A Chance at Happiness: A Book of Short Stories

Aseem Vadehra

Description

Melancholic and humorous, the stories in this collection tell tales of love, loss, loathing, cynicism and a range of other emotions set in contemporary Delhi.  From a self-assured young man coming face-to-face with his dreams from years gone past in Mr Alexander to the trysts of adolescent love in Tara; from a hedonistic night out on the town in Nitin and I to the sheer helplessness of losing a best friend in Karan and Maneck; we find hints and reflections of people we know and situations we meet in our life’s journey towards a chance at happiness. Lyrical and tranquil, the stories in this collection revisit the life we live in the fast-paced world but forget to appreciate, and remember the joys of our everyday existence and shelved dreams.

Sujets

• Literary
• Dreams
• Literature
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Stories
• Story
• Journey
• Short Stories
• Contemporary
• Short
• Love
• India
• Saga
• Dream
• Fiction
• Friends
• Delhi
• Humour

Informations

• Publié par: Roli Books
• Date de parution: 01 mars 2012
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9789351940005
• Langue: English

Extrait

About the book
Melancholic and humorous, the stories in this collection tell tales of love, loss, loathing, cynicism and a range of other emotions set in contemporary Delhi. From a self-assured young man coming face-to-face with his dreams from years gone past in Mr Alexander to the trysts of adolescent love in Tara ; from a hedonistic night out on the town in Nitin and Ito the sheer helplessness of losing a best friend in Karan and Maneck ; we find hints and reflections of people we know and situations we meet in our life’s journey towards a chance at happiness. Lyrical and tranquil, the stories in this collection revisit the life we live in the fast-paced world but forget to appreciate, and remember the joys of our everyday existence and shelved dreams.

About the author
Aseem Vadehra was born in New Delhi in 1979. He started writing at the young age of 12, choosing to pen his fervent thoughts as poetry and prose on many a surface, including the walls of his bedroom. 21 years hence, this collection of stories is his first book.
Aseem continued to write as he collected various degrees at several institutions (NIFT, Bhagat Singh College and Central St. Martins) but his most memorable time, although short, was a semester at the College of William and Mary in Spring 1997. After a brief stint as a costume designer (freelancing with Pradeep Sarkar and Roshan Abbas) followed by a year of study in London, he joined his family business of construction and interior contracting at the age of 22.
Aseem regards the curiosity to learn as fundamental to all things human and furiously defends the right to mediocrity as the cornerstone of a beautiful life. He believes that if, whether by the hand of statistics and/or a bevy of Gods, one is fortunate to live a free life, then hard work and intense love (requited or not) are gifts to share.
Writing, learning, running, and these days playing the cello, are his passions.

© Aseem Vadehra, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of the publication may be reproduced or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the publisher.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious and any resemblance to real characters, living or dead is purely coincidental.
IndiaInk An imprint of Roli Books Pvt Ltd M-75, Greater Kailash II Market New Delhi 110 048 Phone: ++91 (011) 4068 2000 Fax: ++91 (011) 2921 7185 E-mail: [e-mail]; Website: www.rolibooks.com Also at Bangalore, Chennai, & Mumbai
ISBN: 978-93-5194-000-5 Cover design: Gunjan Ahlawat Layout design: Sanjeev Mathpal
Typeset in Adobe MrsEaves by Roli Books Pvt Ltd and printed at Anubha Printers, Noida (UP)
In memory of Nishit Saran

1. Mr Alexander
2. Tara
3. A Chance at Happiness
4. A Date in Paharganj
5. Bachelor
6. The Company
7. Dior
8. Diwali
9. At the Eye Doctor
10. In Bombay
11. Karan and Maneck
12. A Highway Deal
13. Nitin and I
14. A Fine Provenance
15. A Contract of Dreams
16. The House
17. Thirty Seconds
Mr Alexander

It was a Saturday afternoon. The financial year had just ended and I was more than pleased with the results. We had done well. I had done well. I had attended two meetings in the morning and then taken the day off. I switched off my blackberry and decided to saunter around in Greater Kailash M-block market. Defecting from work was something I had never done, and this felt mutinous and brash. But, I was enjoying spending time in the market where I had hung out as a child with my older sister, intimidated by young men in their open Maruti Gypsy’s ogling at her fresh adolescent beauty, oblivious to the shorter, younger me.
Sipping a cappuccino, pondering over the success of my business in the past year and reminiscing about my childhood years in alternate and mixed thoughts, I was lost in contentment.
Everyone around me was at least ten years younger, except for some men in their forties who sat whispering in corners, or straining their eyes at open laptops. The kids – I was pleased with the word – hung around just like I did twenty years ago. The aloofness in their demeanour mirrored the way I had behaved at their age. I marvelled at their flirtatious theatrics, their pearly white smiles as if from toothpaste adverts, tank tops that revealed lace-edged bras and tattooed arms, steps that shuffled with practised abandonment, dangling cigarettes and low-waist jeans that exposed Tommy Hilfiger boxers or brightly coloured panties.
You’ve come a long way baby, I told myself, repeating the hackneyed phrase in my mind, my foot tapping jovially to Bon Jovi that played in the background.
I sat gleeful, my chest puffed with ego and pride, the smugness apparent in the way I clicked my fingers for another coffee. The waiter looked surprised before his expression turned hurtful, but I continued to look out of the window, basking in my present success and thinking back to a distant past.
Sipping my second cup of coffee, I thought how much I was enjoying the scene around me, the view of the burgeoning chaotic market from the bay window, more intoxicating than the paintings and sculptures I had seen at the Louvre last year.
I remembered the luminosity in Rembrandt’s Bathsheba at her Bath , and wondered if I was nearly as enraptured by it as the texts and the audio guide insisted I ought to be. I remembered walking around Antonio Canova’s Psyche Revived by Cupid’s Kiss , hypnotized by its beauty, its subtle eroticism, the marble like hardened milk, the movement of the sculpture as fluid as silk in a tempest. I remembered when I walked away from it, I felt like making love. Desperately, urgently. To someone. To anyone. Instead, I relieved myself in the Louvre restroom. But I didn’t feel relieved, only temporarily alleviated.
I laughed, thinking about how mixed, muffled and muddled my thoughts were. Drawing from one thought only to teleport to another, the blurred connections, the uninterrupted, though tortuous, flow of my mind. I laughed some more, this time loudly. The teenagers looked at me. I thought I heard one of the prettier girls say, ‘Weirdo.’
You’ve come a long way baby, I repeated to myself again, and then looking towards the girl I said in my mind, And you don’t know the half of it baby .I felt scornful at my pretentious and banal rebuttal towards her, even if it was only in my mind. I wanted to claw it off. Shuddering at these thoughts, I tried to focus back on Canova’s sculpture, but the moment was lost.
At school, my friends were rich. Sons of prosperous businessmen, they went to London and New York for summer vacations and they sported Rolexes and Cartiers in high school. I came from a middle-class family and I would always compare.
I would touch my friend’s BMWs like Midas. When shaking hands with them, I would reach a little further and touch the Rolexes and wish they were on my wrist. I never wore a watch in those days, preferring my wrist to be bare rather than wear the Titan my parents had gifted me when I was eighteen.
After I graduated, I began working with a friend who owned a large textile trading business. A-hole-in-the-wall office at the Krishna cloth market in Chandni Chowk gave him two Mercedes and a sparkling gold Rolex. His mother wore the biggest diamonds I had ever seen.
I was burning. I worked with him for two years, learning everything about fabrics, about the trade, about discounts and credits, about yarns, dyes and washes. In two years I was confident to start my own business. When I told him, he shook my hand and wished me well, but I saw betrayal in one eye and his broken heart in the other. I knew we would never be the same again.
I became successful overnight. I knew the business inside out. Customers, suppliers, dealers, bankers – everyone trusted me. I worked hard. I had my targets set on each possession. The watch, the cars, the suits, the shoes, the vacations, the presents, the stationery, the wines, the whiskeys, the apartment.
You don’t know the half of it baby , I said in my mind again, and looking at the time on my gold Rolex, I pushed back my chair to leave.
Just as I did, I saw a man enter the glass door, the sweat beads on his bald head immediately evaporating as he entered, the blast of the air conditioner causing the wisps of hair about his ears to vacillate gently. I immediately recognized him, Mr Alexander, my high school teacher. He taught accounts and he was the most loathed teacher in the school. I had never seen him smile, only the slight baring of teeth he gave once during assembly while accepting some bland and eminently forgettable award from the principal.
I debated if I should wish him, but he recognized me with a raise of his brow and slight curve of lips. I was surprised. He shook my hand firmly. It was the first time I shook the hand of any teacher and the warmth and strength of Mr Alexander’s hand surprised me further. He smiled and it was far from the snarl I remembered. His cheeks were plump with contentment and his eyes sparkled behind large spectacles.
I didn’t know quite what to say, instead bunching together banal questions about school and life.
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘All fine.’ He continued smiling, all too aware of my nervousness and childish attempt at conversation. I hemmed and hawed, signalling the end of the conversation, and proceeded to clumsily circumvent his large frame which suddenly seemed to occupy the entire room.
‘Join me,’ he said. He said it openly without expectation, but it was an invitation nonetheless.
Surprised, slightly annoyed, but wary and reminded of his authority as my former teacher, I sat down resentfully.
‘Another coffee?’ he said.
‘Sure,’ I said. Then added, ‘Sure, sir. Thank you.’
He smiled again, but this time it seemed as if he was smiling to himself, inwardly happy that the strict life of our all-boys school had me still remember my manners.
He politely signalled a waiter and in an easy, friendly tone asked for two