Jeff Tikari
Copyright Jeff Tikari 2012-01-24
Kali’s Infatuation
Jeff Tikari
Kali’s Infatuation
Kali yawned and opened his eyes to narrow slits. His bride of two days stood in the door way of the hut against the morning sun, her semi-transparent sari revealed her sensuous body. Kali felt the beginnings of arousal nudging him awake. He called to her:
“Hey, Munni…”
“Don’t call me that. Only my Papa calls me that.”
“OK, yar, Mangli, what are you looking at? Screwing up your pretty face; come back here.”
Mangli looked back and saw the mischief in his eyes. “No chance,” she said. “I have to fetch water, light the fire, cook a meal and do a thousand other things,” she stuck her tongue out at him.
Kali leapt out of bed and made a lounge for her. She took off like a hare down the narrow dirt footpath, screaming in excitement. Kali would have chased her but he was butt-ass naked.
In an adjacent hut Mangli’s father-in-law looked up from his meal, “Hey Ram! Have they started to fight already?”
“Don’t be silly. You are old and unobservant,” said mother-in-law. “Can’t you hear her giggle? I’d say they are getting along fine. Thank God! I am still afraid. I hope marriage will bring some sense to his head, he is such a fickle lad, so full of fanciful ideas and yet so simple in the ways of the heart.”
Kali was a hard working lad…when the mood took him. He just couldn’t go along with the set ways of the village folk. He liked doing things his way, often with disastrous results, but at times it did work; like when he devised a siphon to draw water from the new elevated all concrete aqueduct that took water, by passing their village, to faraway places. The villagers of this very small hamlet had grudgingly accepted and adopted his idea. They had a right to the water too, they maintained, and Kali had shown them the way.
A young teenager, Kali loved climbing trees. His favourite was a huge old banyan tree on the edge of the village. Its ample branches made a comfortable lying perch. At times he would spend the whole day lying in its branches observing birds busy with their food gathering; village folk leading their bullocks to the field carrying wooden ploughs across their shoulder; women drawing water from the well; smoke curling from chimneys, and village dogs frenetically scratching themselves. When his father stood in the village square, looking left and right for Kali, he would scramble down to help him in the field.
“Oye! Munni, Mangli or whatever you are,” he said one day, “our hut is too small. I am going to make a new house for us!”
Mangli was thrilled; she hopped up and down clapping her hands with glee.
“Yes! Oh, lovely! When are you going to start? This ol’ hut is so ugly and decrepit. Where are you going to make it?” Her large innocent eyes searched his face.
“You’ll see,” he said looking towards the large tree.
Mangli followed his gaze and froze; her mouth fell open.
“No!” she wailed and clapped a hand to her mouth. “You are not, are you? Tell me you are not! Please tell me you are not! Only monkeys live in trees!”
Kali smiled, I-have-something-up-my-sleeve kind of smile, “Trust me…you’ll love the new hut.”
The village elders exchanged glances and shook their heads, “We know he is crazy,” they said. “When will he ever grow up and be practical? A house in the tree, indeed! He’s married now – no longer a child.”
It took Kali a long time to build his tree house for he worked alone. Mangli stood by disapprovingly, but finally Kali’s enthusiasm and earnest hard work infected her young imagination and she pitched in and helped. His father and mother, though, looked unbelievingly on. They didn’t say much, their stony silence told him all.
“What is wrong with our son?” wailed his father, “Why does he think so differently? He has always been a maverick!”
Kali worked doggedly on. To pitch a level floor between branches was difficult and time consuming. The roof was even harder for the branches got in the way and Kali could not achieve an inclination that would allow the rainwater to run off.
In time, the tree house took shape and the young couple moved in. The first pre monsoon rain drenched them and their meagre belongings. Mangli was desolate and pleaded with Kali to shift back to their old, but dry, hut. Kali explained that he could not afford to loose face again and be the butt of derision and sarcasm that would include her as well now. He promised to re-lay the roof and achieve a better angle. If only he had some corrugated sheets - but that was way beyond his means.
“It’s only the first rains,” scoffed the elders, lounging on charpoy’s and smoking the hookah. “In a fortnight when the Monsoon hits, they will be washed down like the dust off the leaves of the banyan tree.” Too many of Kali’s harebrained ideas had actually succeeded and made the wise men look silly. They hoped this project of his would fail miserably…that would make the elders look good.
Kali and Mangli spent the happiest hours with each other cozily embraced in their tree house. Daylight hours invited heavy sarcasm and exaggerated pitiful looks from all in the village.
And then one day, dark heavy clouds rolled in from the south-west; lightening displays heralded the arrival of the monsoon. The young couple climbed into their lair and waited with baited breath. The sound of the heavy downpour on the leaves was loud, rhythmic, and soothing. They clung to each other with trepidation and soon fell asleep praying they don’t get washed down the tree. The rain continued, nonstop, for two days. Their tree hut survived the onslaught!
The following morning was bright and clear. The young couple awoke to the sound of birds chirping in the branches. Kali smiled happily, he hugged his pretty pert nosed wife. “Our little nest has survived this huge deluge and now I stand vindicated. I shall walk proudly down the village street.”
He threw open his flimsy door and stood aghast: the land as far as he could see, was a vast sheet of water; the village was flooded - the aqueduct had split its sides and flooded the countryside.
When Kali looked around, he saw inhabitants of the village clinging to every available tree in sight. A large number were perched on the branches of his beloved tree. He looked down and saw his parents sitting on a wide branch and stretched a hand to them.
“My son,” said his father with a voice choked with emotion “I am so proud of you. You had the foresight to build on this tree, I feel sure you somehow knew the aqueduct was not robust enough to contain our severe monsoons. Bless you, my child. The sound of your snores all night showed us the narrowness of our thinking.
Mystique
A love story set in the capital of India: New Delhi
Prologue
He sat so he could watch those that came in through the hotel’s front door; he knew only a handful of people in Delhi, all of whom he had asked to try and contact her.
Will she come he wondered.
He waited all day in the lobby watching the front door; sipping gin and rising occasionally to stretch his cramped legs. He sacrificed lunch so he would not have to move away and miss her coming in.
Will she come? He was told she visited this hotel quite often. He wished he had taken her address.
On a visit, a year ago, he had left this hotel hurriedly to catch an early morning flight because of an overnight family crisis in Karachi. Once in Pakistan, his ageing parents insisted he get married right away.
A disaster: the marriage had not lasted six months ending in divorce. He was back now in Delhi hoping to meet the girl of his dreams!!!
He walked around the lobby.
WEDDING
BANQUET HALL – GROUND FLOOR
RAHUL WEDS SITA.
He w
ondered idly how many Rahuls and how many Sitas would there be in Delhi? Too many to count he reckoned, those were common names in India. He found himself at the door of the Banquet Hall; should he take a peak? He pushed the door and stuck his head around it. He looked directly into the eyes of the beautifully bedecked bride.
Ya Mohammed! He breathed.
THE STORY
He studied her surreptitiously during the party: short auburn tinted bouffant hair which made her look taller than her 5ft 5inches, matching nail polish and natural makeup. Her quick flashing eyes met his every now and again. She laughed exaggeratedly and swung her gaze across to him: not looking directly at him and yet remaining aware of him. He waited until she was deep in conversation and then swiftly moved to another part of the room.
He waited and watched; and it happened as he thought it would: she laughed elatedly, looked up at the ceiling then casually glanced to where he should have been standing. Her eyes swept that portion of the room before returning to her circle of conversation.
Where has he gone, she wondered? He looks interesting I hope he hasn’t left.
She casually changed place in the circle so she could observe the room behind her. She lifted her glass and looked over its rim. He waited partially hidden by a potted palm. She soon spotted him, he waved; her eyes swiveled to where he stood hidden; she looked at him for a moment then turned and went to the dining room