"A Family of Beauties" a short story by Abha Iyengar

Today I am very honored to post another short story by Abha Iyengar, PhD.   In just a few pages generations of family anguish come to life in this very moving, beautifully written story.

Short Stories of the Indian Subcontinent

A Short Story

by Abha Iyengar

A prior short story by the author -"The Red Singlet"

A Family of Beauties

By Abha Iyengar

A thick rope made of coir, rough and scratchy to touch. It was lying among the other knick-knacks in the musty and damp room. These were remnants of a bygone age, forgotten and unused. Sundari looked closely at it and found that it was not so thick in some places where its strands had come loose. These poked out like matchstick fingers, grasping at nothingness.

          She had stepped on it, as she made my way through the dark recesses of the room in this house where no one lived now. Its thick roundness under her feet had unsteadied her for a moment. She put her hand out against a wall to right herself and met the gaze of the wooden rocking horse in the middle of the room. This was her grandparents’ gift to her when they had come to stay and become a part of her life.

          She had loved it as a child. It was chipped and discolored now, with a part of the eye scratched out and the seat unsprung. She remembered how she had always insisted on wearing a hat as she rode this horse. She would have coloured her lips and cheeks and eyes using her mother’s make-up, if only her mother had allowed. Instead, she had to be content with the wide brimmed hat which hid most of her face.

          She knew where the hat had gone. From the time she lost the hat, she had had no choice but to let the world see her for what she was, the plain Jane of the family.

          Her parents, by naming her Sundari or the Beauteous One, and Fate, by ensuring that she was not so, had combined to make her life a joke.

*

The first time she became aware of her looks or the lack of them was when she met her grandmother. Sundari had run towards her instinctively, her long brown hair flying behind her. Racing on her skinny brown legs, with her long thin arms outstretched to greet her, Sundari had expected to be picked up and hugged. Instead, her grandmother had stepped back a bit and exclaimed, “Why, you are a plain Jane, dear,” and turned away. Sundari had looked at her mother in wonder. Who was a plain Jane? Was this some kind of being that was inside her that she was supposed to acknowledge?

Her mother, Sheila, had encircled Sundari within her arms and put her sweet smelling face next to hers. “Don’t we look a pair, Mother?” she asked Granny, but Granny snorted.

“Show me your newborn, Sheila,” she said. “I hope she is an improvement.” Sundari watched her mother leave her and follow her grandmother into the house. She imagined them standing over the cot and admiring the newborn, Sundari’s lovely little sister. She felt an urge to run in and pull her mother out of the room, but kicked a stone instead.

Sundari learnt what beauty was. Sheila, her mother, had always been beautiful for her, but now she saw her from the world’s eyes. She recognized that her sister had similar looks. These women were the beauties with their shining black hair, pink cheeks and glowing black eyes, like heady red wine. She was different, tall, lank, brown haired and insipid, champagne without the fizz.

Granny was supposed to be a beauty as well. Sundari looked at her grandmother’s fair, plump face, her fleshy arms and crumply powdered neck from which hung huge stones that shone and glittered in the light. Sundari decided that she did not like her grandmother’s looks or even her nature very much, and the feeling was mutual.

Grandfather, however, was different. He held Sundari’s hand and strode through fields of yellow flowers that surrounded the house, showed her the birds, and told her stories that made her laugh and forget that she somehow did not belong to this family of beauties. He would put her on this very rocking horse and sing to her as she rode the horse. Suddenly, he would pull her off the horse and they would both watch it, without a rider, rocking, rocking….

*

It was raining that day when Sundari and her grandfather had gone across to the river and taken a boat to paddle in. As the rain fell, they got drenched, and she found Grandfather looking at her in a strange way. She had just turned twelve and her small breasts strained against her wet frock. The thin cloth wrapped itself around her long slender limbs. Her face was covered with tiny raindrops. He bent forward and kissed her full on the lips. Pulling her on to him, he carefully put her hat on her head. He then put her on his lap and said, “Feel the horse rocking, Sundari,” and sighed a deep sigh.

Sundari pushed him away with such force that the boat toppled and they fell in the water. He lay there, his eyes closed, and she waded out of the dirty waters. She did not know how she would deal with this later, but just now she wanted to get away. This was the man she had loved and trusted. She flung her hat down and stamped on it hard, her rage driving it down into the mud.  Holding herself hard, she looked back once through the pelting rain that fell like a gray cloud between her and the river. She could see the small brown boat, rocking, rocking….

She ran all the way back and reached home drenched. It was surprising that not a single sob escaped her. Her face was dry; the only wetness had been caused by the raindrops that cooled her burning skin. No one was at home, they had gone to a neighbour’s house for lunch and returned only when the rain subsided.

Grandfather did not appear till night time. On being questioned, Sundari said she did not know where he was.  A search party was sent to look for him. They found him purple and swollen with the river waters. Sundari did not shed any tears at his funeral, and people put it down to the shock of his loss. They sung his praises and said what a wonderful man he had been.

From then on, Sundari wore no hats and found she had no desire left to play with her mother’s make-up either. She was already plain, and the years just added some more lines and grayness to the picture. People were shocked if they saw her with her beautiful mother Sheila or her lovely sister, Naina. She looked like their poor country cousin.

When she was eighteen, she left for the U.S. to find a new life and separate herself from the fetters of a family.

*

Sundari had Tom staying over at her place in New York. Tom was Naina’s boyfriend. He was about ten years older than Sundari, fortyish, graying, with laughter lines around his eyes and mouth. He had met Naina in Uganda while she was holidaying there. Naina, still in Uganda, had said that Tom was coming to New York for a while, and had requested that Sundari show him the city. Tom was special, and she wanted Sundari to meet him.

            So he arrived and Sundari put him up and decided that she would have to put up with him for a while. He was easy-going but she wasn’t. Sundari was possessive about her space and hated having it invaded. She did it for her sister, whom she loved very much. All her love now concentrated on women, leading people to believe that she was into lesbian relationships, but that was not true. Sundari was not into any relationships.

Tom overstayed his visit. He was to leave in a couple of days for North Carolina for some work but they got snowed in. She had to put up with him for longer than she had expected.

Sundari was getting uncomfortable with having Tom around all the time in the space with her. The warmth in his eyes as he looked at her made her shiver and quake like a wobbly egg -yellow. Sundari tried to avoid him as much as possible but it was difficult since the space was small and cluttered and he and his things just added to the mess. She found herself bumping into him without meaning to, and then occasionally because she wanted to.

She had no idea when it happened that he took her in his arms and rained kisses on her as if the deluge would never end. They slithered and fell on the floor and things poked her back and she thought it could be the sharpener she had lost, or a fallen pencil. She pulled the string that tied her hair while he pulled the one on her pajamas. It was sudden at first, and then a slow and gentle warmth began to spread within her. Sundari forgave herself all those years of deprivation in those moments.

Lying in his arms after it all, she, who had never cried before, began to cry. He got up, eyes twinkling with laughter and said, “What’s the matter… post-coital blues?”

She did not know what to say. He did not think he was cheating on anyone.

“You are hers, and I have sinned,” she said. “I have taken what belongs to Naina.”

“Which world are you living in? Sinned? Belongs? There is no sin in this. It is something that was natural. And I don’t belong to Naina. I am a free bird. Watch.” He put his arms out, spread them like wings.

“You are Naina’s, you are special to her.”

“And now special to you. She must have forgotten me, that young and flighty one.”

“She is not flighty.”

“Ummm, okay, too young for me actually, I like your type more, mature and undiscovered.”

He grinned, his smile wicked. “One more time? Another roll?”

“Oh, no,” she said, “I couldn’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he said, “It is you I want, we’ll let her know, okay?”

“We will?”

“I will let her know how things stand, of course. Now come here.”

The snow melted one day just like she had done. Tom left for North Carolina, saying he would be back soon. She did not hear from him at all.

*

A few days later, Sundari was sipping a cup of hot, strong coffee and looking out of the window when she spotted a couple crossing the road. The girl was young and beautiful, and the man older, but handsome in a rugged way. They looked oddly familiar. She turned away from the window, not wanting to know them.

A knock on the door and they were inside. Naina was flushed and happy, and Tom tender as he looked at her.There was no trace of anything other than love for Naina in his voice when he said that they had decided to get married. Sundari was invited, of course.

“Isn’t it wonderful, sis? He called me to North Carolina all the way from Uganda and said that he was madly in love with me and wanted me in his arms immediately. Of course I came. And isn’t it lucky that this has happened right after Granny has left me all her property and jewellery in her will? I will be married and rich.” Naina had a face that glowed as she talked. She was as transparent as Dresden china, as fragile as an open flower.

“Wonderful,” Sundari said, he back upright and stiff. She watched as Tom held Naina in his arms and rocked her back and forth, back and forth. All the rocking, rocking…

Her head swam and she wanted to throw up. Instead, she threw them out. Her hands clenched at her side, she spoke.

“Wonderful, isn’t it, that he was just taking me right here, Naina, where you are standing, on the floor, making passionate love to me and saying that I was the one. He said that you were flighty and would have most probably forgotten him. He is an opportunist, Naina, he will leave you like father left mother. Look at him, Naina, and see him. ” She began to point her finger at Tom, he body swaying heavily like a half uprooted tree, waiting to be felled.

“How can you lie like this? Don’t be jealous, Sundari. Not to this extent.” Naina teetered on her high heels as she spoke, then she began to retch. It was a dry, hopeless retching.

            Tom, the colour of his skin pale in disbelief, ran up to her. “My love, she is a witch, your sister. Don’t listen to her lies.”

Naina swayed into his arms. “Oh Tom, say that you love me.”

“Yes, I do. I do. How can I not, my beautiful one. I will never let you go. You belong to me.”

Belong? Tom was talking about belong and belonging? Sundari watched and heard and knew that she would soon fall, down onto the ground.

She began to scream instead,” Get out, both of you!”

Naina, at the door, looked back at Sundari with eyes full of hurt and reproach. “How could you?” she said.  

*

Sundari was at work the next morning when the news flashed on television that a car had collided with a truck, instantly killing the two drivers. The lady sitting next to the man in the car was in hospital, seriously injured. They showed her face on television and Sundari could just make out that it was Naina, totally disfigured for life, if she did survive. They said that the lady’s mother was the only other relative, and she was by her side. Sundari saw her mother’s face and then she looked away from the cameras. She continued with her work. She knew that she no longer belonged to her family; they did not want her around.

Naina survived, but the psychological trauma of disfigurement was too much for her to bear, and she swallowed some pills to end her life. That is what Sundari read in the newspaper.

            Sundari called her mother. “Mother?”

            “Who is this?

            “Sundari…”

            “Who? Who?” The line disconnected.

            A few months later, Sundari’s mother passed away. The lawyers arrived and informed her and that is how Sundari came to know of her mother’s death.

*

The house had no owner. Since she was the only member of the family left, it now belonged to her. Sundari had come to clear up everything and pack her past away. She hoped it would be for the last time.

The rope was rough against her hands and her palms were red with holding it. She looked up and found there was no fan, but a rusted iron hook hung in its place. She climbed on to the rocking horse and as it teetered, she tied the rope to the iron hook. The other end went around her neck quite easily. She stood and rocked back and forth on the horse, holding the rope around her neck. It loosened and then held.  Realizing that she was choking, and suddenly afraid, she tried to prise it loose and failed. She was now trying to keep her balance on the horse and hold onto the rope as well to prevent it from tightening. The horse rocked unsteadily and then her foot caught in one of the seat springs. She tried to pull her foot up and failing that, she began to scream.

*

Sundari was found after a couple of weeks by a vagrant tramp who had wandered in through the open door of the house to find someplace to sleep.

People in the town who heard about her were surprised that she had committed suicide just when she had come into all the property and wealth of her parents and grandparents. “Poor dear,” they said, “she was so ordinary, our Sundari. Why go now, though, with all the wealth…”

Perhaps the rocking horse knew the secret but he was not telling.

*****

© ABHA IYENGAR. First published in the Ripples Anthology, 2010.

End of Guest post

My greatest thanks to Dr. Iyengar for allowing me to share this wonderful story with my readers.

Author Biography

 Abha Iyengar is an internationally published author and poet and a creative writing facilitator at Sri Aurobindo Centre for Arts and Communication. She does individual mentoring for short story and novel writing. She also writes poetry in Hindi. She has worked as fiction editor with Leadstart Publishing. Her work has appeared in Bewildering Stories,The Asian Writer, New Asian Writing, Arabesques Review, Muse India and others. She is a Kota Press Poetry Anthology Contest winner (2002). Her story, 'The High Stool ' was nominated for the Story South Million Writers Award (2007). She writes articles on health, spirituality and travel. She is also writing for the CAB  (Conversations Across Borders) project. Her poem-film, "Parwaaz", has won a Special Jury prize in Patras, Greece (2008).Her book of poems, "Yearnings" has been published (Serene Woods, 2010). She received the Lavanya Sankaran Writing Fellowship(2009-2010).  She was Featured Poet at the Prakriti Festival (2010) and invited Speaker at CEC (2011). Her collection of micro fiction, “Flash Bites” (2011) and her fantasy novel, “Shrayan” (2012) are available as ebooks on Amazon and Smashwords. She is from New Delhi.  

Her website: www.abhaiyengar.com Her blog: http://www.abhaencounter.blogspot.com

I am so glad to have discovered her work and honored am honored that she is   a follower of The Reading Life.   

Her webpage and blog are both very interesting and I expect to learn a lot from them

I commend her work to anyone who enjoys a wonderfully written deeply felt story that can take you in a few pages to a world that might be very different on the surface from your own.  Go a bit deeper and you may see your own life in  Ivengar's marvelous work.

Mel u

"The Red Singlet" a short story by Abha Iyengar

Short Stories of the Indian Subcontinent

A Short Story

by Abha Iyengar

"The Red Singlet"

The dirty red singlet, the faded blue jeans which must have been second or third hand, the cheap brass amulet at the throat and arm tied with a thick black thread, most probably to ward off the evil eye, all added to the earthy attractiveness of the man whose long blonde curls touched his shoulders. They glinted now under the green light of the salon, as he sat hunched on a table, nursing his solitary drink. It was clear, must be gin or vodka, Shirin thought wryly to herself, watching him while she did her item on the dance floor.

            He did not look up even once, and the thunderous applause that followed by the aroused men around did not make him raise his head to see what was causing such display of adulation. Shirin was surprised at this lack of response on his part, and it posed a challenge to her.

            She worked at a bar called “The Green Room”, located in one of the busy streets of Mumbai, not very high-class, but the crowd was good on weekends. She worked as a go-go girl, in other words, a cabaret artiste. How the “go-go” term came to be coined, she did not know, nor was she really interested in finding out.

Shirin sighed as she looked at him. There would be enough men waiting to take her home for the night, she knew, but tonight this man would take precedence over them. Later, she would regret not having the good sense to spend her working hours lucratively, but tonight nothing would shake her from her target. She had to know what made that man tick.

She flounced off the stage and walked to the bar, asking Johnny, the bartender, to make her a drink. “A small one,” she said, showing him her finger horizontally, “one finger, that’s all.” Despite the air conditioning, she was sweating. She took a couple of tissues and wiped her face gently, not wanting to rub the age lines in too fast.

“One finger,” Johnny said, showing her his finger vertically and crossing it halfway through with another finger, grinning from ear to ear. She smiled and shook her head to say ‘no’. She wound her way through the tables to the back, avoiding invitations along the way from men asking her to sit with them. Tonight she had already made her selection.

She walked up to his table. She let slip a ten rupee note on the floor and made as if to pick it up. Her long red nails scraped the marble floor, and the sound broke his reverie. He looked down at the floor and then at her, his eyes disinterested. Shirin was suddenly ashamed of her bosom spilling out of the tight confines of the blue sequined bra that she wore for the show. She straightened up fast and made to move away, no longer interested in figuring him out.

“Since you’ve tried so hard to distract me, why don’t you join me now?” His voice was husky and low, and had a rough edge to it, the voice of a man who smoked too much. There was no cigarette in his hand though.

Her drink had arrived and had been placed on the table already. She decided to stay. “Yes, why not,” she said, “since you knew all along that I wanted to know more about you.”

She made herself comfortable on the chair opposite him, took a sip from her drink, and placed her glass next to his on the table. The glasses were almost touching now. Shirin moved her glass a bit away, a little towards herself.

“One should not withdraw, once one makes the beginning overtures,” he said, and placed her glass back to where it was earlier. The colour of the two liquids mingled with a strange hue under the green overhead light.

She saw him watching the liquid in the glasses. He had not lifted his face yet, and had been talking into his glass till now. He now looked at her, staring directly into her face. The abject pain in his startling blue eyes shook her. She noticed the stubble on his cheeks and chin, the lines of dirt and sweat on his gaunt face. He looked as if he had been to hell and back.

“You like what you see, huh?’ He spoke again, a derisive note in his voice.

“Not really,” she said, caught off-guard. “I’ve seen better.” It was a fact. She had slept with men handsomer than him, macho men, chocolate boys, gentlemen of leisure and pleasure. However, he had a raw sexiness which she had not seen in many men, and a heart wrenching pathos on his face which would break any woman’s heart.

He returned his gaze to studying the contents of his glass. Shirin sipped her drink slowly, running her finger around the rim of the glass occasionally.

“What do you want?” he asked, his voice shattering the silence that had begun to descend between them in the midst of the noise around.

“What do you think I’d want, a girl like me?”

“I don’t have the money, time or inclination.”

“Time, you seem to have all in the world. Money, if you have none, it’s alright with me. Inclination…” Shirin licked her lips, “…we’ll see about that.” She wasn’t playing any come- hither games with him. Her curiosity had got the better of her, and she also liked his stand-offish behavior. Most men just wanted to grab and pull and feel her all over.

He looked up now, his eyes not really focusing on her. “You’re wasting your time,” he said. “I am a man who has no place to go, nothing to do, and life is a meaningless path leading nowhere. Don’t join me in my pursuit of destruction, even for a day.”

He dressed like a labourer but spoke like a poet, Shirin thought. “Come to my place,” she said.

“I’m warning you. Don’t make my problems yours.”

“I’ll take the chance,” she said. She watched him as he sat absolutely still. Then he gulped the remains of his drink in one go, and picked up her glass.

“Drink!” he said.

When he began to move, she noticed a slight limp in his walk. It was not very discernable, but it was there. Shirin had covered her costume with a light summer coat. They walked the distance to her house, it was not too far. She enjoyed the animal intensity generated by his close proximity. They walked in silence, the wind the only sound as it swished through the leaves on the trees that sheltered the sidewalk.

*

Her small two room apartment was on the fourth floor of an apartment building. The linoleum floor was cracked, the green sofa set faded, the furniture cheap and the light came from an old- fashioned overhanging bulb with a conical blue shade. Shirin did not earn too much, and most of her earnings went into the day to day expenses. She was not ashamed for she was not dependent on anyone and not living on the streets either.

Shirin went into the bedroom to change into a kaftan while he sat on one of the sofa chairs. She tied her hair up into a chignon, and removed her make-up. Feeling comfortable and clean, she entered the kitchen to fix a whisky for both of them and carried the drinks out, along with some potato chips to munch.

She sat on the sofa opposite him. The fan whirred at break neck speed above them, but did little to alleviate the heat. She did not open the windows, because it would let the mosquitoes in. The heat was oppressive, and she was glad that she had changed into a loose outfit.

“Mind if I become comfortable?” he asked.

“Oh, please. Sorry I didn’t ask earlier. I am not used to having people over.” She grimaced. “I mean…”

“It’s okay,” he said. “Please do not explain.”

            He then went ahead and removed his red singlet and draped it on the sofa. His body was covered with light beads of sweat, and his muscles were taut, his stomach firm like a young man’s, though his face did not look so young. He must be in his forties, she thought to herself. She watched as he stripped himself down to his shorts and then pointed the way to the bathroom to him.

            On his return, they sipped their drinks in silence. Exhaustion had overtaken her now, and she felt her eyes closing. His voice broke her drowsiness.

“Thank you for bringing me to your place. I had nowhere to go and had been thinking of climbing one of these high rise buildings and jumping off. The ground would have had to accept me then.”

Her eyes flew open.  “You can stay here as long as you like.”

“You have no one else?”

“No. What about you?”

“I had a wife, and a kid. No longer.”

“I am sorry. What happened?”

“They were on the plane that crashed into one of the Twin towers on September 11. They were holidaying in the U.S. This was their first big holiday outside the country. I had planned to join them a few days later. It never happened.”

He continued, his eyes glazing with pain, “After that, I seemed to have lost my mind. I have no one else in the world to call my own. They were all I had.”

Shirin thought, ‘That was some time ago. But he still bleeds.’ She watched him as he talked, hearing the tremor in his voice.

“After that, I lost my job, had to sell my car, my home, everything. I seem to be free falling through time and space. Now I have nothing, nothing. I just want to disappear from the face of the earth, somehow.”

Shirin wanted to move close to him and hold his hand. To tell him that he had at least had a time of love. She had never had anyone to call her own or share her life with. She only knew this life as a ‘go-go’ girl, and did not even remember the time when it became her way of life.

*

Sunlight was streaming in when she awoke. The man slept next to her, restless, his blondness brightening her drab drawing room.  She left him quietly and went into the kitchen to make coffee. She did not need to report for work till six p.m. and could spend her morning at home.

His eyes opened in surprise when she entered the room. Gratefully, he accepted the coffee.

“Thank you,” he said.”Sorry to have overstayed.”

“You’re welcome,” she offered him a smile.

He did smile then, a slow flicker that momentarily lit up his face.“I guess I should leave now,” he said, as he finished his coffee. “You have to get on with your life.”

            “Please stay,” she said. “I want to have you around.”  It was not in her nature to ask for anything. That is why she maintained such a low-profile life despite being a very popular dancer. However, now she was asking.

“Why? “He asked. “I’ll just get in your way. I’m a no-good person.”

             “You won’t.”

            Shirin sat on the floor, hugging her legs. “I don’t even know your name,” she said. ”Let’s begin by introducing ourselves. I’m Shirin.”

“I’m Mark, and before you start wondering, I’m a Keralite Christian, with a German mother. Of course, this information was given me at the orphanage in Pondicherry where I spent my childhood. However, I practise no religion. I can’t believe in a God.”     

“Okay,” she said, “tell me more. But before that, let me get some breakfast ready.” Shirin returned with eggs, toasts and more coffee. She ate slowly and watched as he wolfed down the scrambled eggs and toast as if he had not eaten for days.

They sat and talked. Shirin, who had never been an inquisitive person, found herself wanting to know a great deal about him. She replenished him with coffee and listened to his story.

He had been brought up in an orphanage, and did not know anything about his parents other than what the orphanage authorities had told him. He had been stricken by polio when young, and that accounted for the slight limp in his walk. Luckily, it had not disabled him. He felt that the limp may have been a reason for his parents having abandoned him-maybe he did not fit their concept of a perfect child.

“To make up for this,” he pointed towards his game leg, “and the fact that I had been dumped by my parents, perhaps for this,” he again pointed to the leg, “I have strived hard for perfection. Straight A grades, scholarships, a well paid job with an architectural firm, a perfect partner and married life.” He hung his head. “Nothing worked. I have lost it all. I was born a loser.”

Shirin put her hand on his shoulder and he flinched. She quickly removed her hand, surprised at his response. In the evening, she readied herself for work. At the bar she did her usual stint, but her heart was not in it. She also did not agree to accompany anyone home for the night. She knew this would be bad for business, and that she’d have to shape up.

Tired, she let herself into the apartment, and flung her keys on to the sofa, kicking off her heels and opening her shirt buttons. She heard a noise in the kitchen, and went in to see what was happening.

Mark had some sandwiches ready, and had begun to open one of the cheap bottles of wine she stacked at home. Shirin closed her shirt buttons quickly and was about to protest about him being in the kitchen, but stopped herself. Instead, she helped him take the plates and glasses into the drawing room.

 He was looking fresh and clean. “Thank you, Mark,” she said, as she gulped down her drink. “Let me have a quick shower, and then we’ll sit and talk.”

After her shower, Shirin padded out to the drawing room in a salwar kameez and slippers. Mark had poured another glass of wine for her.

“Thank you, Shirin,” he said, “I drink a toast to you. You have saved me from some kind of hell.”

“If I have, then it has been worth the effort of having you around,” she said, smiling.

“You look good in this Indian dress,” he said.

Shirin looked at him. He had said it in an off-hand fashion, there was no intensity in his tone.

“Thanks,” she said, and concentrated on the redness of the wine in the glass.

“I hope my being here is not interfering with your work,” he said. “I guess you must not be returning home so early on your usual days.”

“No customers today,” she lied. “I must be growing old.”

“That figures,” he said quietly. He smiled then and once again his face lit up for her.

She looked out at the tiny verandah that let the outside sky peep into her otherwise closed apartment.  His red singlet was hanging to dry on the line outside. She felt like taking it down and smelling its freshly washed sweetness.

She shook her head. The wine was affecting her thinking. She got up from the sofa, and put her hand against it for support. Her fingers lightly brushed his hair. Electricity surged through her. Though he had not moved away this time, she remembered his earlier flinching from her touch. She had to be careful not to come too close to him in any way. She went to the kitchen and splashed some cold water on her face and returned.

“I would like to go out tomorrow,” he said. “I have some work...”

“As long as you don’t get lost.” Shirin stopped her heart from beating fast. She could not stop him from leaving.

“Oh no, no chance of that, I know Mumbai like the back of my hand.” He stood up. “Look at me. I have been to places you would not want to know about.”

*

The next morning, Mark left early. He had not returned by the time Shirin left for work in the evening.

That evening, Shirin found the bar overcrowded and the smell of cigarettes and alcohol stifling. People milled all over the place, and by the time Shirin had completed her number, she felt nauseated. She signalled to Johnny, her bartender friend, that she was going out for some fresh air.

She hurried out, taking in a lungful of the hot Mumbai air. It was not very helpful, but at least she felt she could breathe. Inside, she had found it suffocating.

A man staggered against her, drunk out of his wits. “Come with me, dearest,” he said and leered.

She tried to shake him off, but he was heavy and unsteady on his feet. He fell, his whole body weight on hers, and she felt herself crashing to the ground.

When she opened her eyes, she was lying on the sofa backstage in the dressing room, and Mona, her fellow dancer, was fussing over her.

“Thank God you have opened your eyes,” she said. “We were so worried.”

“What…what happened to me?” Shirin asked.

“You fell under a big boor of a guy who wanted to take you home with him. We put him in his place, of course, that is, packed him off home, alone.” Mona gave a nervous laugh. “We were so worried about you.”

“I’ll be fine,” Shirin said. The room blurred and she passed out again

*

This time when she awoke, she found Mark looking at her. He was wearing his red singlet again. She was back home and in her bedroom, but she did not know how. Seeing that she had regained consciousness, he said, “Don’t talk.  I’ll explain. I brought you home. Went to the bar to find out where you were. I know, wrong of me, but I am glad I did. Wait, let me get you something…”

He went out and returned with some chilled lemonade for her to drink.

“That’s nice,” said Shirin. “Thank you.”

He sat near her now, putting the lemonade to her lips. She took a sip and gestured to him to put it aside. His nearness was making her uncomfortable. She wanted to touch him.

             “You know I went out today. Got lucky too,” he said.

            “How?”

“I’ve got a job. I can pay to stay. I’d like to stay a while if I may.”

“Of course,” she whispered, feeling faint.

“Thank you,” he said, “I’ll be outside on the sofa. Call out if you need anything.”

*

Shirin got up unsteadily in the night, fumbled for the light switch and fell on the floor. She managed to lift herself up and sat on the bed, wondering at her weakness.

Mark was at her side at once, switching the light on. His hair was tousled and he looked bleary-eyed.

“Why the hell are you moving around? The doctor has advised complete bed rest,” he said, his voice angry.

“I didn’t know that,” she said, suddenly defiant. He had no rights over her.

“You must give up your job. It is undermining your health.”

“Stop this talk. Please. It does not work with me.” She was not used to anyone talking to her like this.

His hands came down to grasp her shoulders.  “I didn’t want to admit it to myself. How could this happen so suddenly, I asked myself. I felt guilty. But when you lay there looking weak and sick, I decided that I would have to tell you how I felt. I cannot see you suffering.”

“What? How? What are you talking about? ”

I want to take care of you, want to be with you.”

“But you…you don’t like me touching…”

“I was resisting you. I kept telling myself it was not possible.”

“Oh,” she mumbled, suddenly dumb, “And now?”

“I can’t do it anymore. I love you… already.” His voice shook with emotion. His blue eyes were hot like live coals.

“Love me?” Shirin stared at him.

“Say something more positive …please…” she saw the uncertainty return to his eyes.

“Yes,” she said. “Yes.”

“We’ll talk later… thank god the doctor did not say anything about this… ” He held her face in his hands as though she was a fragile flower who would disintegrate on his touching. His lips came gently down on hers, afraid to hurt or bruise her in any way. He pulled her closer. The red singlet against her smelt of him, of desire and hope.

*****

© ABHA IYENGAR. First published in The Ripples Anthology of Short Fiction 2010

Author Biography

 Abha Iyengar is an internationally published author and poet and a creative writing facilitator at Sri Aurobindo Centre for Arts and Communication. She does individual mentoring for short story and novel writing. She also writes poetry in Hindi. She has worked as fiction editor with Leadstart Publishing. Her work has appeared in Bewildering Stories,The Asian Writer, New Asian Writing, Arabesques Review, Muse India and others. She is a Kota Press Poetry Anthology Contest winner (2002). Her story, 'The High Stool ' was nominated for the Story South Million Writers Award (2007). She writes articles on health, spirituality and travel. She is also writing for the CAB  (Conversations Across Borders) project. Her poem-film, "Parwaaz", has won a Special Jury prize in Patras, Greece (2008).Her book of poems, "Yearnings" has been published (Serene Woods, 2010). She received the Lavanya Sankaran Writing Fellowship(2009-2010).  She was Featured Poet at the Prakriti Festival (2010) and invited Speaker at CEC (2011). Her collection of micro fiction, “Flash Bites” (2011) and her fantasy novel, “Shrayan” (2012) are available as ebooks on Amazon and Smashwords. She is from New Delhi.  

Her website: www.abhaiyengar.com Her blog: http://www.abhaencounter.blogspot.com

I am so glad to have discovered her work and honored am honored that she is   a follower of The Reading Life.   

Her webpage and blog are both very interesting and I expect to learn a lot from them

I commend her work to anyone who enjoys a wonderfully written deeply felt story that can take you in a few pages to a world that might be very different on the surface from your own.  Go a bit deeper and you may see your own life in  Ivengar's marvelous story.

Mel u

"Annapurna Devi" by Abha Iyengar, a Leading New Delhi Poet and author

"Annapurna Devi" (2011, 3 pages)

Short Stories of the Indian Subcontinent

A Reading Life Project

"I immersed myself in the house, but a nagging emptiness gnawed away.   I filled it up with reading, as much as I could, in the lonely hours after the house slept".

I am very pleased  that The Reading Life was recently recommended by The Economic Times of India,. the leading financial daily of The Subcontinent.   

The Reading Life Guide to The Indian Short Story

There is no literary culture with roots older than that of India.   I will always admire Edmund Burke for telling the English that they had no right to govern a region whose culture is much older than theirs.  Many of the geographic boundaries that created these countries were created by the British or are consequences of their misrule.       Some of the writers featured  will be internationally famous, such as Salmon Rushdie, Saadat Manto,  and R. K. Narayan but most of the writers I post on will be authors on whom there are no prior book blog posts.    There are numerous books and academic conferences devoted to exploring the colonial experiences of India and Ireland and I will look at these stories partially as post colonial literature.   My main purpose here is just to open myself up to a lot more new to me writers and in this case most will be new to anyone outside of serious literary circles in the region. I am hoping in a small way to create networks of readers worldwide.    Where I can I will provide links to the stories I post on but this will not always be possible.

I am happy to have discovered another great new to me short story writer from the Indian Subcontinent, Abha Iyengar, from New Delhi.    I will post on two of her stories (I will provide links where you can read these and others of Iyengar's work) and she has also given me the honor of publishing a wonderful story about the life of a woman working in a dance bar in Mumbai.   She writers in both Urdu and English.   

"Annapurna Devi"

In "Annapurna Devi", first published in The 2011 New Asian Short Story Anthology, in just a few pages takes a woman from her the days just before she was married, through a long married life in which she had three sons, to the closing years of her life as an affluent widow left largely to herself.    The story is wonderfully told in the first person.   We learn that a pundit had selected her name, after  the Goddess of Plenty.   She was her mother's first child after ten years of marriage so her birth was a great joy to the family.    The pundit, who was in fact her grandfather, told her father that she would have many children.  Her father, who I liked a lot, was a simple man who earned just enough to care for his family and spent most of his times reading the books he loved.   In time he became a tutor to children of the rich and his learning was respected.

At eighteen she marries a man fourteen years older than her, an arranged marriage.   He was a wealthy business man more married to his work than he ever was to her.      She gives birth to three sons so she has high standing with her in laws.   Once the three boys come her husband loses interest in her.   The woman craves his attention and in time tries to forget her loneliness in household management.

We see her try to fill up the sadness in her life with petty details and drama with her children and the household help.   You can see a contradiction in her character, she craves the attention of her husband but she pushes away her children, her helpers, and her in laws throwing herself into her reading.

We flash on to many years ahead.  She is widow.  Her long term help are gone.   Her sons are married and sometimes when they and their wives come to visit she knows she gets names mixed up.   The sons come just enough so they can be said to be doing their duty.   The final scene is very moving and I will leave it untold told as I really endorse this wonderful story.

You can read it online HERE. 

As I mentioned I will do a post on at least one more of her stories very shortly and publish one of her works in full.

Author Biography

 Abha Iyengar is an internationally published author and poet and a creative writing facilitator at Sri Aurobindo Centre for Arts and Communication. She does individual mentoring for short story and novel writing. She also writes poetry in Hindi. She has worked as fiction editor with Leadstart Publishing. Her work has appeared in Bewildering Stories,The Asian Writer, New Asian Writing, Arabesques Review, Muse India and others. She is a Kota Press Poetry Anthology Contest winner (2002). Her story, 'The High Stool ' was nominated for the Story South Million Writers Award (2007). She writes articles on health, spirituality and travel. She is also writing for the CAB  (Conversations Across Borders) project. Her poem-film, "Parwaaz", has won a Special Jury prize in Patras, Greece (2008).Her book of poems, "Yearnings" has been published (Serene Woods, 2010). She received the Lavanya Sankaran Writing Fellowship(2009-2010).  She was Featured Poet at the Prakriti Festival (2010) and invited Speaker at CEC (2011). Her collection of micro fiction, “Flash Bites” (2011) and her fantasy novel, “Shrayan” (2012) are available as ebooks on Amazon and Smashwords. She is from New Delhi.  

Her website: www.abhaiyengar.com Her blog: http://www.abhaencounter.blogspot.com

I am so glad to have discovered her work and honored am honored that she is   a follower of The Reading Life.   

Her webpage and blog are both very interesting and I expect to learn a lot from them

I commend her work to anyone who enjoys a wonderfully written deeply felt story that can take you in a few pages to a world that might be very different on the surface from your own.  Go a bit deeper and you may see your own life in  Ivengar's marvelous story.

Mel u