Table Manners.

Author: Susmita Bhattacharya

Genre: Anthology, short stories and poems.

Publisher: Dahlia Publishing

Year: 2018

Format: Paperback.

Blurb: A parrot takes on the voice of a dead husband.

Two women in search of god and marriage learn what it means to love.

A man living in exile writes home.

From Mumbai to Venice, Cardiff to Singapore, this collection of stories of love and loneliness in the urban landscape is delicately nuanced and sprinkled generously with sharp observations of the human condition.

A captivating debut collection which introduces us to a powerful new voice.

Sample: The Right Thing To do.

I push the cup towards Mrs Dalal. As usual, she is crying, caressing her bruised arm. She barely looks up at me but takes a deep sip of the tea. My Bhabhi tilts her head slightly, indicating me to leave. I go back to the kitchen, already worrying about the rice that needs to be cooked before Dolly and Rana come home from school. Then there’s the fish to be cleaned and fried. And the clothes to be brought back freshly ironed from the istriwallah. The chapattis to be cooked. Why does Mrs Dalal turn up with her bruises at the most inconvenient of times?

Mr Dalal is a respectable man, a teacher in a respectable primary school. He goes to work on his blue Bajaj scooter, wearing the same coloured safari suit every day of the week. His moustache is impeccably trimmed and his shoes always reflecting the sun. He hits his wife regularly. We all know that. But they are a respectable family, so we pretend we don’t know that. And Mrs Dalal? She comes sobbing to my madam, my Bhabhi, each time showing off her bruises, showering abuses at her husband, and plotting to report him to the police. And after two cups of chai and biscuits, or on a lucky day, samosas, Mrs Dalal returns home, sated and at peace with the world again. Only to come back another day for the whole cycle to start again.

My Bhabhi is not like that at all. She is the queen of her castle. Sir treats her with a lot of respect. He never shouts when she returns home from her shopping sprees. I usually accompany her, to carry all those bags home, so I know how much she spends. Too much. (She sometimes spends more than my monthly salary on just one sari. But I don’t mind, I also get big bonuses, not kicks and slaps like the maidservant across the landing from us.) Sir is never impatient when she takes hours to dress before they go out for dinner. He is kind and he looks into my eyes when he talks to me. He asks if my money has reached my old mother safely. I wonder why Mrs Dalal is Bhabhi’s good friend. Why does she like to listen to her miserable stories? She needs to spend her time with some better people.

It’s raining today. I see Mr Dalal in his black rubber raincoat, sloshing towards his scooter. The black clouds are hanging above the trees in the colony. The gulmohurs have cast a red carpet of petals in the compound. The petals swirl up in the wind and settle on car bonnets as though they have been offered in prayer to the cars. I don’t want to go out on a day like this. I don’t like the bottom of my salwar streaked with mud and rain, it takes ages of scrubbing to get it off. Mrs Dalal is hovering behind her curtains. I know she’s waiting for him to ride out so she can come running here. I’m sure she has smelled the lamb kababs I’ve been cooking. Dolly has requested them for her after school snacks. Bhabhi lounges in the front room, reading Filmfare. She is going to the beauty parlour later for a full wax. She has the most beautiful fair skin. She needs to be tip-top for the dinner she’s organised for Sir’s boss tomorrow night.

Ah, here she is. The doorbell’s just gone. When I open the door, I stare. This time he’s gone too far. Even with the handkerchief covering her eye, I know a black eye when I see one. My mother had plenty in her time. Bhabhi swears out loud, and then pulls Mrs Dalal into the living room by her hand.

“This is too much, she mutters. Why do you put up with it, Freni? The man is the devil incarnate.”

I hover around, pretending to straighten the cushions, switch on the fan. I want to know.

“He is the devil,” Mrs Dalal sobs. “But what can I do? If I leave him, where will I go? What will happen to my Kaevoo, maro baccha?”

I know that feeling. I know that excuse. I heard the same words from my mother’s lips for years and years, before I ran away. I know the feeling of being helpless. And Mrs Dalal, respectable or not, is a helpless, pathetic woman.

I give her two helpings of kebabs and extra sugar in her tea. Her eye throbs purple and red, while she recounts the latest episode of Mr Dalal’s tempers. I realise that even though Bhabhi listens to her ever so intently, she has never once shared her friend’s trauma with her own husband. She never let Mrs Dalal’s sad life cast a shadow on their relationship. I am grateful for that. I’m happy that Bhabhi has a husband who respects and protects her. She is lucky. And I am lucky to gain employment in this peaceful house.

“Arjun’s coming,” Bhabhi exclaims, to no one in particular. She’s reading her emails on the computer. She rushes into the kitchen, and rummages through the fridge. I stand back, watching possessively. The fridge is mine. She hardly ever opens it. And when she does, she puts everything back in the wrong place. She chucks out the mutton curry I made last night. And the chicken nuggets. “Finish these by tomorrow,” she says. “Arjun’s coming. He’s vegetarian.”

I am just as enthralled by her stories of Arjun as the children are. They call him Arjun Mama. And more importantly, he is an entemo – well, he studies insects. He does important research, Bhabhi says, on insects. She looks at her computer and says words like Milkweed Longhorn and Black Vine Weevil. What’s so exciting about insects, I ask, and she gives me a look.

“He’s a very important man. Make sure he is comfortable here.”

I nod and go off. A man who studies insects is of no use to me. I have seen enough insects in my village, I could teach him a few names here and there. How to treat a scorpion bite? Now that’s useful. Beetles are a waste of time.

Arjun Mama is here. He is anything but a Mama. He’s like a film star. Long hair tied in a ponytail, smart beard, eyes that are laughing all the time. The children love him. He is very good with tongue-twisters and riddles. Dolly can’t have enough of him. He is here for two weeks. Doing some research nearby at the National Park. With all the rubbish dumped in the so-called park, he’s sure to find lots of insects. Ants and cockroaches mainly. What a job, I think, glad to be doing the cooking and cleaning for one house only.

He is Bhabhi’s cousin. Her mother’s sister’s son. They grew up together in Nagpur. She has very fond memories of their childhood. There’s a certain light in her eyes when she talks about those childhood days. It’s always, remember we did this, remember we went there. Sir listens politely, but he doesn’t say much. Arjun never stays in the room alone with him. He always gives a big loud laugh and runs to find the children. With Bhabhi chasing after him.

Even Mrs Dalal is not entertained this week. I send her back yet again with her bruised arm yellowing and her anger mounting

“Tell your mistress to give me a ring when she has a minute of free time,” she sniffs and strides off.

I shrug. Bhabhi has no free time now. She’s busy tinkering with the ‘apparatus’ and ‘log book’. She polishes the hand lens with her husband’s chamois cloth. She’s sorting the aerial nets and containers. They are going to find the Vindhyan Bob, she announces. A rare butterfly in Mumbai. In this concrete jungle, a rare butterfly exists, she giggles.

Arjun steps closer to her and speaks. “Yes, right in front of me now.”

I see her eyes flicker and then she turns away.