Sultry Days , livre ebook
131
pages
English
Ebooks
2005
Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement
Découvre YouScribe en t'inscrivant gratuitement
131
pages
English
Ebook
2005
Vous pourrez modifier la taille du texte de cet ouvrage
Obtenez un accès à la bibliothèque pour le consulter en ligne En savoir plus
Publié par
Date de parution
21 janvier 2005
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9788184751048
Langue
English
Publié par
Date de parution
21 janvier 2005
Nombre de lectures
0
EAN13
9788184751048
Langue
English
SHOBHAA D
Sultry Days
PENGUIN BOOKS
Contents
About the Author
By the Same Author
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Follow Penguin
Copyright Page
PENGUIN BOOKS
SULTRY DAYS
Shobhaa Dé’s eighteen books include the bestsellers Socialite Evenings, Starry Nights, Spouse and Superstar India . Her latest book is Sethji . A widely read columnist in leading publications, she is known for her outspoken views, making her one of India’s most respected opinion shapers. Dé lives in Mumbai with her family.
Also by the Same Author
Fiction
Sisters
Socialite Evenings
Starry Nights
Strange Obsession
Sultry Days
Snapshots
Non-Fiction
Speedpost
Surviving Men
Selective Memory
Spouse
Superstar India
For my children- Ranadip, Radhika, Aditya, Avantika, Arundhati and Anandita- finally, a book by me that they can read.
One
God wasn t at all what I d expected him to be. He spoke with a vernac accent and smoked smelly beedies. He also changed my name the moment we were introduced.
Forget it, yaar, he said, chucking his beedi into a half-drunk cup of tea. I m not going to call you Nisha. It s a ridiculous name. From now on, you ll be my intoxicant, my nasha.
I wasn t impressed. Not initially, at least. But I didn t dare say anything by way of protest. One didn t do that with God.
The college canteen was dark and stank. It was pouring outside and most of the professors had stayed away from classes. There was nothing to do. The only option was to have a plate of greasy, frilly cutlets with a messy dollop of carrot ketchup all over them. The place was crumbling, with bats flying in and out of the high, Gothic windows.
God was holding court in his favourite corner. I d never really liked him but I must admit to a deep fascination. A sort of infatuation towards him that simultaneously attracted and repelled. It wasn t just his nine-day stubble that put me off. It was his entire manner. I used to wonder whether he ever attended lectures. He was always in the canteen. Always, always. And smoking those God-awful beedies. His friends varied. Especially the girls who hung around his table. I couldn t imagine what attracted them to him. Most of the time they were the ones who paid for his special chai, bought him his beedies and even offered to subsidize haircuts. Oh yes-his hair. I hated that too. Matted locks-which I was sure were full of lice-nests and other creepy crawlies. One hand of his was invariably engaged in scratching. The hand didn t stop at the head. I d never seen a man who itched so much. Scratch, scratch, scratch his hand tore inside his filthy shirt and scratched up a bloody pool. It travelled down to his groin, up to his armpits, right round to his back. Sometimes he d pause mid-scratch to make some point and then start all over again. He really was most revolting.
And I? How must I have appeared to this animal? A prissy little good girl who carried far too many books around. Pretty enough, I suppose. But not special.
You look so frigid, yaar, he told me within three minutes of our being introduced. Why don t you carry a hot water bottle around?
Everybody laughed, especially the girls. I was dumbstruck. Too taken aback to retaliate. Not that I could think up something smart enough. The chai-boy came around just then.
Mushtaq, get the poor girl something hot to drink before she freezes, someone shouted.
I picked up my stuff and walked stiffly out of the canteen.
Once I d ducked into the library, I felt safe. I could dive into my books and pretend to read. I could strike my favourite pose and not be found out. The librarian knew me by name. I fitted in here, just like the other introverts and wallflowers around me. I didn t know why I felt awkward in company. There wasn t anything particularly wrong with me, though you wouldn t know it by the question that was most often asked of me.
It used to start first thing in the morning. The moment I walked into the dining-room for a cup of tea, my mother would look at my face anxiously and ask, What s wrong?
I d want to yell, NOTHING, but that wasn t done around our house. Father would follow shortly. I d hear him enquiring en route to the kitchen, Is Baby up yet? And then, on seeing me, that irritating question, What s wrong?
Was it my expression? Did I look troubled? In pain? Depressed? Maybe it was that birthmark of mine. It had to be that. I was born with worry lines between my brows. The doctors had assured my parents that they d get fainter with the years and eventually disappear. But they didn t. They grew darker and gave the impression that I was constantly frowning or scowling. No wonder the teachers at school ended up writing the same remark in the report book, year after year! She needs to cheer up and take more interest in extra-curricular activities.
My best friend (the only friend I had, actually, and I lost her as soon as I began to hang around God) tried to tell the others that I wasn t in a bad mood, it was just a birthmark. Nobody was convinced. What sort of a birthmark is that? We ve never heard of anyone born with a frown.
I still haven t learnt to live with it-the frown. And often when I catch sight of myself in a mirror I m startled. I nearly ask myself, What s wrong?
God was the only one who thought my frown was cute . I like it, yaar, he told me, and for that moment, at least, I m sure it disappeared. Hey! Where did it go? he asked in mock alarm touching my forehead.
That was the first time he had touched me and I jumped.
Don t electrocute her, yaar, his ugly friend with the horribly stained teeth laughed.
Leave the kid alone, declared God before picking up his beedi packet and sauntering out. Someone settled his bill.
Why is he called God ? I asked a boy in my class.
That s his name, he answered.
Don t be ridiculous, I said. How can anyone be named God ?
Not God-God. His name is Deb. Deb means God, or so he tells anybody who dares to ask.
That made sense, though he was the first Deb or Dev I knew who had decided to be so literal about it. I liked the name God. Deb. Or Dev. I only wished God wasn t so dirty. What Deb needed desperately was a bath.
My mother, being the eternal romantic she was, had named me Nisha or night since that s when I was born. My father, my sweet, doting father, insisted there was a full moon out when I arrived. Thank God both of them were considerate enough not to have called me Poornima. I ve always hated that name. Nisha had a pleasant ring to it. I liked the way it sounded. It made me feel very sensual and sultry but only in my fantasies. I thought of the other girls in my class who had awful names like Mona or Prema. What would God have changed those to, I wondered.
He had had (yes HAD) several girls by the time he got to the second year at college. I started early, yaar, he told me. I was a randy little bugger at five. His early explorations apparently began with a neighbour s servant girl. She smelt so much oof but so did I. It was quite a feat trying to do anything with both of us holding our noses. It used to irritate me that she also held hers. I d pull her filthy hand away from her nose and shout, Why are you holding your nose, you dirty thing? You are only a servant. She, being three years older, would pinch me hard on my bottom and threaten, If you say that again, I ll go and tell my memsaab what you were doing to me!
God s stories used to fascinate me, I could listen for hours while he boasted about his exploits. In between stories, he d lift up his thigh and let go, without any embarrassment whatsoever. The first few times I was too polite and formal to react even though I felt I was being gassed to death. I d just sit there unable to move or, like the servant girl, to block my nose. I learnt to open my mouth and breathe in through it the moment God s leg went up. I must ve looked pretty stupid with my jaw hanging open.
You know, you resemble an imbecile sometimes, God commented once. Why don t you shut your mouth? It makes you look kind of stupid.
It was years before he found out. By then I had learnt to anticipate the blast. I could see it coming even before he lifted his leg. After a point, we stopped laughing over it. I began to show my irritation.
You are being bhari inconsiderate, you know, I said to him on one occasion. How would you like it if I did it back to you?
God didn t feel insulted. He scratched himself thoughtfully and said, Try it I d probably not even notice. Why do you make such a fuss over a fart, yaar ? You ve too many hang-ups. Must consult a shrink-why don t you? I knew it was no use explaining to him that a shrink had nothing to do with malodorous fumes choking me-so it was best to forget the whole business, as it was with almost everything else. God had made that clear from the start.
Look, I don t want any of your fancy stuff. It does not impress me. If you want to hang around, it s OK. But don t expect me to change-wange for you. I am what I am-take it or leave it.
This was before I d even thought about hanging around . It was his presumption that I would fall in line just like all the others. But as usual God was right, of course, for that was precisely what I did-in time.
In the beginning, I was nothing more than a devotee. He treated me like one. I hated the patronizing tone, the kindness and condescension. It irritated me no end when his friends would snigger as I approached their table. Where are the offerings? What? No offerings today? How can you come empty-handed to a temple? Go back and bring something. Even a packet of beedies will do.
God would grin maliciously and wave me off. Jao, Jao kuch ley ke ao (Go on get something).
It was humiliating and awful. But I took it. And I learned to like God, though I was probably more fascinated by him than anything else-initially. And I think he liked me.
There were thin
