Beneath the Storm: A tale of Shivani ‘s Journey
A poignant tale set in Gangtok, where the tumultuous weather mirrors the emotional turmoil of Shivani Pradhan, a woman grappling with heartbreak and betrayal.
The morning broke with the Gangtokian sky looking grey and miserable, and then it shed its bitter tears of betrayal. But perhaps that is the magic of Gangtok, the blessing of Mount Khangchendzonga… that just like the storm had broken, it ended with a brilliant light of clarity, the wisdom of the Protecting Deity.
Khangchendzonga now looked resplendent, as if beaming the final acceptance that everything would work out fine thence.
The sun came out, first with a naughty smile, breaking through the still lingering clouds, and then in its awesome glory, as if to assure the sky that her time shall come, that the hurt shall go, and that she shall learn to love once again with the same passion and loyalty. But someone else!
***
She recalled that afternoon… At the precise moment of that downpour, Shivani Pradhan was heading out of ‘ Bhutia Kitchen ‘, the place Ugyen had introduced her to when they both thought that life would be all roses without the thorns, and both being foodies, they loved to devour the gourmet served at that small yet cosy joint. Especially the beef momos, Shivani’s gastronomical orgasm!
She recalled that afternoon… Everyone was busy rushing out, running helter-skelter, trying to get to their destinations, cursing the sudden torment from the skies. Shivani had looked up and thanked Lord Indra for choosing to rain just then, for no one would have noticed the tears flowing down each eye as she walked home to the Development Area.
Her tears, though matched with the intensity of the heavy downpour, but her heart was crumbling inside her, for it felt like someone had plunged a knife deep into her soul, and was now twisting it over and over again in a sadistic measure.
Once she reached home, just outside her door, she paused for a while to wipe out her tears, and then rushed into the washroom, managing somehow to bring on a carefully made-up look on herself and came out with a saccharine smile lit on her face.
“Rough day at work sweetheart?”, asked her mother, looking dainty as always. Shivani looked at her, the centre of her existence, the final reason now left for her to live, and flashed a winning smile,
“Nah! Ama-la, all’s well… it’s just one of those migraine attacks, you know? Nothing that can’t be fixed by my superman, the Vasoprain,” she said, taking out one tablet and popping it into her mouth.
***
All that crying back home from the hotel at MG Marg – which, thankfully, the downpour had masked ‑ had given her a bad arrack of her old migraine.
“My lasting love… this migraine has returned to kiss me again,” she feigned a mild laughter, and was joined by her angelic mother, who had by then made some coffee for the two of them, and they sat down to watch the rerun of their favourite show, “Big Boss.”
That’s when the doorbell rang, and Shivani opened the door, beaming a big smile at her father, Binod Pradhan, a Senior Superintendent of Police, and her real Superman.
Her father hugged her and she nearly let out a sob.
“Mutu (My heart), are you ok?” Papa asked.
He sounded worried, but the actress inside her quickly changed the topic and told him about her throbbing headache. But her father didn’t look that convinced, though.
Her father was a top brass cop, a man of few words, mostly of action. He was as widely respected by his colleagues as well as by the criminals too, for his just treatment of each of them.
Binod feared that his daughter was hiding something from him. He sensed that. He was a policeman, after all. He had always been a doting father but had never interfered with her life, and yet, like all fathers about their daughters, may be he feared that Shivani might be hurt by other men. But he said nothing.
After dinner with her ideal Queen and King – her parents – and lying down on her queen-sized bed, Shivani was trying to grapple with the monsters inside her head., Those ghouls had always bitten her since she was small, though she did not remember since when. But they had always seemed to be the criminal invaders of her nights, often making her sleep overtime, and sometimes almost miss the school bus.
***
She had broken up with her boyfriend of three years, and yet, she still could not come to terms with the way in which he had summarily written her off as just a woman, simply because she was from another sphere of belief!
By late that night, the effects of the Vasporin had vamoosed, leaving her with those carried-over demons from her childhood.
Things had started going downhill when she had first broached marriage, and he had pretended to be completely taken aback, as if she had opened up a Pandora’s Box. Is marriage a sacrilege?
“Marriage, Shiva?” Ugyen had asked, his brows knit, his breathing hushed, as if he had been handed an Oppenheimer… “Marriage?” he sipped some of the left-over coffee to clear his suddenly parched throat… “Why, Shiva… I haven’t even thought of that…”
***
That nickname, ‘Shiva’, that he had apparently so lovingly coined and used for the past three years… every single of those one-thousand-and-ninety-five days of her life that she had believed he would be her own… Shiva from Shivani, fell at that point like a clasp of thunder shattering her eardrums, and she seemed to hear as a vicious whisper from the walls of Bhutia Kitchen… “Why, Shiva… I have so many more things to do… you know… I have just taken that loan for Papa’s house, which is still under construction…
As Shivani looked on in confusion, he stuttered… “And you know, Agya Tseten, my elder brother, has done so much for me… now how can I be selfish and think about getting married?”
Thus spake her boyfriend of three years, Ugyen Tashi Denzongpa, washing off one-thousand-and-ninety-five days of her life, as if like the Teesta in spate.
***
When they’d met, those one-thousand-and-ninety-five days ago, Mr Denzongpa had sounded so downright simple, even a religious person.
Yet now, this apparently sweet, humble guy sounded so different:” You are a Nepali, even though your mom is a Sikkimese Bhutia, but my family will never accept you … see Shiva?”
And once again, the name ‘Shiva’ struck her as a thunder clasp! “So how can I go against their wishes… you see, I am their youngest son, and I do love my family, Shiva, look I do love you too, but is it necessary that we have to get married? Aren’t we happy the way we are like this?”
***
Almost through the entire of the next day, being a Saturday, Shivani lay on her bed, pretending to be reading Pankaj Giri’s latest novel: That Unforgettable Woman.
But really, she was processing what she had been told in cold blood… You are a Nepali, even though your mom is a Sikkimese Bhutia…. So how can I go against my family’s wishes… you see, I am their youngest son… I do love my family….
She slowly realised that he hadn’t loved her, but she had loved him too much to let go…. And then, at that instant, she turned into a woman… and let go…
***
And she realised that he was a Man… just a Man, for whom “the other” existed only under the quilt… his life was either under it, or in the living room to watch Virat Kohli’s machismo in his sixers!
And then one day, she called him to the place where they had first met. Bhutia Kitchen.
And there inside that tiny restobar, she asked with a mild, polite giggle: “So, Mr Denzongpa…You have found a Bhutia girl of your family’s choice?”
She had just ordered coffee and some chicken thugpa.
The waiter, who was accustomed to serve them for the past one-thousand-and-ninety-five days, and who was, again accustomed to take the same orders from Ugyen, looked at her, askance. As if he reeled under the role reversal….
With a darting glance of command, Shivani stressed without speaking that the waiter better do as told. And then, she straightened herself on her chair, her back sensuously curved beyond the reach of the backrest.
“So?” she hissed.
“What do you mean… So?” Ugyen asked, his lower jaw half fallen almost to the arriving bowls of the thugpas.
“So, who’s your new love bird?”
“What do you mean, Shiva? You know I love you, don’t you?”
Once again… that awesome, scary thunder clasp… ‘Shiva’?
“Sure, sure… but you are the youngest son of an aristocratic family… Denzongpa and all that, right, dear?”
“Of course I am… am I not…but what are you saying, darling?”
She laughed aloud… “Darling? Yes, of course… darling… what a lovely, accustomed and useful word, isn’t it, Ugyen… my darling?”
Ugyen realised that he was nine wickets down, but he would still not want to lose a match to an unfancied team, as if India were losing to Afghanistan in the T-20 WCI… so he said: “What’s the matter?”
“Matter?” Shivani asked, her saccharine smile spread all across her lips like the coffee-coloured Maybelline lipstick she had deliberately worn that day… for Ugyen had always insisted she wore only fiery red, the single choice of most unimaginative mundane males.
Then she looked him straight in the eyes and said: “At my home, we have the idols of Lord Shiva as well as that of Guru Padmasambhav… that is the matter, darling. And we light place seven silver bowls of water and light seven lamps to each of them… AND… darling… we burn saang each day… do you understand, darling?”
True, for she wanted to tell him, in the terms that would sink in deep, that sanctity of burning the juniper branches was not the prerogative of Bhutias alone!
***
Shivani then snapped her fingers at the waiter: “My cheque, please?”
The waiter rushed back to the cash counter. There was a frenzied confabulation there, and the manager finally told the waiter: “How does it matter,,, so long as one of them pays…”
The waiter returned with the bill folder. Shivani chucked in two Rs 500 notes, and left!
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