Koyal Dark, Mango Sweet by Kashmira Sheth

Koyal Dark, Mango Sweet by Kashmira Sheth

Author:Kashmira Sheth [Sheth, Kashmira]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780786754663
Publisher: Argo-Navis
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00


“I thought getting you married would be the easiest of all. I suppose the prettier you are the fussier you are,” Mummy said, when she found out that Mohini didn’t want to marry Sunand.

Mohini shrugged.

“You must decide from the ones you meet, because no new ones are going to be born for you!”

I should’ve kept quiet but couldn’t. “Mummy, this isn’t like buying a sari that you can pick out from a stack. It’s a question of a lifetime; let Mohini take her time.”

“Don’t be her lawyer. I want to know why she didn’t like him.”

“She just didn’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m like Narad Muni. I know the past, present, and future.” Narad Muni was a sage in mythological stories. He played his tambura, a one-string instrument, traveled back and forth in time all across the universe, and meddled in everyone’s business.

“Then it’s time for you to visit some other planet and stir up things there.”

“Let me—”

“I tell you, Jeeta, your tongue is too sharp and your color is too dark, so for your sake, when your time comes, say yes to the first man that says yes to you. Don’t be fussy, and don’t make your engagement a minute longer than it needs to be.” Mummy’s voice was loud and stiff, as if all the humor had drained out of it.

Mohini looked at me and then at Mummy. “I’ll try to decide quickly. I will.”

Mohini knew I was burning with anger, but she couldn’t do or say anything for me. Mummy was always there. In the evening Mohini asked me to go out for sugarcane juice. There was a sugarcane juice stall right on the next street, but we decided to go farther away so that we wouldn’t meet any of our neighbors. We crossed six streets before we reached the sugarcane stall. Except for the owner and one couple sitting on a long wooden bench, the place was empty. We sat on the opposite end of the bench from the couple and ordered two tall glasses of juice.

I liked this place because the owner, a man of Pappa’s age, did all the work and kept it spotless.

“Are you still upset with Mummy?” Mohini asked.

“No. I deserved it for unleashing my tongue,” I said as I watched the man pick out a couple of fresh canes, trim the ends off with a sharp knife, and pass them between the two moving wheels.

“You’re still angry.”

The man caught the canes coming out the other end, and once again passed them through, sticking in a piece of fresh gingerroot with each one. The frothy juice rolled down the gleaming, stainless steel half tunnel and into a big jug.

“I know Mummy hates my dark skin, but why does she assume that the rest of the world also finds it so offensive?”

“Mummy doesn’t hate it. She’s worried about our future and happiness, that’s all.”

Quickly, the man poured the juice into glasses, squeezed half a lemon into each, and handed them to us, before a single one of the hustling flies had time to land on them.



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