albatross, she had once seen in a book spreading its huge wings, mesmerized everyone with her one sighting. She was not mean to the girls but then she was not keen to have a chat with them either. Whoever had spread the message that Kareena loved to interact with the extras and often had a chat with them needed to see the disappointment writ large on the faces of the girls now. The ones who were in the first row had tried their best to say hi, hello, namaste to her and some of them even flaunted their connections with other actresses and directors but they were met with a severe rebuff from the dance guru for interrupting the performance. She sent the girl at the back who was constantly trying to touch Kareena by flailing her arms in all directions. The actress neither smiled nor encouraged them. She did not even smirk or rebuke them. She just did not see them at all! She was unable to realize that there were hundreds of them who had been perfecting the dance moves for the past one week. Perhaps to her or any other actress they were only a giant faceless blob that gyrated and moved in unison. They were extras and to identify each of them would have been an effort going beyond the extra.

After the dance schedule was wrapped up there was nothing more to do for the girls. There work at the Mehboob studio was over. They would be sent back to their respective agencies and the payments would only be made through the people who recruited them. The girls sat listless on the floor, tired and devoid of any energy. There were eager conversations among them. An exchange of phone numbers as some of them had become very friendly within the short span of time. Suhana missed Kareena more than ever when she saw them engaged in animated talks about their loved ones, about their lives that were far from perfect, about their dreams that were yet to achieve any semblance of success. Their passions consumed their lives, kept the hearth burning in their homes and the dance alive in their steps.

That night Suhana saw Kareena, the extra vividly in her dreams. She saw her sauntering towards the crowd of dancers, her head crooked at one angle looking affectionately at them as if they were the only ones that mattered to her. And her dress, the color of multi colored feathers of a peacock was drawing oohs and aahs from the girls who had gathered in large numbers around her now. Some of them were gently tugging at her arms now to be granted an audience while the others looked dazed by the way she made them special, a kindness reflected in her eyes and gratitude in her mannerism. And as she turns her attention towards Suhana, they all turn their necks acknowledging the presence of Suhana, the extra, the veteran. They are kneeling in front of her, even the dance guru has folded her hands in benediction as Kareena leads her away from them. And when once Suhana, looks back at them to wave a final goodbye they are no more than a giant blob of faceless masses, without names, only numbers. 

Setu, October 2019