Storywallah Read online

  NEELESH MISRA’S MANDALI

  Storywallah

  Translated from the Hindi by Khila Bisht

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  CONTENTS

  1. Wildflower

  Kanchan Pant

  2. Yellow Roses

  Jamshed Qamar Siddiqui

  3. Letters

  Anulata Raj Nair

  4. Satrangi

  Manjit Thakur

  5. Munjhi’s Palace

  Kanchan Pant

  6. Home

  Anulata Raj Nair

  7. Nails

  Umesh Pant

  8. The Seal

  Anulata Raj Nair

  9. A Divorced Girl

  Jamshed Qamar Siddiqui

  10. Umrao Jaan

  Manjit Thakur

  11. Our People

  Kanchan Pant

  12. The Overcoat

  Chhavi Nigam

  13. Together

  Jamshed Qamar Siddiqui

  14. Amaya

  Anulata Raj Nair

  15. Evening Tea

  Chhavi Nigam

  16. Ayesha

  Shabnam Gupta

  17. The Wait

  Manjit Thakur

  18. The Muffler

  Umesh Pant

  19. Across the Seven Seas

  Ankita Chauhan

  20. A Bird in Flight

  Snehvir Gosain

  A Note on the Contributors

  Follow Penguin

  Copyright

  PENGUIN BOOKS

  STORYWALLAH

  Neelesh Misra is a lyricist, radio storyteller, journalist and writer. He is the founder and editor of Gaon Connection, India’s biggest rural media platform, and the founder of Content Project, home to some of India’s best emerging writers, collectively called the Mandali.

  His exceptionally popular shows on radio and digital platforms include Yaadon ka Idiot Box (Big FM), The Neelesh Misra Show (Red FM), Qisson ka Kona, Time Machine and Kahaani Express (Saavn App). Neelesh is also one of Bollywood’s prominent lyricists, the author of five books and two-time winner of the Ramnath Goenka Award for Excellence in Journalism.

  If you wish to join Neelesh Misra’s Mandali, send an original story in any Indian language to [email protected].

  To connect directly with Neelesh, download his spoken and video content app ‘Mic’ or follow these verified pages and handles:

  Facebook: @TheNeeleshMisraPage

  Twitter and Instagram: @neeleshmisra

  YouTube: Neelesh Misra

  WILDFLOWER

  Kanchan Pant

  Nemat’s breath quickened as the taxi snaked up the narrow hill road. There was no dip in the air’s oxygen level, but she was finding it hard to breathe. Neither the cool wind coming in through the window nor the sweet Kumaoni music that filled the taxi like the sound of a mountain waterfall could allay her restlessness. She had been so small when Ma had taken her to Scotland. There were mountains there too, perhaps more beautiful than these, but Nemat always felt she shared a deep bond with the mountains of her home—the mountains where Ma had grown up and where she said she had spent the best years of her life. Nemat had always wanted to come back to these mountains. But she had never imagined it would be like this.

  The taxi drove past Kakrighat; the Kosi River flowed alongside, showing the road the way. After one more turn, the river and the road would part ways, not to meet again on the road Nemat was to take, the road to Kosi, Anirudh Thakur’s town. She suddenly felt sick, her hands tightened on the purse in her lap, the words on Ma’s letter came alive again.

  My dear Nemat,

  That you are reading this letter now means that I am gone. What you think of me after you read this letter won’t matter to me now. But Nemat, my darling, I ask that you read this letter not as a daughter, but as a woman. What you think of me after reading it will be the memory of me you will always carry. Be very care—

  The taxi jolted to a stop. The pages of the letter seemed to scatter with the wind that blew in through the open window. Nemat looked out, startled. A truck had suddenly appeared in front of the taxi. The taxi driver reversed a bit to let the truck pass. Nemat saw a milestone with Kosi written on it. It was either 15 or 25 kilometres. All she could read was the 5. Someone had scratched the first number out with a stone. She could have asked the taxi driver how much farther it was, but she didn’t. Why had she come all this way? To meet whom? A person she hadn’t even heard of until a few weeks ago. How terrible her fate was, to have to ask for help from a person she hated. From Anirudh Thakur, her mother’s lover.

  Anirudh Thakur, the name that had created a storm in Nemat’s life when the lawyer had passed on her mother’s letter along with the will. Please try and understand my relationship with Anirudh, her mother had written. How? Why? The last two weeks had seen her climb many mountains, mountains of rage and disgust, of hatred and helplessness. She couldn’t hate her mother and she couldn’t find it in herself to forgive her. Maybe that’s why she had come all this way. To decide whether she would love Ma or hate her for the rest of her life.

  She saw him outside his house, pruning roses. It took every bit of courage to bring herself to speak.

  ‘Anirudh Thakur?’

  ‘Yes?’ he turned around, surprised. He must have been between forty-five and fifty years old but his face was aglow; it was the kind of glow that only a certain peace can lend to a person. His hair was greying but he made no attempt to hide it. One shirtsleeve was rolled up to the elbow, the other was open. His hands were covered with mud. There was some mud on his kurta as well. A grey shawl was thrown loosely across his shoulders. The pureness in his honey-coloured eyes made Nemat forget for a moment how much she hated him. Ma’s letter rang in her ears again.

  Do you remember Loch Ness, Nemat? How transfixed you were with its water? You could sit at the edge and see all the way to the bottom. ‘How can anything be this pure, Ma?’ you had asked. But some things are just this pure.

  I’m not saying it because I love him, but Anirudh is as pure as that water. You can look into his heart through his eyes. I know he will take care of you just the way I did.

  ‘How can I help you, beta?’ his voice jerked Nemat back to the present. Once again the hatred reared its head, but controlling herself with some effort, she said, ‘I’ve come from Edinburgh.’

  ‘OK,’ he said, frowning slightly, trying to place her. Nemat took a deep breath and the words came out in a rush.

  ‘Sadhika Rawat. I’m her daughter. She’s dead. She said if anything happened to her I was to come to you.’

  The colour drained from his face. He seemed to stagger and Nemat watched as he reached out and clutched the railing for support. He said nothing but his face, as he looked at her, showed her a man who seemed to have lost everything. She was taken aback. Did this man still love her mother? After all these years?

  Still clinging to the railing, Anirudh tried to say something, but the words were stuck in his throat.

  ‘Sorry!’ His voice was hollow, as if it came from deep inside a well. He stumbled again, and Nemat stretched a hand out to help him but then drew it back. He controlled himself. Just like she had when she had seen her mother’s body laid out in front of her. She realized that she hadn’t wept since Ma had died. First because of shock, then disbelief, and when she had finally accepted that Ma was gone there had been no shoulder to cry on. Her parents had divorced when she was two. And her father had died a few years ago. His family had disowned Nemat and her mother even before the divorce. The man responsible for her being alone in the world was standing in front of her and she wanted to shake him like a rag doll and ask him what right he and her mother had to destroy so many lives.

  ‘You must be tired. Come inside,’ Anirudh�
�s voice broke into Nemat’s thoughts. He picked up her bags and walked in slowly, using the wall for support. She didn’t want to enter his house, but something in the way he spoke made her follow him in.

  As she entered the drawing room, Nemat felt that it wasn’t the first time she was visiting this house. Ma had described Laxmi Vilas to her so many times that she knew every nook and corner of the place. The steps that led to the large wooden gallery, Nanaji’s room at the far end and then the puja room and finally Ma’s room, with an adjoining balcony suspended over a cliff with the help of a few beams. This was Ma’s favourite place in the world.

  This room had been Ma’s room since Nemat was a little girl until after her marriage. Eventually, Nanaji had had to sell the house. The person who bought it was Anirudh Thakur.

  He took Nemat’s luggage into that same room.

  ‘But this is your room!’ the words were out before she could stop them.

  ‘This room has always been Sadhika’s. I simply used it. You sleep here. I’ll shift to another room,’ Anirudh said as he walked out the door. He had barely closed the door when he came back again and asked hesitantly, ‘Is your name Nemat?’

  ‘How do you know?’ Nemat was shocked. Ma had written in her letter that she had left here before Nemat was born and that she had had no contact with Anirudh since then.

  ‘Hmm.’ Anirudh smiled wistfully and placed a gentle hand on her head. Then he left her in her room. Her hatred for this man was already starting to weaken.

  Nemat looked around the room that had once been her mother’s: the bed with the peacock feather design, the carved wooded shelf on the wall and big stained-glass windows. Time seemed to have stopped here. She opened the large window and stepped out on to the balcony. The evening was deepening as the clouds grew heavy and settled over the valleys. She stood on the little wooden platform, suspended above the world. Still a part of it but somehow out of its reach. Ma was right. There was a strange peacefulness in this place. Maybe that’s why Anirudh had chosen this room for himself after buying the house from Nanaji. Nemat looked around herself. She seemed to have travelled nineteen years back in time. She saw Ma, hesitant, standing in front of the easy chair in the corner and Anirudh standing in front of her, a little uncertain. Ma wore a simple yellow sari and a gold chain around her neck, a thin line of vermilion filled the parting in her hair. She was a little emotional.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ she was saying. ‘I just wanted to see this room for the last time. Whenever I’ve been happy or sad or alone, I’ve always come here. It’s the only place that seemed to be mine.’

  ‘There’s no need to say sorry! You can come here whenever you want. In any case, I’m mostly out on work. You won’t be disturbed,’ Anirudh had replied. A complete stranger had understood her so well that day. Ma didn’t know then that one day she would fall in love with this stranger. She had written in her letter . . .

  Sometimes I wonder if someone else had bought that house, and if Anirudh had not taken that small storeroom of a room that was mine for his own, would my life have been different? Perhaps it would have. I would have had a family, relatives, and instead of censure I would have had respect. Sadhika Rawat, daughter of Shri Virendra Rawat, or Mrs Sadhika Harish Thakur. Yes, my life would have been different, but I wouldn’t have been me.

  Nemat took a deep breath. So this was the place where Ma and Anirudh’s love story had started. It felt a bit strange to be standing here, but somehow it didn’t fill her with as much disgust as she had felt earlier.

  Night had fallen. Nemat hadn’t stepped out of the room since she had arrived. Her mind was full of a strange confusion. A knock on the door startled her.

  ‘Yes?’ she said.

  ‘Nemat, come for dinner, beta,’ Anirudh said from behind the door. When Nemat went out he was sitting at the dining table. His eyes were swollen; he had been crying. As he served her khichri, he said, ‘I didn’t want to disturb you so I just cooked this without asking about your preferences. Sadhika really liked khichri, so I thought maybe . . .’ His voice trailed away.

  Nemat smiled weakly and began to eat. He had served himself but was yet to start eating.

  ‘Who else is there in your home? I mean your wife, children?’ Nemat asked.

  ‘I never married,’ Anirudh replied.

  The room fell silent. The only sound was the scraping of Nemat’s spoon against her plate.

  That night as she sat on the balcony, Nemat took out Ma’s letter again. Since Ma’s death Nemat had lost count of how many times she had read the letter. But today, for the first time perhaps, she managed to read it the way Ma had wanted her to, not as her daughter, but as a woman.

  It’s been nineteen years since I last met Anirudh. I was expecting you. He had suggested I call you Nemat. We didn’t want our relationship to harm you in any way. I never lied to your father, Nemat. I told him about my feelings for Anirudh even before I told Anirudh himself. He was a good man, your father. He accepted me even without my heart. He didn’t want the world to know about what had happened. When you were about two years old, one day I saw him staring at you intently. ‘Her eyes are like Anirudh’s, aren’t they?’ he had said. That was the first time I felt that I had done something wrong. My soul was linked with Anirudh’s, but even your father had been unable to get him out of his mind. I didn’t want him to live with that pain. That was when I separated from him.

  Think about it, Nemat. Sometimes we are handed relationships that we are expected to fulfil forever, relationships that were someone else’s choice. Sometimes we do manage to fulfil them. But Anirudh was my choice. The only thing I don’t regret in this life is my love for him.

  As she continued to read, Nemat felt as if she were meeting a new Ma. The letter went on.

  Illicit affair, that’s what people called our relationship. But if it was, why did it never feel like I was doing anything wrong? Why did it feel so right? Why did it give me so much comfort? You know how the warm sun feels so comforting on a winter day. Anirudh was that warm sun for me, when we were together and even now when it has been so many years since I last saw him. You had asked me once if your father had loved me. Yes, he did, as much as a husband loves a wife.

  Many men love a woman in her lifetime, Nemat, as a father, a brother, a friend, a husband or a son. But a woman searches for someone who understands her mind. My search ended with Anirudh.

  I hope you won’t hate me for what is the biggest accomplishment of my life.

  Love,

  Ma

  Nemat didn’t know how long she had been sitting there. The letter fluttered in her hands, her tears smudging the words as they fell. She didn’t realize that Anirudh had come into the room and was standing behind her. He put his hand on her shoulder and sat down beside her. She tried to wipe away her tears.

  ‘Sadhika wouldn’t want us to be weak, she wouldn’t like it. She didn’t like crying,’ Anirudh said gently. Nemat folded the letter and put it away. Two weeks ago she hadn’t even heard of this man. And when she had, she’d hated him. But now she didn’t feel so hateful. Perhaps she was beginning to understand their love.

  ‘Her life was so complicated, but I never saw Ma sad. Why is that?’ she asked.

  Anirudh smiled. ‘Was it complicated?’ he asked. ‘It wasn’t all that much. She went wherever she wanted, and did whatever she wanted to do. There are some flowers that don’t want to grow in gardens, so sensitive that if you don’t touch them with tenderness they will scatter. But if you let them be, they will bloom even among rocks. That’s what your mother was: a wildflower. The universe’s favourite creation.’ He was looking at Ma’s empty armchair, as if watching his Sadhika sitting there as he spoke. Nemat looked at the empty chair and then at Anirudh. His face reflected the same peace Ma had written about in her letter. Nemat had no more questions, no more troubles. She rested her head on Anirudh’s shoulder. It felt as if Ma had come back to her.

  YELLOW ROSES

  Jamshed Qamar Siddiquir />
  Sometimes, when you visit a town after a really long time, every nook and corner of its now-changed face tells you a familiar story. I was back in Shimla after seven years. The weather was beautiful. It had just stopped raining and it was slightly chilly on the Mall Road. I noticed little tea and momo stalls on either side of the road, bustling with customers. It had never been this crowded before. Quite a lot had changed. This was the town where I was born, where I made my childhood friends, where I found myself and lost myself in love. I had moved to Delhi with my job. Where had these last seven years gone?

  Isn’t it strange how so much happens to us every day in our busy city lives and yet we have nothing to say about it? That day, I had nothing to tell my old town except that I had changed as much as it had.

  I looked at a shop right across from me, a flower shop, illuminated by the light of a single bulb. Above it a rusted board read ‘Om Florist’. It was amazing, the shop was exactly the same. Outside the shop, decorated with the bouquets of gladioli and lilies and tulips, was a small tin shed, dimly lit by a bulb hanging in a holder. Exactly how it had always been. This might be the only place in the town that time hadn’t changed.

  This was the shop where once I used to buy yellow roses every day, yellow roses for Vishakha. Vishakha? One of those stories that this town had given me. This was where I had seen her for the first time, where I had fallen in love with her.

  The flower shop was pulling me back into my past and I could remember that morning when I first saw Vishakha.

  It was very cold that day, and we had counselling sessions for engineering college. I was wearing my maroon round-neck sweater. In college, students were waiting their turn outside the room where the counselling was going on. Everyone looked nervous, except one girl. She stood out in the crowd, quiet and still. She was calm, no nervous ness, no fumbling. She wore a yellow cardigan and there was a confidence on her face as she sat in the corner writing something in the last pages of her diary.