Two teeny-tiny Indian love stories
(You could call them cautionary tales)
Part-1: That she is a being of pure love.
Varghese comes every morning at 7 o clock and takes me. There is no surprise in it anymore. I can hear the door of the truck slam shut. There is no love in that sound as there is no love in the way he touches me. He doesn’t look at me as he picks me off the ground with his strong sinewy arms and takes his pleasure from me. In all the years that we have known each other, he has never spoken to me. He has never looked me in the eyes. He grunts and heaves and then I am swinging in the air. There is only hate. And my love will never be enough to drown it out.
For the listeners just tuning in, the story we are listening to is a tragedy titled, This trash-can, by the side of the street, has become self-aware, narrated in the voice of David Attenborough.
In all the years we have known each other, he has not even told me his name. I only know his name is Varghese because I can hear the other guy in the truck call out his name. He says the same thing every time.
“Varghese, you fat bastard. I can’t even see you in the rear mirror. You been picking garbage so long, I can no longer tell you from garbage.”
Part II: The completely avoidable dangers of shopping together
A husband and wife are standing like a pillar in the middle of the supermarket rush, going through the list, over and over again, knowing in the heart of their hearts that they have forgotten something. Something she had probably said when he was driving their swanky new car into the dimly lit underground parking of the supermarket. Or maybe before that. Something he had probably said when they were sleeping in their separate beds after putting the kids to sleep. Or maybe before that. Something she had probably said on the day of their marriage when she saw her father hand his father three boxes full of thousand-rupee bills. Or maybe before that when he had first seen that other girl in college who he had stalked only to hear her voice. Or maybe even before that —
For listeners just tuning in, this hilarious story is titled, You will find love in Aisle 67, row 5, next to the bottles of Arabic perfume, behind the sealed boxes of Brahmin’s pickles.
Her eyes are filling with dread. Her fingers are paralysed.
“What did we forget?” she is asking over and over again, “Is it here in this damned place? Is it here?”
He pulls the nail off his forefinger with his teeth, which grants him thirty seconds of sanity.
“Maybe — ” he begins.
Her eyes are on him. He knows now looking at her eyes. Not love. That is beyond the question. But something close and it will have to do.
“Maybe if we stop looking, and we have to do it together, both of us. Maybe if we do that, we will never have to look for it again.”
“And it will never frighten us again?”
“If we leave it alone, it might leave us alone too,” he said.
“Let’s quickly forget about it then.”
“Let’s do that,” he said. He saw the supermarket staff standing some distance across and decided to inform them, “Hey. There is an item missing in this place.”
“Yeah? What item, sir?” the staff shouted back.
“We don’t know,” he shouted again, “We are never looking for it again.”
About the author:
Ranju Mamachan got his Masters in Thermal Science from the National Institute of Technology, Calicut, India. He is an Assistant Professor in the Mechanical Department of Manipal Institute of Technology. He sometimes resurrects dead writers in his class to the amusement of his students. Previously published in
1. Rigorous mag: https://rigorous-mag.com/v4i4/ranju-mamachan.html
2. Cabinet of Heed: https://cabinetofheed.com/2021/11/07/our-finest-moment-ranju-mamachan/
3. Story titled Killing superman published in Chaicopy: https://issuu.com/chaicopy/docs/ripples
4. Antipodean SF: https://www.antisf.com/the-stories/what-i-have-to-say-about-the-supersize-oceans-of-the-exoplanet-c59034
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