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129 pages

English

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Warning : If you’re over forty and reading this, your laugh lines will deepen. If you’re under forty, your laugh lines may begin.At forty-three Mantra decides to quit her job to experience the pleasure of retirement while she’s still able to walk without a nursing attendant in tow. But to her horror, she has to smooth the wrinkles in her marriage before she can get to work on the ones on her face. As her husband’s cholesterol begins to shoot dangerously high, Mantra’s libido hits rock bottom. She has to do something ASAP or she’ll spend the rest of her life as an ageing, frigid divorcee.To make matters worse, mantra also has to caution her sister-in-law Anjali about the ghost of a boyfriend past, counsel her page 3 – wannabe neighbour on how to make it to page 3, and figure out how to win over her surly cook.The Great Depression of the 40s is Rupa Gulab’s delightful take on mid-life crises and the bizarre ways in which people cope with them.

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Publié par	Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd
Date de parution	06 mai 2010
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9789352141524
Langue	English

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0600€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

Rupa Gulab

THE GREAT DEPRESSION OF THE 40S
A Novel
Contents
About the Author
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Acknowledgements
Follow Penguin
Copyright
PENGUIN BOOKS
THE GREAT DEPRESSION OF THE 40S
Rupa Gulab is a Mumbai-based freelance writer and columnist, and the author of Girl Alone and Chip of the Old Blockhead. She scribbled her first stories, Hamlet the Cutlet and Nostracious Nominovich-The Commie Spy, while in her early teens to keep her two little sisters amused. Shockingly, the stories won her two little diehard fans. She continues to write for them.
To my parents, Jyoti and Vashu Gulab: The two most special people in my life; The two most charming unpublished writers I ve ever read; The two reasons why I was inspired to become a writer. Love always.
Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man s gift and that man s scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things ( Why should the ag d eagle stretch its wings? )
-T.S. Eliot, Ash Wednesday
1
The newspaper s food critic was really to blame. If he hadn t got Delhi Belly, the rest of Mantra s life may well have taken a different course. She d have been too busy earning a salary to lose her mind, for starters. But the fact remains that the ailing food critic had been condemned to a month-long diet of boiled vegetables and chewable antacids. Mantra had been asked to fill in for him and review a new, dreadfully pretentious restobar. Four short, snappy lines of her review went down in history as the epitaph of her career:
While the spaghetti was a bit of okay,
The meatballs stubbornly bounced.
They re only fit to be served at squash courts,
And deserve to be severely trounced.
Now, how was she to know that Ye Ed s best buddy s brother-in-law s Armenian boyfriend owned the restobar? And why should that have stopped her anyway? Hell broke loose the day the review was published. She was summoned to her editor Partho s plush cabin and he thrust the offending article at her in a fierce, stabbing gesture.
Explain this, he stuttered in a wild-eyed way, dramatically rubbing the left side of his chest with his free hand.
Mantra cleared her throat nervously and replied, hoping she wouldn t be held responsible for his imminent cardiac arrest on grounds of culpable homicide. It s self-explanatory really. The food sucked big time, and I was being honest like an ethical reviewer should be. She pursed her lips primly when she said that, an invisible halo not just hovering virtuously over her head but recklessly kicking out its legs and dancing like a shameless exhibitionist. In shocking pink stockings at that.
Ethics be damned, he bellowed. That man has screamed my ear off on the phone all morning. My bloody blood pressure has shot up and it s all your fault! An irate lecture followed on how diplomacy was more important than crappy ethics .
Excuse me, Mantra cut in sarcastically, but haven t you forgotten our newspaper s motto-the inspiring line below our masthead that reads: Amicus Plato, sed magis amica veritas ?
Yes, yes, Plato is my friend, but a greater friend is truth. Who gives a fuck about that? Partho roared. Like hell anyone knows what it means!
I do, Mantra muttered staunchly, prompting Partho to look a tad defensive.
It s just some rubbish about the truth, Mantra. It sounds pompous, that s the only reason why it s there! I ll bet you the great unwashed have no clue. For all they care, it could well mean Plato is a dickhead!
Silly ass, Mantra raved internally in the midst of his rant. He s just upset because he hates being ticked off by page 3 regulars.
The lecture was rounded off with the demand that Mantra fall in line with the newspaper s corporate culture. You ve been here three years and you still haven t tuned into it. Worse still, your frequent oddball remarks are vitiating the atmosphere-the bloody juniors have started emulating you, and you re no bloody role model heroine, not by a long shot!
Years of experience had taught Mantra that Conform to our corporate culture also meant Kiss my ass and look like you re loving it, slave! Her blood pressure shot up too, whizzing way past Partho s current high mark. She dug her nails sharply into her denim-clad thighs to stop herself from telling him exactly what she was thinking: that there was no way in hell she d conform to the culture of an organization so steeped in hypocrisy and mediocrity that it didn t have the balls to take a stand on anything, not even undeniably lousy meatballs.
Partho read her momentary silence as a welcome sign of capitulation, and he encouragingly barked, Shape up! for good measure.
Oh please say you d much rather ship out, a tantalizing voice in Mantra s head pleaded with her. Who knows, maybe bungee jumping is your true calling? Hey, take a sabbatical at the very least, dammit! You re forty-three, you prefer yolks to whites, you smoke, you give veggies a wide berth, osteoporosis and quite possibly a hip-bone replacement are on their way, and you may never find out what it feels like to be truly free. Go on, tell him to go fly a kite!
Mantra did just that, and a surge of relief coursed through her body as the words tumbled out, tripping over each other in their urgent rush to be heard. She felt like she d been instantly exorcized. It was not as though this particular organization was bad news-it was about the same as all the others. Besides, Partho wasn t really a nasty evil boss-in fact Mantra rather enjoyed his eccentricity and egotism. They gave her lots to giggle about. She was just bored of doing the same job year after year after year after year. She wanted a break. A clean break. Heaven knows, she needed a break! She suppressed an overpowering urge to leap up and envelope Partho in a warm bear hug for helping her take the liberating decision-the egotist may have thought she was making a pass at him.
Partho s jaw dropped and he began to stutter again. Not because he loved Mantra dearly, but because a lot of people were quitting the paper to join a new rag that was offering obscene salaries. He assumed that Mantra had been made an offer too. Corporate ego was at stake and he was its designated champion.
Think about it, don t be hasty. No need for immature knee-jerk reactions, he barked in as reasonable a manner as he could manage.
My resignation letter will be on your desk in five minutes, Mantra replied woodenly. I d keyed it in months ago in a fit of frustration. I merely have to change the date and get a printout. Oh and, by the way, I don t have even a day s notice to serve; I ve got loads of leave. I depart with my personal motto: Veritas vos liberabit .
Partho scoffed. Utter tosh! The truth may set you free, Mantra, but, mark my words, your bills will tie you down!
Mantra kicked his door open like she d seen John Wayne do it in classic Westerns and strode out, ignoring Partho s anguished, Mantra, wait! Her grand exit was mildly marred by the fact that she accidentally stubbed her toe in the process, but she bravely quelled the primeval urge to scream in acute pain. She knew better than to completely ruin her otherwise dignified exit. When you say something lofty in Latin, it s best to ensure that you don t screw it up.
Mantra sailed out of the office at 6.30 p.m., hoping to leave without a backward glance-the way it should always be done. Typically, however, her driver foiled her plans. Makarand gave her a filthy look for interrupting his chat with his tea-shop buddies, and held up his cup of tea triumphantly. Mantra nodded resignedly and was left to cool her heels outside the office building, while Makarand made a huge pretence of blowing on the dregs of his tea to cool it. Lording it over Mantra was a big part of his dignity. Yelling chutiya and/or bhonsri ke to other motorists while Mantra was in the car was another part. Oddly enough, he never swore when Vir was in the car, even if the provocation was extreme.
While waiting, Mantra debated whether she should call Vir and tell him her big news but prudently decided against it. She d do it at home after his restorative glass of fresh lime, when he was safely sitting down. A mischievous gust of sea breeze lifted her hair and playfully whipped her face with it. Mantra s frown lines vanished instantly-the sea always improved her mood. This was the only perk of working at Nariman Point. Watching the orange sun dunk itself into the sea like a giant biscuit from her cabin window had always helped to restore her equanimity.
About twenty minutes later, Makarand insolently swaggered towards the car in a deliberately unhurried manner, and Mantra was finally on the road to freedom. Once again, she exhaled with relief at having escaped the corporate world. The cherry on the cake was she would never have to suffer the indignity of faking laughter at puerile jokes made by egomaniacs who had the final word on her salary. Never again, she swore to herself-there were things she d never do again for money! And just why is it, she idly wondered, that once people become head honchos, they start believing it s part of their job responsibility to act like stand-up comics? And can t they get better material to work with if that s the case?
Please stop at the bakery first, Makarand, were her terse instructions.
An unpleasant altercation ensued outside the bakery when Makarand aggressively stole the parking space that a pretty, young female driver was attempting to reverse into. Mantra should have guessed t