Mango Chutney: An Anthology of Tasteful Short Fiction. Read Online Free

His face reddened with the effort and he
screamed at her. “Why do you lead me on?” She did not look back at
him, as he continued to rant. “I picked you up when you were a waif,
when you had nothing to look forward to. I transformed you. Why are
you so heartless?”
    She was silent, and as he tried to grasp her shoulder, she evaded him
deftly turning into a by lane that led to her hovel. There were sleeping
figures all over and he had to avoid stumbling over them. His eyes soon
got used to the darkness, as the moonbeams shone down on them, creat-
ing little niches of light on the walls.
    He felt they would never reach their destination. Dogs howled in the
distance. Finally, she stopped in front of her tiny hut, pushed open the
creaking door and looked back at him. There was a look of utter despair
in her eyes, one that made him hesitate. She beckoned him inside.
    He followed unwillingly, into a space that was bare. A lit kerosene lamp,
whose glass was rimmed with soot, made the room seem tinier than it
was. Their shadows danced on the walls. He looked around, wondering
how a human being could actually live like this. As his eyes grew accus-
tomed to the little light in the room, he looked at the pale oval of her face
that glowed in the near-darkness. She looked back at him, and then lifted
a slim finger and pointed to a corner of the room.
    He could see the faint outlines of a cot in the corner, with a huddled
form lying on it. She held his hand and drew him closer. A gaunt man
lay on the cot, covered with a thin worn sheet that must have seen many
winters. The man was still, his face immobile, as spittle flecked the corner
of his mouth. He lay there, staring blankly at the mottled ceiling. She
went to him, and spoke gently, but there was no response.
The young man stood rooted, trying to conceal his pity. A gush of ten-
derness overcame him, as he turned to her. “What is wrong with him?”
    “He was involved in a motor accident. A huge tanker struck him from
behind, and he was left lying on the road for over two hours. When some
kind stranger finally picked him up and took him to the hospital, he had
lost too much of blood.” She stopped, tears flowing down her cheeks,
which she flicked away impatiently. She continued, trembling, “His brain
was damaged beyond repair. The doctors tried their best, but the verdict
was that he had been left bleeding for too long.” She sighed, “He is just
a vegetable now.” As she moved closer to the bed, half her face disap-
peared into the shadows. The next question dragged itself out of him,
even as he dreaded the answer to it. “Who is he?”
    Her only answer was to swivel, pick up the kerosene lamp, and walk to
the wall furthest away from him. The lamp cast its light on the grimy wall,
on which an old photograph was hanging askew from a rusty nail. As he
peered at it, crinkling his eyes, he could see the people in it clearly. She
was dressed in bridal finery with the red kumkum bold on her forehead.
The smiles were resplendent, and the man by her side was neither gaunt,
nor immobile; his large eyes sparkled with love and pride as he looked at
his brand new wife. And then he knew, even as she looked at him long-
ingly, that the chasm between them had widened beyond description.

3.
Wintersong
Anuj Gosalia
    “You’re cute,” chuckled Anusha over her third glass of brandy. “So are
you,” he quipped followed by a large, gregarious laughter that echoed
through the melancholic expanse of the Malhotra mansion.
    The mansion, built with stone and gravel was a colonial bungalow that
the erstwhile British Empire had left behind with Mr. Malhotra’s grandfa-
ther, for being a loyal servant of the Raj. Mussoorie, the royal Himalayan
hill station, was dotted with many such old crumbling properties and
owners struggling to keep them afloat.
    Like many broken things, the mansion too had its origins in glory. It was
home to a romance that often