My Girlfriend's Theplas and Other Stories Read online

  My Girlfriend’s Theplas

  and Other Stories

  Lockdown Liaisons

  Book 6

  Shobhaa Dé

  My Girlfriend’s Theplas

  and Other Stories

  Lockdown Liaisons

  A NOTE FROM THE PUBLISHER

  June 2020

  Cocooned in our small little worlds yet living through the most precarious and awful times - this has got to be a first in the collective memory of the whole wide world. Untouched by the footsteps of migrant workers in the hot sun we rave and rant on social media. And as always what helps us to retain our sanity in moments like this are words. Our own words and words from loved ones but even more than that, words from gifted writers who spin stories out of universal experiences, from thoughts and ideas half-formed in our minds.

  Simon & Schuster India is happy to bring to you short stories by the inimitable Shobhaa De as she captures the fragile zeitgeist of the pandemic in her own unique way - through stories that don’t provide an escape into la la land but rather stories of love that will make you sometimes smile, sometimes frown but at all times understand the subterranean world of shifting human emotions. The author, and her stories, don’t shy away from the tremulous uncertainties of the world as we know but rather help us to confront and understand it all, just a little bit better.

  In the grand finale of Lockdown Liaisons we have the story of a girl who was sweet and inconsequential earlier but realises her own potential for success and fame during lockdown. Then there is the man who finds true love at a juice stall near his office — in the days before the lockdown starts — but, then, ends up alone at home with his parents, writing letters to a lover who will never reads them. We read about the young married couple who find the solution to their woes in a manner that promises them love and happiness, while in the last story of Lockdown Liaisons a ten-year-old writes a sweet and admonishing letter to Uncle Corona!

  I hope all of you enjoy reading the stories in this anthology and remember in these difficult times to be kind to yourselves, to the people you meet in the pages of this book and to those in your life and in the world outside.

  MY GIRLFRIEND’S THEPLAS

  ‘Hey guys… let’s all stay positive, okay? Bad shit happens all the time. But we can’t let it kill us, na? We have to spread love… the earth is healing… I can actually see Malabar Hill from my window these days… it’s so cool! And now that I have my new personalised face shields and masks and those proper imported gloves, we can really, really go all out and help — you know? I have been making theplas and rotis for the past few weeks. Not making them myself! Obviously! But helping and supervising the staff, while Mom supervises us — she hates waste! We have packed so many cartons for that NGO… I forget the name. At least we feel confident it is going to the right people — those Gandhi Nagar people.

  ‘Haan haan… all our chhuta kaamwalas come from there only. But ever since the lockdown, they are not allowed to enter our building. I tried to argue with some show-off residents who are on the committee of my Society, that it’s most awful and unfair not to allow these poor people to earn a living… come on, ya! Be honest — when was the last time you washed and scrubbed the loo yourself and removed the doggy’s poop from the carpet?’

  This was my dear gf talking, not me, okay?

  That’s Aarti for you an enthusiastic bunny! She uses the word ‘like’ a lot... the same way Kylie Jenner and all use it. So, when she says, ‘Like... guys! We should all like do something for charity, na?’ she sounds so cute! She’s a sweet, well-meaning kid. But a little confused… like, she really thought if all of us stood in our balconies beating thaalis and lighting diyas, the corona virus would go away. Vanish!

  I felt really stupid doing that monkey stuff and sending her ‘proof’ I had shown my patriotism and obeyed Modi by sharing selfies! God! I felt like a total loser! Problem is, she doesn’t read anything beyond celebrity posts — she takes all her cues from what those famous people are saying. If Deepika and Ranveer are lighting candles on their patio and cheering frontline workers, then we must do it, too! Worst of all — she believes everything she reads on social media, and actually admires Kylie Jenner. Why am I with her if I think she’s this dumb? Because... I think I love her!

  We have been in a relationship for two years. Out of which I was away in Shanghai on dad’s business for four months and she was vacationing in Tuscany for two. Add the lockdown period and in reality, we have been together, off and on, and in between travels, for just a little over 12 months! Dude! That’s a record for me, okay? I am quite a swine... sorry to say. But not with Aarti. She is somehow… let me find the right word — yes, Aarti is pure. Not like other girls in our circle. But not meeting for all this time, has been hard! I definitely miss having sex with her. She says, she feels exactly the same. I know once all this ends, we will be back to our old, chilled life… nice!

  Aarti is naïve and trusting, which is why I like her. She wants to be kind to anybody and everybody — humans, dogs, cats, even mice and snakes! No kidding. I told her ‘Babe, so long as you aren’t kind to cockroaches and allow me to stamp on them with my heaviest boots, go ahead and be kind to all the other species in the world.’ She laughed sweetly, and stuck her sharp, pink tongue into my ear.

  Aarti is like a kid who I know will never grow up. But this lockdown break has given her a purpose in life. She feels important and wanted by her building buddies, who are all on a heavy-duty ‘seva’ mission. Nothing wrong with that — they are using their time well and helping so many people who need food, which is hygienic and properly cooked. She had put up pictures of what the government had been distributing to those migrants. Even our pets would reject that foul stuff — stale and full of fungus. Aarti is a very sincere and committed girl, in spite of all her privileges. I mean, Arti does not know the meaning of ‘less’, okay? She is not exactly spoilt, but, she has never taken an Ola, or used public transport.

  Yes, for a while she was sounding quite silly when she wanted to go to South America and work in the slums of Rio. So many of our friends had done it, so naturally Aarti was keen to experience what it felt like to actually go slumming and live there, with the poorest of the poor. I told her, ‘Baby, Brazil is not India… and you aren’t going on a Copacabana beach vacation. If you want to work in Brazilian slums, first do a trial run in that Gandhi Nagar near your home.’

  Suddenly, I found Aarti working feverishly in her kitchen and feeling particularly virtuous. At first I mocked her efforts and asked when she would send me her version of sourdough bread. Aarti was not amused. Distributing theplas had become a big thing in Arti’s girl gang. Theplas were the thing to discuss on our friends’ chat groups. Aarti was the leader of the thepla brigade and very proud of her role in motivating others to ‘give till it hurts’. I encouraged her to do all this. I wanted her to wake up feeling there was some purpose to life. We both agreed it was a far better way to spend the unending lockdown time rolling out theplas (with and without methi), rather than bitching out this one and that one till 3 a.m.

  Besides, Aarti was getting a lot of recognition for her thepla initiative. She had already been featured in several society columns and done interviews with prominent bloggers. She was fast becoming a Lockdown Star in her own right, participating in webinars and Insta Lives… and hold your breath — being described as a motivational speaker! Her page views had gone up — and how! Especially after she posted a cute video of hers, rolling out theplas in the kitchen, wearing a bikini top and cut off denims. I agree Aarti has a damn cute butt, and her personal maid had shot the video very nicely, with Aarti pretending to be the Thepla Queen.
Her irritating pooch, the very, very yappy and thoroughly spoilt Pom called ‘Doodles’ ( mutual hate society ) also featured in the video, and suddenly Aarti was getting the sort of attention reserved for say, a Kiara or a Kriti. Totally nuts! All because of the theplas!

  Aarti giggled and told me she was getting ‘soooooooo many proposals’, she could barely keep up! I was happy for her. Nobody used to take Aarti seriously in our group. She was called flaky and ditzy and I was teased for being the boyfriend of a ‘dumb blonde’. Aarti’s hair was blond, I admit. And you could call her dumb, too. But the theplas had become a game changer — she was seen as a potential youth leader, a model citizen, a girl with a heart of gold! My silly, little Aarti was going places with those dumb theplas.

  After the bloody thepla thing took off, Aarti felt confident enough to try and step up her other efforts. She mobilised 20 volunteers and set up help lines for senior citizens who had nobody to talk to during the long, lonely hours being stuck at home. She started taking calls herself, and her cheerful voice, silly jokes, combined with soothing words, made her so popular on her helpline, regulars would ask for her by name. She extended and expanded the basic concept to rope in therapists and counsellors who specialised in old-age related anxiety issues. She was stunned by the response! Soon, she was addressing Rotary Clubs over Zoom and talking about what we, as a society, needed to do to make our elderly feel more valued. Moved by Aarti’s earnestness, a couple of top industrialists who wanted to support her initiatives contacted her. Arti roped in her building friend to create a logo for her group which she called ‘Aarti Cares’.

  Money and help started trickling in. The Mumbai Police called up Aarti to help out with an online appeal — they told her that cases of abuse against the elderly had gone up drastically during the lockdown, and they wanted her on board to generate awareness and launch a helpline. Aarti came up with a catchy slogan and a clever idea for a video. She requested her girl gang to shoot their grandparents as they went about their daily routines. She asked for candid footage, ideally shot in natural light. A talented musician from Aarti’s class in school composed an emotional song with poignant lyrics which Aarti got another school buddy, who was now a popular tiktok star, to sing against a stark black backdrop. Together with her small team of graphic designers, she put together a lovely black and white clip, which went viral after the Mumbai Police posted it on Twitter. I watched it with my Naanaji and Naaniji who lived with us, and they were most impressed! ‘Same girl?’ Naaniji asked in utter disbelief. ‘Same’, I answered smugly.

  Soon after that, Aarti was contacted by an international women’s organisation, which wanted her to be the face of a global lockdown campaign highlighting the plight of the elderly isolating themselves at home and dealing bravely with the Covid challenge, without giving up hope. This led Aarti to raise funds for adult diapers for senior citizens too weak to go unassisted to the loo on time. While others raised money for PPE suits and surgical masks for frontline workers, Aarti focused on providing sanitary napkins and adult diapers to underprivileged Covid patients in public hospitals. Within a fortnight, her loyal band of volunteers had managed to source and distribute hundreds of cartons across Mumbai.

  I hardly get to connect with Aarti these days. I honestly miss her and our convos. The daily goss. She is like a woman possessed — totally consumed with work and brimming with constructive ideas for the future. Judging by her pics, her blond highlights have grown out almost completely. She is looking lovely. Of course, we still manage to chat off and on, when she can grab a few rushed minutes between her ‘duties’ and ‘deadlines’. But I meet her more often on her Insta Feed, where she posts pictures of all the good work done by her hard working team — she now has 250 volunteers, who work from home in shifts and handle several responsibilities. Aarti has hired a coordinator to manage the work load and look at future expansion. Sarla Aunty, her efficient mother, has found a focus finally, as the two of them work seamlessly together, always side by side, making sure all the initiatives remain on a growth path. Oh — her videos have changed dramatically! Arti no longer wears ganjis, bra tops or cut offs in the kitchen! She is always dressed in those fab india type cotton salwar kameezes — the kind she used to make fun of and call ‘auntyji outfits’. She still looks pretty cute and hot — at least to me! And she boasts that the number of proposals has also gone up and up and up! Good for Aarti.

  And to think it all started with theplas!

  FROM POMEGRANATES TO LOVE LETTERS

  I had always wanted to write a love letter to my dream man. Unfortunately, neither my dream nor my man had materialised. I was 26 years old… and still to fall in love. Like properly fall in love — full on! No holding back. That kind of love. I had flirted with a few guys in college, and later, at work. But love as I imagined it to be, had still to happen. I think it was the pomegranate juice that helped me fall in love achchi tarah! Don’t laugh! I always had pomegranate juice at the juice centre opposite my office, from the same juicewala, who would start looking for good pomegranates as soon as he spotted me making my way towards his stall while walking to Churchgate station, generally around 7.30 p.m.

  I used to do a time-pass job in a stockbroker’s firm on Dalal Street. My job was ok — just ok. I was a commerce graduate, and my parents were not that well-off that I could afford to waste time without earning as soon as I finished college. Of course, my lamba plan was to go for a proper MBA degree to a good university in England or America. I had applied nicely with the help of a colleague, and saved up also. Didn’t want to ask my parents for money — Mummy and Papa were so proud of me already! I was the first person to graduate from our small community, and even though my family has always lived in Mumbai, most of our relatives were still in our ancestral village in Gujarat. Oh, I forgot to give my name — myself, Anmol. My Ba chose the name, because I was the first son and she said I was too precious — no value could be put on me! I lost my Ba recently, and I still cry when I remember her.

  The juicewala was a nice man, and always asked me for market tips — which stocks to buy, which to sell, like that type tips. I used to wonder why a juicewala would want to invest in the market — but still, I would tell him what I had overheard during trading hours that day. Sometimes, my tips were too good! And he would make good money — next day, he wouldn’t charge for the pomegranate juice. But if he lost money because of me, he would make me buy him a vada pav from the man who had a stall down the road from him. It was a good friendship, I should say. We had trust and understanding.

  There were hundreds of boys and girls just like me on Dalal Street. We worked hard and came from decent homes. Some of us took the same train and had friendly relationships. We helped each other also, and exchanged market gossip. Even though we were competitors. That way, brokers are very informal — we share what we hear, and everybody benefits.

  I met Vikas like that only… at the juicewala’s. He also loved pomegranate juice and only drank that. Like me. We started our friendship discussing pomegranate juice. Whether it is good for health, whether to add ice cubes to it in summer, whether to mix it with any other juice, whether some pomegranates were better than others, whether to go for foreign pomegranates or stick to Indian only — so much to think and discuss about the subject! So many varieties to choose from! I confessed to Vikas that if I drank pomegranate juice every single day for four days, on the fifth day, I got constipation.

  He said, ‘Oh my God! I thought I was the only one! I also have same to same problem.’ We gave high fives… and that was the day we hugged for the first time! And laughed like anything. So much we laughed and laughed that my stomach started to pain. I looked at my watch — arrey! I’d missed my fast train to Jogeshwari. Mummy would be waiting. Papa also. Food would get cold. Mummy would have to heat all the shaakh-bhaaji again. Make fresh rotlis. I felt very bad. But… very good also. I really liked that first hug so much, so much, I can’t tell you. Vikas had such a nice soft body… really! Like a pillow! The
pillow on my bed at home was very hard and lumpy. I never used to get good sleep because of it, but I didn’t complain. Why to complain and make people feel bad?

  Since I had missed the train any way, I looked at Vishal and he looked at me. The juicewala looked at us. We were smiling into each other’s eyes, Vishal and me. The juicewala was staring at us as if he knew something. That evening, the juicewala did not ask me for any share bazaar tips. I did not give, also. Even though I had a few. My mind and heart were lost. My thinking, also — fully gone. My feet… I still had my feet? I was not sure! I felt like a gas balloon on Chowpatty Beach, simply floating and floating. I said to Vishal, just like that, ‘Let’s go to Marine Drive and look at Malabar Hill.’

  He laughed and said, ‘I see Malabar Hill everyday…’

  I asked, ‘How? Why?’

  He answered, ‘Because I live there…’ I felt stupid also and impressed also. If he lived there — he was rich or what? Didn’t look so rich. Meaning, he looked like me only — normal shirt-pant type. His phone was also a dabba android. Not a fancy rich boy’s phone. Meaning, iPhone. Shoes were usual, Colaba-Bandra type shoes. Not fancy or anything. I looked at him properly — up down, up down. No! Nothing different. Not rich looking, as such.

  Vishal saw me staring at him and put his hand on my shoulder, ‘Darr gaya kya?’ he asked with a smile. I felt funny standing on the road, with the juicewala staring and staring.

  So I also smiled, and said, ‘Why darr gaya? For what? You are not a mad dog who can bite, na? Chalo… let’s go to Marine Drive. You keep your eyes shut if you want and not look at Malabar Hill because you are a big shot and live there. I will look at everything — from Nariman Point, to Chowpatty to Raj Bhavan… okay?’

  Acchha, before you get some galat impression… all this happened before the Coronavirus. Some of us had started calling it ‘Vireless’… it sounded cute. Once the Modiwala lockdown happened, I had to sit at home haath jod ke and cry… aur kya? Dhanda bandh. Sab kuch bandh. Aur Vikas? Bataa raha hoon.