Fiction in f Minor - Post 4

[continued from <<Post - 3]

Chapter 2

“Ammi, I’m out the door in five minutes - ”, yelled Alyssa to her mother still fussing over the pressure-cooker in her kitchen, “ - your last chance, if you want me to get you anything from New Market!” At twenty-two, Alyssa Ahmed was a busy young woman, juggling a budding radio-talk-show career in Western classical music, evening French classes at the Alliance Française on Park Street, and a somewhat belated Master's in English Literature at Calcutta University.

Ruksana emerged hurriedly from her kitchen at this dire threat. Allah save this girl! Not a minute in one place! Gallivanting around town, yet managing to be such a nerd with her books! Beginning to miss social gatherings as well. -- How will she ever manage to land a husband at this rate! -- she despaired.

Ruksana enjoyed pretending to be upset with her daughter. Deep down, she was actually very proud of Alyssa’s achievements. As she looked at Alyssa, simple yet striking in a dark green knee-length skirt, green plaid top and dark brown suedes to match, she felt a glow of proud satisfaction. The girl had khandaani taste. Even the woven jute satchel slung over her shoulder matched the sudes on her feet.

“Hold your horses, girl”, she said, in mock severity. “Ammijaan is getting old; she can’t keep up with you any longer!”

Alyssa appeared instantly contrite. She was a good-natured girl, and often failed to notice when her leg was being pulled. Ruksana, inwardly rolling her eyes, despaired some more. She would have much preferred to hear protestations that she was hardly old yet, but, such was not to be!

Alyssa felt slightly vexed at herself for having rushed Ruksana. She stole a surreptitious glance at the emerging streaks of silver in Ruksana’s hair. Ruksana wore a simple black salwaar-kameez that accentuated her alabaster color and surprisingly slender figure. Looking at her, Alyssa felt a sudden surge of affection. Ammi’s aging ever so gracefully, she thought. I hope I look half as beautiful at her age!

"Did you want the Medjool dates from Firdaus’, or is it the Afghani Pista this time?” she asked gently. Ruksana loved to cook, and Firdaus' Dry Fruits was one of her trusted sources for some of the more esoteric ingredients. Ruksana flicked energetically at an aberrant silver-streaked strand. “Nothing that you can make Ammijaan cook, this time”, she exulted, wagging an emphatic finger. “I was hoping you could go check on Yusuf bhai for me." Her tone turned serious: "I heard Zohra's gout isn’t doing too well either!”

[continued in Post 5>> ]


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