Copyright Jeff Tikari March. 2012
A Smashwords edition.
Author
She Shed a Tear
Jeff Tikari
Chapter 1
“Oh damn,” thought Mohan Goswami as he looked through the curtains of his upper bedroom window, disappointed to see a black sedan parked in the front yard of the adjoining house; he had wanted to see the new rentees alight from the car – see what they looked like. They were a Muslim family – a family of four: the father, mother, a daughter and a son. Were the women in purdah? Would he ever see the girls face or will she always be in purdah? He’ll just have to wait and see now.
He whistled tunelessly and skipped down the stairs.
“Hello Dad? The neighbors have arrived.” he sang out.
“Yes, I know,” said his father, Daman Goswami. He sat smoking a pipe and looking at that day’s papers. “I have invited them over for tea and cakes. I would suggest you change into something that might be considered decent and comb your hair.” He went back to reading the papers.
Mohan wondered if he should say anything. It was the age old remonstration about the way he dressed, the way he slouched in a chair, his haircut and the way he wore his hair (do all your friends in college look like cockatoos too?) Well at least they don’t look like ‘fuddy- duddies’ Mohan thought.
He strolled out onto the front lawn and looked around. Their house was a solid looking structure constructed of grey stone. The grounds at the back stretched a long way and encompassed a forested area and a natural pond that was populated with frogs, tadpoles, fish frys and a variety of water insects – water birds visited regularly and the brown herons adopted the pond as their feeding ground. Mohan had seen the odd water turtle that fed on the grass and weeds at the edge of the tank.
The adjoining house was not as large or stately and though its ambit covered a smaller area, it was well laid out and landscaped and the undulations gave it an aesthetic ambience.
Mohan glanced at his Rado that clasped his wrist with a black spring bracelet…4ock’lock. They should be coming soon. Of medium height and powerfully built, Mohan liked wearing T shirts which showed off his large muscles which were the envy of many. Frayed jeans and boots made up the rest of his ensemble.
He strolled towards the verandah and saw his mother coiffured and elegant helping a servant lay the tea table: biscuits, cakes, pastries, sardine sandwiches, tea in a pot covered with a tea-cozy, and a large jug of home-made ginger beer. Yum! He thought he would go for the sardines – handfuls of them.
The wicket gate creaked open and the family from next door filed in: mother (Sara) – elegant in a starched cotton sari and matching blouse, high heels and light make-up. Daughter (Pinky): jeans, a skimpy top, ponytail, slim arms and a friendly wide smile; son (Adil): dressed like Mohan, similar hairstyle, but thinner and shorter; father (Abdul Fakir) white shirt and grey trousers, tall, heavy build and a ‘goatee beard’.
“Come in, come in.” sang out both Mr. and Mrs. Goswami: “how nice to have such lovely neighbors.” Thank god they don’t look orthodox Mrs. Goswami thought with relief. Thank god they don’t do purdah smiled Mohan in welcome; and the girl is cute, and shy. She looked up and Mohan melted…she was cute and attractively shy.
They settled around the table.
“Would you like some sardine sandwiches. Mr. Fakir?”
“Abdul, just call me Abdul, Mrs. Goswami.”
“And I’m Surbhi.”
“How about you, Mrs. Fakir?”
“Thanks.” She smiled a dimpled smile.
The two boys walked down to the lawn and sat on the garden- bench drinking ginger beer. They covered the glass with their hand as the sweet smell was attracting bees.
Pinky came down the steps and Adil waved her over – she sat between the two boys. Mohan inhaled the soft lavender she was wearing – nice, very nice! It enveloped her and pervaded his mind. She was also soft and delicate and he felt an attraction pulling at him. She spoke with her brother and her voice was light and alluring.
Chapter - 2
They met off and on over the next ten days. Her bedroom was opposite his but on the ground floor and he saw her fleetingly every day either opening the curtains or drawing them. He put a notice in his window one day in big purple letters, “LETS GO FOR A WALK.”
He saw a note in her window later in the day in a feminine hand, “YES, I’d like that, When?”
They headed for the large pond at the back of the property, ducking under overhanging branches and stepping around thorny bushes. Birds hopped from branch to branch looking for insects and lifted their necks to let forth a warbling serenade. Squirrels, flattened on branches, giving them a wary eye.
“It’s such a lovely walk and so full of birdlife. What’s in the lake, any fish?”
“Oh just some very small wild fish we call Puti. The local kids catch them by filtering them with a piece of cloth; more for fun than food.”
They stood by the edge of the pond and skimmed flat stones across its surface frightening the herons to flight. Mohan found the flattest stones for her and yet she plonked them into the water unable to make them skip. “Ooooh” She cried, screwing up her face and putting both palms to the side of her head, “I’m so dumb.” And he took her hands and guided her arm showing her the action. They were in close physical contact and a heartbeat away from closer intimacy – but it was not to be. They broke away, awkward and shy but tingling with the excitement their body odors had created in each of them.
The sky was slowly taking on a pink hue; the lazily floating clouds had pink edges and the frogs in the pond let forth a few preliminary croaks welcoming the gradual darkening. Mosquitoes rose from the thick bushes and formed halos around their heads.
“It’ll soon turn dark – let’s head back.” She said glancing at him coquettishly from under long eye-lashes. He swallowed a few times making his Adams-apple jump up and down. They turned reluctantly to head back
He helped her over a style and held her hand all the way to the back of the house.
“Where have you been?” asked Abdul Fakir, her father.
“Oh, just went for a walk with Mohan to the lake on their plot.”
“Well, don’t let it happen again – not alone. I don’t mind you going to the club or to a restaurant where there are people around but not out in the sticks where there isn’t a soul anywhere. Keep in mind that you’re a Muslim girl and shouldn’t be out alone with a Hindu boy roaming the wilds.”
Pinky was shocked. Her father had never spoken to her like that ever. She looked at him with clear, big, brown eyes, “I’m sixteen years old…”
“…that’s why.” Her father interjected.
“I can look after myself… ” she said.
“There’ll be no more said about it – that’s all.”
Pinky ran sniffing and dabbing at her eyes to her mother who held her trembling body tight to her chest and stroked her hair. “Your father is right, my daughter. This is a dangerous liaison and best avoided now right at the beginning,”
“Doesn’t anybody trust me in my family?”
“You are sixteen and he is eighteen – both at an age when trust can fly out the window.”
“”Do you all mean I am never to have a friend who is not Muslim?”
“Don’t be silly, darling, you have many Hindu friends in college. But that is different – you meet in college and part in college though you go to college dances where there are many boys and girls. This is different where you are meeting Mohan in a secluded wooded area where anything could happen; and where the ambience is subtly romantic.”
“My god, mama, you are making me out to be a teen-age maniac.”
“I have seen the way he looks at you and I have seen the way you return those looks. Tread easy, my child, Goswami’s are basically very traditional.”
Chapter 4
The local elections for the Assembly were scheduled to take place shortly. Campaigning was taking on a hectic and feverish urgency. Cars, jeeps and light trucks supporting blaring loudspeakers travelled up and down the streets and went deep into villages extolling the virtues of their candidate and exhorting the populace to vote only for them. So far the campaigning was clean – the opposing parties had not yet started to malign and vilify the candidate from the opposing party. Large posters of a smiling Daman Goswami (donning a white cap) and the opposing contender Abdul Fakir (fez cap) adorned street corners and empty spaces – hand flyers were pushed into every car at red light crossings.
At the end of the day they were both ‘dead beat’. Hours of travelling over rough roads with party members continuously shouting slogans and having to deliver rousing speeches at various spots drained them both. When they got to their respective homes late evenings, they both poured themselves a large whiskey and collapse on their sofas. Thank god each of them thought this hectic campaigning is coming to an end. There will be no more campaigning now for the date for voting has been set.
The ‘media’ poll forecast predicted a win for Daman Goswami. Some Muslims who did not approve of Abdul Fakir’s liberal life style voted for Goswami hoping thereby to send a message of disapproval to Abdul.
Chapter 5
A small message in Pinky’s window sent Mohan scurrying for his father’s binoculars. Even with the binoculars he had to use the focusing wheel back and forth and eventually made out what the message said. His heart leapt for joy for the message read, “Come to my college dance tomorrow – 7 p.m.” Yes, he would certainly like to do that.
At dinner he casually mentioned it to his parents, “I’ll be going out with friends tomorrow evening. There’s a dance at the Jesus and Mary College to which we will also go later.”
His father nodded absently and continued eating. His mother looked up, “Isn’t that the college Pinky goes to?”
“Yes, Ma, I’ve been to all their dances and am going to this one also.”
“Just don’t get too pally with Pinky,” his father said “there could be trouble there from her family.”
“Oh I know a number of girls there – I might do a ‘duty dance’ with Pinky.” he said flippantly.
His father looked up from his plate, “Are you purposely trying to be casual? Your attitude suggests you may be concealing something. I have never asked you about your girl friends; all I’m saying is to be wary of this one. The family is not as middle-of-the-road as a casual contact would suggest.
Chapter 6