A Room for Ruth

Angeline Malagar

Description

Angeline lives in Western India in the desert city of Jodhpur. She would have liked to pursue a career in journalism but settled in for a career as a full-time writer with the Jodhpur and Jaipur Polo magazines; she is currently the Associate Editor for these souvenir magazines.
Having spent her formative teen years at boarding school in Mussoorie. “Growing up, I was greatly influenced by Ruskin Bond’s and R.K Narayan’s writing styles- simple yet touching and memorable.”
“The life we led on with missionary parents who served tirelessly- conditioned my brother Kim & myself to respect hard work and remain humble.”
But the turning point in her life, she adds with a laugh, came when she met her future husband in 1996. “Marrying the army type was never something I wanted- but his presence and our daughter’s – has made all the difference!”
“These stories are a part of my life’s landscape, which has inspired them, greatly. From Calcutta to the Thar, the Rann, to the hills. These are people I have known, seen, touched, in some way or the other.”
“I hope my words are painting a picture in your mind- if yes, then I must be doing it right!”

Sujets

• Nostalgia
• Emotion
• Journey
• Emotional
• Simple
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Partridge Publishing India
• Date de parution: 01 juin 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781543709223
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

A ROOM FOR RUTH

Collection of Short Stories & Poems




ANGELINE MALAGAR










Copyright © 2023 by Angeline Malagar.

ISBN:
Hardcover
978-1-5437-0923-0
Softcover
978-1-5437-0924-7
eBook
978-1-5437-0922-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.












www.partridgepublishing.com/india






My parents.
This life, and everything in it- yours.
Vijay.
“In your light I learn how to love. In your beauty, how to make poems. You dance inside my chest where no-one sees you, but sometimes I do, and that sight becomes this art.”
Aavi.
You complete me. You lift me up.
Kim.
The most precious gift our parents gave me.
My friends. You know who you are.
No life, no laughter & no memories without you.



PREFACE
Great stories happen to those who can tell them.
-Ira Glass
Most of us have stories, and most of us have been writing for years- in our hearts and memories. The stories in this Book are fictional yet rooted in reality; I cannot think of any other way to describe them.
When I began writing in earnest, after Aavi was born, sometime in the latter half of 2003- my husband was posted in Rajouri, at the LoC, in J&K. The mornings were always late, as the Sun took a while to shine through the amber chinar trees, and the nights went on forever, punctuated by the hiccups of wandering leopards and the bubbling tributary of the Tawi river. It would seem an idyllic spot for a writer, and it was here that my husband, a Captain in the Indian Armed Forces, took a loan and gifted me my most prized possession- a desktop computer. A laptop that I still use for the Book, is also a Christmas gift that came in a decade or so later.
Special thanks to you, my friend, confidante, husband- Vijay-for patiently listening to all my stories as I read them out loud, and for offering valuable advice; for years of encouragement when things weren’t working out; for unshakable trust, confidence, and love, when I deserved it the least.
Aavi bear, these are for you, my angel, write some of your own stories, and may they all have happy endings like ours.
“Let us not become weary in doing good…” (Galatians 6:9)
Angeline
Jodhpur, 2023



ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Special thanks to the Team at Partridge, especially my PSA Kathy Lorenzo who patiently answered my mails and reached out to me, whenever needed.
Special thanks to my friend and colleague Mr. Sanjay Sharma for his creative input and guidance.
My unofficial ‘editor’ and ‘proofreader’- my dear husband, Sa’ab Baha’dur!
My ‘listeners-in-patience’- Mrs. Nirmal Hada, Didda and my little Bear -Aavi.
PHOTO CREDITS:
• Shri Anirudh Khatri (In Search of Umrao| Fortress in the Thar)
• www.pixabay.com . Free to use under the Content License. No attribution required.



CONTENTS
A Moment Standing Still -The Stories
1. Bishnumaya
2. A Room For Ruth
3. In Search Of Umrao
4. Onsra
Taking A Leaf- The Poems
5. Bhure Khan From Afghanistan
6. Barefoot, From Tibet
7. The Ugliness Of The Oak
8. Fortress In The Thar
9. The Last Post
10. Mahwiyat (Musings)
11. From Strength To Strength
12. When Words Die
13. This Is Not Goodbye...
14. What Does It Take To Be Sa’ab Baha’dur?
15. Just Us @20
16. Two Peas In A Pod



IMAGE DESCRIPTION
1. Mountain woman selling tea-Bishnumaya
2. Dwelling in the wilderness- A Room for Ruth
3. Old lady at the door-In Search of Umrao (Anirudh Khatri)
4. Walk up to the fort- Onsra
5. Cross against the skyline-Jesus at the Beach
6. Old Afghan- Bhure Khan from Afghanistan
7. Hard working and far walking feet- Barefoot from Tibet
8. Grand old American Oak- The Ugliness of the Oak
9. Blue City Stepwell-Fortress in the Thar (Anirudh Khatri)
10. Land’s end- The Last Post



A MOMENT STANDING STILL -THE STORIES







BISHNUMAYA
T he water felt heavenly beneath my bare feet, it swooshed and threatened to carry away my little pink toes in the current. I laughed as a moss-colored fish darted under a rock- ‘must think I’m a monster’- I threw a pebble into the water; it sank soundlessly to the bottom, settling comfortably near a grey-black rock.
It was the middle of the afternoon, an inauspicious hour, the elders say- for as the men folk toil away in the mustard fields, and women lull their babies to a fitful sleep, the deities of the land roam freely, surveying what is rightfully theirs, yet amidst them, matching good with evil – dark creatures with vile intent, roam just as freely. They wait silently, hidden behind rocks and amidst the verdant forests; should they chance to see a beautiful woman by herself, or a child left unchaperoned, even a particularly fertile cow left alone to graze- the evil ones have no qualms claiming what they think belongs to them!
This sudden recollection, passed down generations, struck me like lightning, I scurried to gather the meager khaki bag which held my schoolbooks and my worn shoes- but all this had to be done without raising suspicions of those lurking creatures, so I carefully tried to hurry up without making it seem obvious. Finally, as I walked up the worn path, shoes in hand, blind to the pebbles and leaves beneath my feet, the pine trees shaded the moss and wild grasses, alongside walked a woman whom I recognized as the owner of a tea stall near the bend in the road- she would sell sticky gur (jaggery)toffees and homemade sweet-meats which my friends and I bought on our way to school.
I ignored her and walked ahead, striding to reach the road-head, ‘Open your shop quick, I want some toffees and let me remind you- I never got my change back last week- so that will be two extra toffees today!’
She smiled and passed me the treats- I sat down on the wooden bench outside the little shack, wearing my shoes and socks, no point in explaining things to my mother. Unwrapping the brown paper (some of it refused to budge, and clung to the toffee), I chewed on the candy, the jaggery takes effort- you resemble a cud-chewing cow, as your jaw works in circles, almost. Sated, I held out my hand for the extra treats and made my way home, which was up the hill, in the midst of a mustard field. The brilliant *Dhauladhar Range rose high above the flat valley which seemed bathed in the warmth of the soon to set orange sun. [A mountain range in the lesser Himalayan region]
Close at dusk the cattle wander lazily back home with the herders, their trampling hooves raise settled dust to obscure the red sun-this is the hour of * godhuli bela - when the men are impatient, they long to get home after a hard day, and a wandering calf receives a sound whack with the crop, the animals and the men settle down, as the womenfolk hurry to wash and feed them. Children suddenly tense- for it is common knowledge that when the fathers are back, a list of wrong doings on the part of their sons (especially) is ready for presentation. So, I made myself scarce, and sat in the stables with my favorite horse Kesar . [When cattle come home at dusk]
I could hear my grandfather and father discuss the business of the day. As the sounds of the cattle and men, children, and birds, fell silent and as they all quietly retired and fell asleep, the creatures of night awoke to a whole new world-nocturnal and dark, exciting, and adventurous. After dinner, the womenfolk cleared away and prepared for the next day, dishes were washed and dried, food was eaten together, as aunts and sisters-in-law sat chattering, complaining, and giggling. Dadi ji, my paternal grandmother sat under the tin shed with my mother and her other daughters-in-law, for a late-night smoke and cup of tea. The matriarch sat on a raised diwan, a settee, while the others sat around the hearth, the mud walls and floor warm and glowing. They had been gossiping for a while, when their whispered conversation was drowned by the hoot of an owl, Dadi ji coughed, and dragged deeply of the beedi, ‘* Manhoos , one of you make it go away’. While the owl is revered for its ‘wisdom’ in the West, simple village folk look upon it with foreboding and suspicion, its presence is always followed by tragedy- milking cows suddenly run dry, children may take ill, an unexpected death- an owl wasn’t welcomed. The youngest daughter-in-law got up to shoo the bird away, her arms covered in goose bumps, too afraid to protest, and too scared to go alone. My mother sensed her apprehension, so she accompanied her outside. The owl hooted from its perch on the low tiled roof of the servants’ quarters. After much persuasion and endearments (it was mother’s reasoning that it was potent enough to curse us if displeased)-the bird flew away. The next morning the village was abuzz