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Authors: Tania Malik
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father’s backhand would send him sliding across the room, he would fight the dread seeping through his bones, and bounce back and begin again.
“Arre baba, how many times have I said it?” Minnu memsaab came bustling in behind Madan as he placed two glasses of cold milk on the center table in the drawing room, bits of chocolate Bournvita floating on the surface like defiant mites. Madan had stirred and stirred, but the powdered chocolate refused to dissolve into the milk. “Coaster, baba, use the coaster.”
Minnu memsaab had never said it, at least to Madan, and Rimpy giggled. Madan replaced the glasses on his tray, found the coasters, and served the girls once again. Though similar in shape and size—they reminded Madan of balls of squishy dough—the twins were easy to tell apart. The girl who always spoke first was Rimpy and the one who agreed with what she said was always Dimpy.
“Yuck, I hate milk,” Rimpy said.
“I hate it too,” Dimpy said, though her glass was already half empty.
“Mama, can’t we have Campa Cola? Milk is so disgusting.” Madan waited near the door, knowing they would soon need something else. They would make him go for more sugar and then more Bournvita and then cream biscuits, unable to settle on anything that pleased them.
“No, no, no, girls,” Minnu memsaab said. “Milk is good for your skin and health.”
Rimpy made a face and Dimpy copied her and they laughed, spilling milk on their skirts. “Madan, napkin!” He scurried to the side table for the napkin box.
He wished he were out with Jaggu. They could have been fishing in the canal, playing cricket or watching a movie if it was Jaggu’s choice, though Madan had come to enjoy the cinema too. He found these evenings when he was required to work in the house interminable, except of course when the girls watched TV.
“Madan,” Rimpy said after their mother left the room. She smiled sly and slow, and Dimpy held a hand to her mouth, holding back a giggle. “We heard a story today, at the temple. About the legend of Shiva and Parvati and . . . Madan. Do you know who he is? Do you know what your name means?”
Madan knew where they were heading. He was going to be the target of a joke he would not understand or find amusing, and that would delight them even more. His mother had told him they were twelve years old like him, but he was sure she had misunderstood, for they acted much younger.
“Do you know who ‘Madan’ is?” Rimpy repeated. Madan shook his head.
“Madan is . . .” They couldn’t contain themselves. “The God of Love! Madan . . . with his bow of sugarcane and arrows decorated with flowers. You know, riding his parrot chariot, helping gods and people fall in love?”
They laughed so hard Madan was afraid they might burst like overfilled balloons. He kept his face blank. He had no opinion on the meaning of his name one way or the other.
But the girls thought it hilarious. They mocked a swoon. “Who’re you going to shoot your arrows of love at, Madan? Who’re the girls you have your eye on? Is there a girl at your school?”
When Madan didn’t answer, they went on, “Or that old woman who sells roasted corn, with her funny eyes?” Dimpy crossed hers. “You’re always there, near her stand.” He didn’t bother to point out that the old lady’s stand was next to his bus stop.
“Oh, Madan, you make me as hot as the coals on which I roast this corn.” Rimpy fanned herself with a magazine. Dimpy clapped in approval.
A commotion from the back of the house hushed them. Minnu memsaab was shouting for his mother. “Durga! Oh, Durga! Go check on your father-in-law, he’s going crazy. I tell you, I won’t have this. Why can’t you people control yourselves?”
His mother came running down from the upper floor and Madan joined her as they both ran toward the kitchen and out the back. They could hear his grandfather’s raised voice, cursing and shouting.
“Son of a pig . . . leave her
“Arre baba, how many times have I said it?” Minnu memsaab came bustling in behind Madan as he placed two glasses of cold milk on the center table in the drawing room, bits of chocolate Bournvita floating on the surface like defiant mites. Madan had stirred and stirred, but the powdered chocolate refused to dissolve into the milk. “Coaster, baba, use the coaster.”
Minnu memsaab had never said it, at least to Madan, and Rimpy giggled. Madan replaced the glasses on his tray, found the coasters, and served the girls once again. Though similar in shape and size—they reminded Madan of balls of squishy dough—the twins were easy to tell apart. The girl who always spoke first was Rimpy and the one who agreed with what she said was always Dimpy.
“Yuck, I hate milk,” Rimpy said.
“I hate it too,” Dimpy said, though her glass was already half empty.
“Mama, can’t we have Campa Cola? Milk is so disgusting.” Madan waited near the door, knowing they would soon need something else. They would make him go for more sugar and then more Bournvita and then cream biscuits, unable to settle on anything that pleased them.
“No, no, no, girls,” Minnu memsaab said. “Milk is good for your skin and health.”
Rimpy made a face and Dimpy copied her and they laughed, spilling milk on their skirts. “Madan, napkin!” He scurried to the side table for the napkin box.
He wished he were out with Jaggu. They could have been fishing in the canal, playing cricket or watching a movie if it was Jaggu’s choice, though Madan had come to enjoy the cinema too. He found these evenings when he was required to work in the house interminable, except of course when the girls watched TV.
“Madan,” Rimpy said after their mother left the room. She smiled sly and slow, and Dimpy held a hand to her mouth, holding back a giggle. “We heard a story today, at the temple. About the legend of Shiva and Parvati and . . . Madan. Do you know who he is? Do you know what your name means?”
Madan knew where they were heading. He was going to be the target of a joke he would not understand or find amusing, and that would delight them even more. His mother had told him they were twelve years old like him, but he was sure she had misunderstood, for they acted much younger.
“Do you know who ‘Madan’ is?” Rimpy repeated. Madan shook his head.
“Madan is . . .” They couldn’t contain themselves. “The God of Love! Madan . . . with his bow of sugarcane and arrows decorated with flowers. You know, riding his parrot chariot, helping gods and people fall in love?”
They laughed so hard Madan was afraid they might burst like overfilled balloons. He kept his face blank. He had no opinion on the meaning of his name one way or the other.
But the girls thought it hilarious. They mocked a swoon. “Who’re you going to shoot your arrows of love at, Madan? Who’re the girls you have your eye on? Is there a girl at your school?”
When Madan didn’t answer, they went on, “Or that old woman who sells roasted corn, with her funny eyes?” Dimpy crossed hers. “You’re always there, near her stand.” He didn’t bother to point out that the old lady’s stand was next to his bus stop.
“Oh, Madan, you make me as hot as the coals on which I roast this corn.” Rimpy fanned herself with a magazine. Dimpy clapped in approval.
A commotion from the back of the house hushed them. Minnu memsaab was shouting for his mother. “Durga! Oh, Durga! Go check on your father-in-law, he’s going crazy. I tell you, I won’t have this. Why can’t you people control yourselves?”
His mother came running down from the upper floor and Madan joined her as they both ran toward the kitchen and out the back. They could hear his grandfather’s raised voice, cursing and shouting.
“Son of a pig . . . leave her
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