SEVEN STORIES - Saswati Paul (India)

 

SEVEN STORIES

-          Saswati Paul (India)

I

The Beggar’s Song

Crossing the temple on the city outskirts, Ravi wanted to meet his party when his car suddenly stopped working. One ignition, two ignitions, the car roared but then fell silent. The driver stepped out to check—it was something to do with the engine. Ravi didn’t care; the meeting wouldn’t begin without him anyway. Stretching his legs, he sat comfortably in the passenger seat.

Hymns from the temple could be heard reaching the car. The loud ringing of the bells disturbed his sleep. Irritated, he stepped out to get some air. Walking around the temple, he saw a beggar—his clothes were torn, and his face was drained, as if he hadn’t eaten in days. Pitying him, Ravi gave him a note of twenty.

“Would you listen to a song, Saab?” the beggar asked. Before Ravi could answer, the beggar began his song…

O’ men, O’ friend, O’ foe,

Wherefore shines you think you go?

Palace, not, but a chimera glow,

A flicking stone, the chime there flow,

And ripping heart of the burning low,

Tired and toiled of the bow he sow,

Gleam is not but in river that shine,

And lies peace in the feet of the divine.

And over and over again, the beggar kept singing the same verse, as if chanting an incantation—an incantation too futile for Ravi. The car soon started, and Ravi left, not thinking much of the beggar.

The next day, Ravi found himself in front of the temple again. The meeting yesterday had been a failure. He had reached too late, and the party had already left to catch their flight. Ravi had suffered a huge loss. This deal would have given him enough to run the remaining years smoothly. So, once again, here he was, on his way to the venue when, just in front of the temple, his tire punctured. The driver stepped out to inspect it. A nail had caused the damage. Annoyed, Ravi kicked the inside of the car, only to hurt himself. They didn’t have a spare tire, nor was there a garage nearby. So, Ravi asked the driver to get a mechanic here, the network being too weak to make a call.

There he was, the beggar from yesterday, still singing the same song. It was as if he were singing to Ravi. And even though Ravi might not have accepted it, the song did something to him, as if it were digging into his wounds. The poor old beggar, who didn’t know if he would get the next meal or see the next day, was sitting on the temple stairs, blissful and relaxed, as if he possessed the greatest treasures of the world. And here he was, a well-earning businessman who ate all three meals of the day and had a fixed future, but was still unsatisfied with life. There was something in the beggar that wasn’t in him, something Ravi couldn’t put his finger on, and he hated it. He hated the feeling of failure, the fact that all the comforts of life still couldn’t give him something the nameless beggar had. His car was repaired, and they drove away. All the way, Ravi remained lost in his thoughts. What was his perfect life missing?

A few weeks passed since then. Ravi hadn’t been to that way yet. His last meeting wasn’t a success either. The party asked for a reduction in the tender’s price, lower than Ravi could afford. Thus, the deal didn’t happen. Ravi was desperate now. Every time he failed in something, he would unconsciously think about the beggar. He felt as if he was right here, in front of him, singing in mockery of his failure. This infuriated him.

One evening, Ravi drove down the same path. His driver wasn’t there with him that day. He parked his car close to the temple and stepped out to use the washroom. Coming back, he saw that his car had been towed by the police for parking in a no-parking area. He was mad now. Nothing had been happening his way for weeks. He got no proper deal, he had to reduce prices to a level of losses, and he was getting emotionally tortured by some insignificant beggar. Turning on his heels, he walked to the beggar and yelled at him about his life. He cursed at him for sitting uselessly and still managing to be happy while he struggled every day to no avail.

Listening to his outburst, the beggar smiled and said, “Sit down, Saab, let me sing you a song.” And before Ravi could protest, the beggar began his song. Ravi sat down on the stairs, his face buried in his palm in frustration. The song was the same old song that felt like an insult to Ravi. But this time, he noticed something. Finishing the first verse, the beggar moved to the last verse of the song…

So sing my men, my friend, my foe,

For all the reeks of the bow you row,

It’s blissful heart, the heart all refined,

That brings home the chime of the temple divine.

Ravi stared at the beggar’s face and noticed for the very first time something that he had always missed. It was peace. The beggar was at peace. Rather than meticulously worrying about tomorrow, the beggar lived in his today. This realization hit Ravi like a truck. Ever since the day he started his company, he hadn’t lived a single day of peace. Every day he was worried about parties, deals, payments, and other business matters. After all the success he had always dreamed of, he lost the one thing he had in his life. It was now that he felt as if losing peace was like losing life itself.

Walking back home, Ravi thought about the beggar. His name was Shamu, and he had been a beggar as long as he could remember. Even his name was given by the people in the temple. He sang songs for a living. And having seen so many people over the years, he could read people very well. So, every time he saw someone distressed, he sang a song that suited them the most. Over the years, many came like Ravi, but only a few stopped by like him.

Walking back home, Ravi thought about the façade of life. Often, in the race of life, we leave behind life itself, forgetting that all we ever dreamt of ultimately leads us to our actual common search for peace. A little calmer now, he calls his family in the village and tells them he’ll be home soon. Smiling, he thinks about Shamu and his approach to life. After all, isn’t that what all of us want?

Elsewhere, at the airport, two criminals posing as businessmen get caught with cash and multiple company files.

****

II

The Unnamed Bride

She was sixteen when she married into this household and to Harsh Babu, a man twice her age. Since then, twenty years had passed without her hearing it. All along, she had been Bou, Bou Ma, Maa, and many more, but never what she once was — when she took her first steps or when she first stepped out of the courtyard. So many years had passed, so long that she had even forgotten how it sounded. Once a chime to the ear, it was now a dead whisper.

Her son’s wedding was around the corner. The entire house beamed with energy. After all, the Mitras were marrying off their only son. No stone was left unturned in the preparations. They got the best of everything in the village—this was going to be a wedding to remember.

Shayon, the groom-to-be, was the center of attraction. The entire household revolved around him, while he, in turn, revolved around Nandini, his bride. Nandini was a city girl. She and Shayon had met during their graduation years, fallen in love, and later decided to marry. She was nothing like the girls of the village—confident and bold. Unlike them, her saree’s aanchal wouldn’t always cover her shoulders, and she openly chatted with her would-be husband. Despite all these differences, she was loved by Shayon’s family, especially his mother. She saw herself in Nandini—her younger, carefree self from the time when she could still hear it.

One afternoon, while making garlands for the wedding decorations, she stared absentmindedly into nothingness until Nandini caught her attention. The young woman ran toward her, carrying a necklace.

“Does it look good, Maa?” Nandini asked, beaming like a child.

She looked beautiful—almost enchanting. She nodded, making Nandini smile even wider. And then, something felt familiar. That smile. A strange pang gripped her chest. She excused herself and went to the washroom, splashing water on her face. Wiping it with a towel, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. That was when she realized what felt familiar.

It was the smile.

The same smile Nandini wore now had once adorned her own lips—on the day she had worn her bridal jewelry before the wedding. Standing before the mirror, she saw her younger self, so close it felt as if she could reach through and pull her out. She looked down at her palms—once soft like lotus petals, now covered in cuts and callouses. With a sigh, she went back to work.

As the wedding days approached, so did her memories. It was as if her past was playing in front of her like a film. Everything made her uncomfortable. She struggled to balance her emotions. The shield she had built over the years seemed to be crumbling now. No amount of bustling activity could quiet the storm within her.

The wedding day arrived. The entire village was invited. Songs of celebration filled the air. The men of the house were busy attending to the guests while the women managed the arrangements.

Soon, the bride walked in, accompanied by the women of the family. The guests cheered with claps and showers of flowers. She looked divine—like a freshly bloomed flower on a dewy morning. Shayon smiled at his bride, and Nandini smiled back.

It was the perfect moment—one that countless young girls had dreamed of and reimagined.

And there she was, in the corner, serving snacks to the guests, overwhelmed by emotions too powerful to contain. She couldn’t bear to look at Nandini. It was as if she were watching herself walk to the mandap again, stepping once more toward the place where she had lost it—that one thing that was truly hers, now reduced to a whisper.

One ritual followed another, bringing the wedding closer to its conclusion. Finally, the purohit asked the bride and groom to repeat the last vow—the one that bound them to each other not just for this life, but for many lives to come. She remembered this moment vividly.

She had once stood in the same place, taking the same vows. Watching it unfold again now suffocated her. She could no longer hold it in. She needed to find it, take back what was once hers.

After the wedding, Harsh Babu was speaking with the purohit when she walked in.

“Say my name,” she said, looking straight into his eyes.

Harsh Babu was taken aback. He had never seen her behave like this before. She did not move. The purohit looked away, slightly embarrassed.

“What are you saying? We’ll talk later. Go now,” Harsh Babu said, wanting to dismiss the matter.

But she did not relent.

“We’ve been married for so many years, yet not once have you called me by my name. I have a name, and from now on, I will not respond to anything else.” With that, she turned and walked away, leaving everyone stunned.

That night, while she was setting the bed, Harsh Babu hesitated before speaking. He had always known her as a calm woman. This was the first time he had seen her so agitated.

“Bo—” He stopped himself, recalling her words.

It might not seem like a big deal to some, but he realized that in all these years, he had never called her by her name.

So, hesitatingly, he tried again.

“Dhani?”

“Yes,” she responded, beaming like a child. There she found what was hers— what was once lost— her most valuable possession.

****

III

Homecoming

It was after three years that Shyam was back to his village house. Having been working in the city as a mechanical engineer, he never had the time to visit home. Even during his mother’s demise, he asked the village talukdar to help him with the funeral processions. After all, he was in the city to make a living, and how was that supposed to happen if he came back home for every little thing?

His village house was built by his grandfather when he got married. Since then, it has been a family heirloom. His father cared for the house like his own child. And it was because of this that Shyam’s mother never left their house for the city, even after her husband’s demise. But now that all were gone, Shyam didn’t see the point of keeping this house. It’s not like he would ever be coming back, and nor was his mother around to nag at him to respect the family heirloom. So here he was, back after three years to sell the land the house was built on. Being closer to the market area and the village river, the land was in huge demand. It would give him a fortune of money, and just the thought of it was enough to excite Shyam.

Unsettling and cold, that’s what he thought the house would look like. But standing on the familiar courtyard, it felt as if the house had life. Confused, Shyam tried to push the door open, but it didn’t budge. It was shut… from inside. This frightened him slightly. Building little courage, he lifted his hands to knock on the door when the door suddenly opened, leaving his hands hanging mid-air. In front of him was a lady, probably in her fifties. A faded saree wrapped her fragile frame, her eyes dewy with unshed tears, as if she couldn’t word out her feelings. This entire image, the demeanor of this woman, felt familiarly unfamiliar. It was as if he had been in this situation before, like a déjà vu, but couldn’t quite place his words. But right now, the primary question was, who was this woman and why was she in his house?

“You’re back, son! Come in and freshen up fast. I made your favorite snacks, samosas, pakoras, dhoklas, all of them. Come in, hurry up.”

And before he could react, Shyam was pushed into the washroom with a towel in his hands. Spare clothes were already sent in the washroom holder.

This was about a week ago. In the past few days, Shyam has tried numerous ways to identify this woman and get rid of her. When being asked, she claimed to be his mother. That made no sense. It’s been four years since Shyam’s mother died. Even though he wasn’t there physically, he was sure he saw the funeral invite in WhatsApp. So he tried pushing her away, finding her actual home, but nothing seemed to be working. Even the neighbors, along with the village talukdar, confessed that she really was his mother and that they weren’t aware of what funeral he was talking about.

With no way out, Shyam decided to just let this woman stay with him. Anyways, he was going to sell the land. So it was just a matter of a few days. Also, no matter what others said, he was sure that she definitely wasn’t his mother.

For about a month, life went on. Shyam stopped questioning who she was, stopped resisting the warmth she brought into his life. The house, once just an old piece of trouble, now felt like a home. Her motherly love and care healed wounds he didn’t even know he had. She cooked for him, scolded him when he skipped meals, sat beside him in the evenings, listening to his complaints about the city. It felt alive, as if she had always been there. And so, he let himself sink into this illusion.

It was just one day—one ordinary day—when everything changed.

Shyam had been clearing out some old trunks in the storeroom, sorting through piles of dusty clothes, rusted trinkets, and brittle papers when he found some old photographs. He sat cross-legged on the floor, flipping through them absentmindedly, smiling at the younger version of himself, at his father, at his grandfather. And then, his fingers stopped.

It was a photograph of his mother. Probably in her twenties. She stood beside another woman, her hand wrapped tightly around the other’s. Smiling. Young. Alive.

Shyam’s breath caught in his throat. The woman standing beside his mother—she was the same woman who had been living in his house for the past month. The same woman who called herself his mother.

His blood ran cold.He stormed out of the storeroom, the photograph crumpled in his fist. His footsteps were loud, as if stomping the floor would make everything all better. He found her in the kitchen, cutting vegetables like it was just another day, like she hadn’t been lying to him all this time.

“What the hell is this?” His voice was sharp, shaking. He shoved the photograph in front of her face. “Who are you?”

The knife in her hand clattered onto the wooden counter. Her fingers trembled. She looked at the photograph, then at him, her expression unreadable.

“Answer me!” he shouted. “You’re not my mother, are you? Just what makes you think you could fool me with this, huh! Was it fun? Answer me.”

Thwack. And silence. A shrill buzz ran in his ear. His cheeks hot from the slap he just received.

“No,” she said, her voice calm yet heavy. “I’m not.”

The room felt dead. Soon the woman spoke. She was Reshma, his mother’s friend. Her only friend, who had watched her wither away not because of illness, but in grief, in turmoil. Reshma shared how even in her last moments, all his mother could think about was him. How would he live on without her? And how would he even know that she was gone? So after she was gone, Reshma decided to fulfill her last wish. To take care of him. To give him the love she wished she could.

“But I was angry,” she continued, her voice sharp now. “Angry at you. At the son she cried over till her last breath, while he was too busy making money to even show up for her funeral.”

Shyam’s chest felt hollow. Everything hit him at once, like a truck speeding straight into him. His mother. Her grief. Her love. This woman. The lie. The truth. He had been blind all along. The fact that his mother died thinking of him made him feel like a criminal, as if it was he who killed her. Or maybe he did. He couldn’t tell anymore.

The next day the village talukdar called him over to discuss business. A businessman was interested in his plot and was ready to pay a good sum for it. All the words of Reshma were still fresh in his mind, as if she were still speaking. Stopping the talukdar mid way he said he wasn’t interested in selling it anymore. With this he left, leaving the talukdar in utter confusion.

Back home Shyam set up a portrait of his mother on the wall, now adorned with fresh flowers. He lit an incense stick under it and mumbled a little prayer. He dreaded on his mistake. But it was too late when he realized. Unable to do anything now, he decided to treat Reshma well. This time he would make no mistakes in nurturing relationships. And although he would eventually leave for the city, he promised to make sure to visit regularly. It was now when it seeped in him that no matter how far he went, some things were never meant to be left behind.

****

IV

Daadi’s Dilemma

It was just another Tuesday in the town of Bhagalpur, the town known for its scenic beauty, early morning market, Sharmaji ke halwe and Daadi. Leelavati Devi, popularly known as Daadi was one of the eldest of the entire town. She was a revered being with wisdom that seemed greater than Yam himself. With her banarasi saree and tulsi garland, Daadi was the epitome of culture and pride. The only not so minor issue with her was her relationship with superstitions. She had a firm belief that every minor inconvenience had a divine (or demonic) explanation. And the one thing she feared most? A black cat crossing her path.

That morning, just as she was about to step out to buy fresh bhindi, the disgrace appeared. A sleek black cat sprinted across the doorstep. Daadi froze. Her face turned pale. She gasped in distress, clutching her chest as if she had seen Yamraj himself.

“Arre, Ram! My day is ruined!” she wailed.

Her grandson, Raju, looked up from his phone. “Daadi, it’s just a cat. It probably has errands too.”

But Daadi wasn’t listening. She spat thrice, turned around, and marched back inside, refusing to step out unless the curse was reversed.

“Raju, go find Panditji! I need an antidote!”

Now, in an ordinary household, this incident might have been brushed off. But this was Daadi’s house. The Panditji came running to Daadi, wailing that the cat she saw this morning was Shani himself. And if not taken the required precautions, the curse might ail the entire family.

Daadi and Panditji had a whole different level of friendship. Every early morning, the pandit would be the first one she meets, after her lord himself. The Pandit needed people to spread his realm and Daadi was the perfect candidate in his party. And in this manner, they worked in perfect coordination, more than Kanha and Baldao could ever imagine.

So as per Panditji and the granthas owned by Daadi, what followed was a series of increasingly ridiculous “countermeasures” to undo the curse.

She lit five incense sticks in four different directions of the house. The omen must find now way to enter the house, as they are scared of the scent they say. This resulted in smoke so thick that the neighbors thought the house was on fire.

They say bad omen affect the youngest the most. So she made Raju jump backward seven times. This made the milkman stare in horror and drop his delivery. He too might have been an accomplice of that cat was what Daadi though.

And lastly, to protect her legs that touched the land with that ominous thing on it, she tied a lemon-chili talisman to her own saree, but then forgot about it and screamed when it brushed against her leg.

And the series went on for a few hours. Meanwhile, the black cat, completely oblivious, sat on the rooftop smugly licking its paw.

After all her efforts, Daadi was convinced she had outsmarted fate. She finally left the house to get her bhindi.

That’s when a stray cow, annoyed for no reason, decided to chase her.

She dropped her groceries, ran faster than she had in twenty years, and leaped over a pothole straight into the neighbor’s vegetable cart. Tomatoes, potatoes, and a very confused Daadi tumbled onto the street.

Raju, watching from the balcony, burst out laughing. “Daadi, maybe you should have let the cat finish its errand before blaming it for ruining your day!”

Daadi sat there, covered in vegetables, panting, then glared at him.

“Beta, this is why you fail your math exams. You don’t understand cause and effect. The black cat started this!”

Raju sighed. “Or maybe it was just a Tuesday problem, not a cat problem.”

But Daadi wasn’t convinced. She spent the rest of the evening yelling at the cat from the balcony, while the cat—completely unaffected—curled up and fell asleep, probably dreaming about ruining Daadi’s next Tuesday.

****

V

MRS. VERMA’S GUIDE TO LIFE

In the bustling lanes of a quiet Indian neighborhood, lived one person who managed to stay in everyone’s business. Mrs. Verma, the self-proclaimed “guardian angel” of the locality, had an opinion on everything—whether you asked for it or not. From what should be on your plate to what should be in your wallet, Mrs. Verma was determined to offer advice, mostly unwanted.

So when a young couple, Rohit and Simran, moved into the house next to hers, Mrs. Verma saw it as nothing short of divine intervention. Surely accepted them as her next great project. The young couple, fresh from their wedding and eager to start a new life, were blissfully unaware of the storm that was about to hit.

The first morning after they settled in, Mrs. Verma knocked on their door with a basket of fresh fruit, which, in her eyes, was the perfect way to start a healthy married life. She smiled widely as Simran opened the door.

“Beta, you’re looking pale,” she said, glancing at the fruits with a disapproving eye. “You must eat more vegetables, not these fruits. They make you weak. And have you considered switching to organic food? I have a vendor for that. I’ll give you his number.”

Simran, too polite to refuse, thanked her and promised to think about it.  But Mrs. Verma was nowhere close to being done.

“And you!” Mrs. Verma turned to Rohit, who was sitting on the couch, trying to read his newspaper. “Do you know your wife is cooking your food all wrong? The masalas she uses are too spicy. You’ll get ulcers. I’ll take care of the cooking for a week. You’ll see, much healthier.”

Rohit, not one to argue with the elderly, just nodded politely, unsure whether to be concerned or amused. Simran, on the other hand, was already regretting ever moving next door.

The next day, Mrs. Verma arrived with a set of cloth bags. “Your home is too cluttered. I can’t bear it! Let me help you organize it. I know the perfect way to fold towels, arrange books, and even your spices. Just follow my lead, and your life will be much better.”

Simran stood frozen in horror as Mrs. Verma began rearranging the kitchen. She moved everything, from the dal to the mustard oil, as if it were her own home. She lectured on the importance of cleaning between the kitchen tiles and the emotional benefits of using traditional wooden spoons. By the end of it, Simran had a kitchen that was so pristine it looked more like a museum than a place to cook.

But the real challenge began when Mrs. Verma insisted on becoming their personal marriage advisor. “You two need to spend more quality time together,” she declared one day, barging in with a printed list of “Romantic Activities for Newlyweds.” “It’s a shame to see young couples drifting apart so early in marriage. You should take a trip to the hill stations, buy matching clothes, and eat together every day at 7 PM sharp. If you don’t, your marriage will fall apart.”

Simran and Rohit exchanged exasperated glances. The next day, they hatched a plan to teach Mrs. Verma a lesson.

Rohit asked Simran to pretend they had followed Mrs. Verma’s advice. Simran prepared a fake dinner date with Rohit, decorated their home with fairy lights, and set the table with matching clothes. The scene was as absurd as it was extravagant. They invited Mrs. Verma over, telling her they were about to leave for a “romantic getaway” just as she had instructed.

Mrs. Verma arrived, eyes wide with delight. “I knew you’d listen! How wonderful!” She sat down with them, thoroughly enjoying the ‘special’ dinner. But halfway through the meal, Simran excused herself and came back with a piece of paper.

“Mrs. Verma, thank you so much for your wisdom,” she said with a smile. “We’ve followed all your advice, and it’s been so enlightening. In fact, we’ve decided to start a new project for the neighborhood. We’re going to run a ‘How to Live Your Life Like Mrs. Verma’ workshop! We thought you’d be the perfect instructor.”

Mrs. Verma beamed with pride. “Such a wonderful idea! I’ll be the first one to teach! I’ll make it a grand success!”

Rohit and Simran exchanged a look, stifling their laughter.

A week later, Mrs. Verma was seen telling all the neighbors about the new ‘workshop.’ The twist? She was entirely convinced that her unsolicited advice was actually a service to the neighborhood, and now everyone should follow her lead. She made grand gestures at every opportunity, suggesting diet changes, reorganizing homes, and planning vacations—all in the name of “helping others.”

Simran and Rohit never did attend a “workshop” about Mrs. Verma’s lifestyle. But every time Mrs. Verma came knocking, they merely smiled politely, and somehow, their marriage seemed to become stronger in its own chaotic, unstructured way.

Mrs. Verma, for all her good intentions, remained blissfully unaware that her overzealous advice was, in fact, the very thing that kept the couple laughing—and united—despite her interference.

And so, Mrs. Verma continued to meddle in everyone’s lives, blissfully thinking she was the neighborhood’s guiding light. Little did she know, it was Simran and Rohit who were the true experts in the art of keeping her at bay.

****

VI

THE GREAT MANGO HEIST

In the sleepy town of Rampur, where the most exciting event was the arrival of the newspaper, there lived Mr. Tripathi—a retired school principal with a deep love for two things: discipline and his beloved mango tree. The mango tree stood tall in his courtyard, a magnificent creature that bore the juiciest, most golden mangoes the neighborhood had ever seen.

But every summer, just as the mangoes ripened, a thief struck. Like clockwork, half of his prized mangoes would vanish overnight. Mr. Tripathi was convinced it was the neighborhood kids, but despite his best efforts—lecturing the colony, threatening the local fruit vendors, even setting up a chair under the tree for night duty—the thief remained elusive.

This year, however, things were going to be different. Mr. Tripathi had a plan.

Armed with newfound wisdom from YouTube, he set up the ultimate security system—a homemade alarm rigged with bells, a strategically placed bucket of water for unexpected intruders, and even a motion-activated torchlight, which, in reality, was just his grandson hiding behind a bush with a flashlight.

With everything in place, he sat on his balcony that night, sipping chai and waiting for the inevitable crime to unfold.

And sure enough, at exactly 2:14 AM, a shadowy figure appeared. Mr. Tripathi’s heart pounded. This was it. The moment of justice!

The figure, dressed in dark clothes, tiptoed towards the mango tree, eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Just as he reached out for the first mango, Tripathi activated the alarm.

The bells clanged. The bucket of water overturned with a loud splash. The flashlight flashed directly into the thief’s face.

Chaos erupted.

The thief screamed. The dog next door barked. The neighbors woke up. Lights flickered on in every house. Aunties in nightgowns peered out from balconies, whispering like crime reporters. “The mango thief has been caught!”

The thief, drenched and panicking, tried to flee—but in his rush, he slipped on a fallen mango and landed flat on his back with a thud.

Mr. Tripathi stormed down the stairs, slipper in hand, ready for justice. But when he reached the crime scene, he stopped dead. The mango thief was not a child. Not a local hooligan. Not even a rival gardener.

It was Sharmaji. His best friend. His morning-walk companion. The man he played chess with every Sunday.

A stunned silence filled the courtyard.

Sharmaji, dripping wet and covered in mango pulp, slowly sat up, blinking.

Tripathi opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “YOU!?”

Sharmaji looked embarrassed. He cleared his throat and muttered, “Technically, I was only taking the mangoes that had already fallen. Gravity did most of the stealing.”

By now, half the colony had gathered. People snickered. Someone clicked a photo. Tripathi’s grandson was barely containing his laughter.

Realizing he was completely, utterly caught, Sharmaji sighed. “Fine. I confess. I’ve been taking your mangoes for three years. But in my defense, you never share them, and I am an old man with dietary needs.”

Tripathi, still fuming, pointed at the tree. “Dietary needs? Since when is mango theft a medical condition?”

Sharmaji shrugged. “Since I started eating your mangoes.”

For a moment, there was complete silence. Then, unexpectedly, Tripathi let out a long sigh. He looked at the neighbors, then at Sharmaji—his oldest friend, now his oldest rival—and shook his head.

“Next time,” he grumbled, “just ask.”

And with that, he plucked a mango from the tree and threw it at Sharmaji’s chest.

The crowd erupted in laughter. The aunties returned to their balconies, the neighborhood kids cheered, and Tripathi and Sharmaji sat on the front steps, eating mangoes together under the moonlight.

That year, the mangoes were sweeter than ever.

****

VII

BEYOND THE VEIL

The first time she noticed the girl, it was because of a kite. It was a bright red one, caught in the branches of the neem tree outside her window. She had been folding the same white saree she had worn for years, the fabric soft from too many washes, when the movement outside pulled her gaze. A thin, nimble figure clambered up the tree, barefoot, her loose braid swinging as she reached for the tangled string.

For a moment, the girl paused, glancing toward the widow’s window. Their eyes met. The girl grinned. The widow looked away.

She had lived in this house for thirteen years. Thirteen years of silence, shadow, and secondhand air. A widow in the household of men, she was an object of duty, not of presence. The rules were clear: no leaving the house unless necessary, no bright colors, no jewelry, no laughter loud enough to be heard. She was not a woman anymore, just a vessel of loss.

Her days were predictable—prayers at dawn, hushed meals in the corner, chores that kept her hands busy but her mind restless. The window in her small room was her only connection to the outside world, though she rarely dared to linger.

But the girl across the street—she lingered. She was always there.

Sitting on her terrace, swinging her legs over the edge. Running errands with her dupatta trailing behind like a hero’s cape. Biting into raw mangoes stolen from the market, wincing at the sourness, laughing to herself. She lived in a way the widow had long forgotten was possible.

One evening, the widow found something unusual. Tucked into the old cracks of her window frame was a piece of folded paper. Curious, she opened it. The writing was untidy, hurried.

“What is your name?”

She turned toward the girl’s window. The girl was there, grinning, her chin resting on her folded arms. She winked.

The widow’s hands trembled. She stared at the note for a long time before slipping it beneath her pillow. She did not reply. Not that day.

But the notes kept coming. Small, crumpled pieces of paper, tucked into her window frame.

“What do you like to eat?”

“Do you ever want to run away?”

“I think you must have been very beautiful once.”

The widow never answered, but she never threw them away either. She smoothed them out and kept them hidden, tracing the unfamiliar handwriting at night, feeling something shift inside her.

One evening, she found a note that was different.

A single word.

“Come.”

She looked up.

The girl was on her terrace, tossing a lemon up and down in one hand. She raised her eyebrows, nodding toward the street below.

For a moment, something wild and reckless bloomed in the widow’s chest. The street was empty. It would only take a few steps. Just a few.

But before she could move, a sharp voice called from inside. Her brother-in-law.

The widow flinched, stepping back into the house. The lemon slipped from the girl’s hand, rolling across the terrace. That night, there was no note in the window.

Days passed. Weeks. The girl stopped leaving messages. The widow told herself it was for the best. And yet, the silence felt heavier than before.

One afternoon, while sweeping, she caught sight of something across the street. A wedding procession. The girl, dressed in bright yellow, laughing as her mother fixed a garland around her neck.

Leaving. Going somewhere else.

The widow’s fingers curled around the broom’s handle.

By evening, the house across the street was empty. The girl was gone. The widow sat by her window long after the lamps had been lit, watching the wind rustle the curtains in the now-vacant room. She reached into the folds of her saree and pulled out a scrap of paper. For the first time, she wrote.

The next morning, before anyone else in the house stirred, she stepped outside.

Not far. Not much. Just enough to tuck a single note into the cracks of the girl’s window frame.

A small act of rebellion. A whisper of freedom.

The note read:

“My name is Gauri.”

****