My story - 'The Duchess of Kovolon' in The Write Mag

My story, 'The Duchess of Kovolon' was published in the latest edition of The Write Mag. Use full screen option and start reading from page 4. 


tHE wRITE mAG - May 15

IPL 4

Gabbar

Today as I was walking between the aisles of Foodworld, I heard a very distinctly irritating voice of a woman who looked she hadn't touched her thirties in spite of the 1/3 fat that was evident. Accompanying her, was a man with a goatee that made him look Mimoh Chakraborty's third cousin. Well at first, I thought it was one of those call-centeresque couples trying to grab some attention. But from deep inside my mind, a memory flashed to the surface and I realized that it was someone I know. It was a girl that everyone once referred to as 'Gabbar' because of her mostly sleeveless dresses and fat arms. 

Gabbar was the kind of girl who could make Dolly Bindra look humble. She, once had picked up a stone from the road and had hit a bus and laughed out loud. While I don't want to reveal her identity, I'd surely like to narrate an incident I can clearly remember. 

In 2000, I was attending tutorials at a coaching center because I liked a girl there. This was where I was introduced to this tsunami called Gabbar. She sat in the first bench hardly leaving any place for someone else. One of those days, it was raining. It rained so hard that it was impossible for many students to actually make it. As a result, the attendance was low and the faculty also didn't turn up. After a while, the power went off and that evening, turned out to be fun with people forming groups. 

In one of those groups, sat Gabbar. And then, there was the most undesirable event of the evening. They played Antakshari. And at one unfortunate point of time, she, with her voice, a heterogeneous mixture of Khali's voice and the squeaking sound which is created when a goli-soda bottle is opened, began singing. I still remember very clearly she sang this song 'Mera Dil Le Gayi oye kammo kidhar, mai dekhun tujh ko idhar udhar, yaaro jaao dhund ke laao, yaaron jaao. Yaarooon jaaaooo...'. The moment she completed singing that line, a boy from the last bench in a cheeky remark said, 'Amma nee amma, barre di padtunda? Ee building motham M**** lo kalshpoindanuku iga' (Oh my god, this buffalo has started singing, gone, now this building will collapse). 

This last bench boy was unlucky that day. She heard what he said. In whatever light that was visible, I saw her look at him seriously. She got up, pushed her way out of that bench and started walking towards the last bench. I was seated somewhere in the middle and could see her pass by me. She walked right up to the end of the classroom where he was seated and said, 'Nuvvu Paadu ra. Paadu. Paadutava? Cheppu?' (Why don't you sing then. Sing. Will you sing? Tell me) in her dominating voice which echoed as everyone watched silently. 


This boy started sweating and in fear, he started denying by shaking his hands and said, 'Ninnu kaadu akka, Ninnu kaadu akka.' (I didn't say anything to you sister, not to you sister). 


Such were those days. Full of fun. 


When I saw her today along with her husband, in him, I saw that backbencher's face. I wonder what he must be facing every day. 


- Deepak Karamungikar