A Piping Hot Cup of Rain: A short story by Shubhangi Singh

She stood on the balcony, looking at the rapidly plummeting sun. Things in her life had also been sinking at a similar rate. The shrill song of the doorbell pierced through her reverie. She opened the door to a vacant driveway, looking as lonely as her. Overgrown weeds from the lawn cupped the concrete just like strands of unbrushed hair that poked her face. Mouni held the doorframe with both hands to peek outside, stumbled for a split second and pressed her right foot ahead to hold her balance. She was quick in recoiling her foot back inside the building’s threshold. Mouni had not stepped outside her house since Sujay died three months ago.

“Namaste Madam, I have the perfect tools to trim your-”

“Uhhaahh,” she looked up with a start at the turbaned man who had suddenly appeared from the bushes. Kind eyes smiled down at her; a salt-and-pepper moustache feathered wide out beneath them. Her eyes scanned the tall stranger twice over as if checking whether the man was a mirage. It was then that Mouni noticed the big bundle of pointy objects wrapped in a bedsheet, sprinkled with printed yellow daisies.

“I don’t want to buy anything. Thank you.”

Mouni had almost closed the door when a big, rugged hand jammed it, “Can I get a glass of water at least? Please, Madam. Walking up and down these lanes on the edge of Shillong, with a heavy sack of tools and utensils is not easy.”

“Ok, wait here.” Mouni latched the door shut and went inside. She returned carrying a tray laden with some cookies, a glass, and a bottle of lemonade. Through a half-open door, she offered the tray to the stocky salesman waiting outside, “You can sit on the bench outside and have your fill. Leave the tray there.” A thundering roar made the pair look up at a giant spark of lightning as it streaked across the twilight above them. A moment later, the sky was pouring its heart out with merciless raindrops pounding the earth. “Come in,” Mouni spoke before the salesman could utter anything, even before her brain had time to approve the answer.

The salesman studied the abstract oil canvas adorning the entrance lobby as he followed a sluggish Mouni. “Did you paint this, Madam? The colours are popping, yet they mesh so well. Such beautiful layers...”

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Mouni kept walking with her eyes pinned to her heavy steps. The lobby opened into a large veranda, furnished with a cane swing and furniture. It overlooked the other side of the bushy greenery—a faint reminder of the garden it used to be. The salesman crossed the veranda to the door at the other end. “Stop.”

“Sorry Madam, I thought...because of the rain.”

“That is my husband’s study. He doesn’t like-” Sujay had never allowed her in this part of the house where he entertained his clients as well as his ‘boys’. It had started with polite concern: ‘Monu, you’ve been in the kitchen for so long. I will take the tea and snacks outside. You go and rest.’ or ‘You’ll get bored with the banter of silly men. Watch some TV.’

Sujay only hosted family get-togethers once a month. He had reasoned that he could never burden Mouni with party-prep every few days. During these parties, he would stick to her side like duct tape — always the first to praise her cooking skills, pity her fragile frame, and help her serve guests.

“...very sorry, Madam.” The giant bones of the salesman looked odd with his head bowed and his hands folded in apology. Her eyes traced the outline of his clavicle and trapezius muscles, bulging beneath the stretched fabric of his kurta.

“You can use one of the chairs here. I’ll get some tea,” Mouni made a hasty exit. Once in the kitchen, she filled a saucepan with some water and put it on the stove to boil. A dusty container of Darjeeling oolong tea leaves sat on the open shelf on her left. The tea was Sujay’s favourite. He had bought the vacuum-sealed container just for his tea. Mouni wiped it with a kitchen towel and beheld her hazy reflection on the expensive metal hiding under the dust. This container of Sujay’s tea — unopened for the past three months — mirrored Mouni’s life. She put one and a half teaspoons of tea leaves into the simmering water, covered the pan, and pulled it off the stove. After a few minutes, she poured the prepared liquor into a cup with a dash of hot milk.

“This tea is amazing, Madam. You must trust me on this. Because Madam, Gurjit Singh likes coffee. Your tea has made him its fan.”

“Gurjit Si-”

“Arre, it’s me, Madam. I’m Gurjit. Are you surprised too, to see a Sardar in Shillong?” Salesman Gurjit threw his head back with a loud guffaw.

“No, no. I was just surprised. You like art, coffee.” The words fell from her mouth in a sputtering heap.

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“So, like others, you cannot imagine a meagre Dalit Sikh salesman and the finer things of life existing in the same realm. Is that why you won’t buy anything from me? It’s not your fault, Madam. When the Britons brought my great-grandfather to these lands to scavenge their shit, he was offered a limited world. But my parents gifted me a thing more valuable than luxury—belief. The belief that I was an equal human being. I can leave if you are not comfortable,” Gurjit Singh looked out at the torrent of water spraying over the edge of the veranda, threatening to push its way further in.

“No. Please. Gurjit, I am sorry. Our mind unknowingly becomes a prisoner of its surrounding environs,” Mouni almost stammered. “Actually, I painted that canvas in the lobby. And I used to like coffee once upon a time. Sorry again,” she squeezed her eyes shut. The darkness held on when she opened them. 

Power-cuts were usual in Shillong during these unpredictable rains. Mouni switched on the battery-operated emergency light beside the swing and plonked down on it. Her tired eyes peeked sideways at Gurjit. She caught him shifting his gaze between the floor and her feet. The faint glow of the emergency light bathed them. Her tousled weed-like hair now felt like wild curls to Mouni, trying to escape in search of freedom.

Gurjit’s eyes moved up to her face. She picked her nose with a delicate thumb. They both were quick to turn their gazes in front of their respective selves, with the expression of chameleons whose attention is centred on their peripheral vision.

Gurjit coughed, “You know, Madam, many people are unaware of the amazing coffee our neighbouring Nagaland produces. Their light roasts are the best. I have some in my...” Mouni drifted off to a deep slumber after years and dreamed of sweaty bodies. Damp pearls glinted under the white glow of emergency light as they trickled down his neck.

Warm rays of morning sun caressed her face. Mouni blinked her eyes open and looked around in confusion. There was no sign of Gurjit Singh, the salesman. A warm cup of black coffee greeted her accompanied by a shining moka pot. The pot held down a piece of fluttering paper which said, ‘Thank you, Mouni.’