Excerpt: THE AWASTHIS OF AAMNAGRI by Shubha Sarma
The Awasthis of Aamnagri by Shubha Sarma. Image credit: Niyogi Books
‘Or perhaps, Pandit Dinanath Awasthi was exhausted. Tired of a large, brabbling family in a small, rented house, he was convinced that it was time to create memories in a home of his own.’ An excerpt from Shubha Sarma’s novel, The Awasthis of Aamnagri (2020).
The Awasthis of Aamnagri (Niyogi Books, 2020) by Shubha Sarma is a fictional account of a family of lawyers in the city of mangoes or Aamnagri, tracing their trials and tribulations over several decades. The Awasthis are the quintessential Indian family, who bumble through their lives encountering missing jewels and stolen eggs, deaths foretold, averted and a suspected suicide with no body. Below is an exclusive excerpt from the first chapter of the novel.
“You call this Paradise?”
Everything about it, like the elusive paradise, was incongruent.
Paradise was a single-storeyed, sprawling bungalow standing behind an overgrown garden. It had boasted once of a high ceiling and an elegant parapet dotted with brown-coloured ventilators. Now these were obscured by swathes of thick, black cobwebs. The stolid building sat atop a masonry platform with a breezy verandah running on all sides. But grime-encased, metal grills caging the verandah destroyed the sense of airiness. The crimson red paint had peeled off in parts that made the exposed white patches look like pockmarks.
If you look long enough, you will find a trace of beauty even in the ugliest object. So was the case in Paradise.
A curved driveway leading to the porch was its redemption. It was a vision to behold—paved with red bricks and lined with a profusion of parijaat trees; their branches hung low weighed down by the wispy, orange-white blossoms; their exquisite beauty jarring with the gloom and decay of the setting. It was almost as if they were co-conspirators, trying to hide the hideousness of the building. And having failed to do so, they did the next best thing—created a diversion with a burst of colour and fragrance.
‘You call this Paradise?’ Pandit Dinanath Awasthi repeated incredulously. “Only a fool could have named this ‘Paradise’. Or someone who was blind! Seriously, Munshi, nothing could be further drawn from the truth. Paradise indeed!” Panditji snorted, torn between expressing amusement at his wisecrack and disappointment on seeing the bungalow. Munshi’s never-ending praise over the last two days had led him to expect something grander than what was before his eyes. What a pity!
It was almost as if they were co-conspirators, trying to hide the hideousness of the building. And having failed to do so, they did the next best thing—created a diversion with a burst of colour and fragrance.
“Wait! Are you sure we are at the right place? Could there be a mistake in the address?” he asked hopefully.
“No, Panditji… This is Dr Bimal Sen’s bungalow. The one I told you about. I know it looks a little ramshackle. Ok, maybe more than a little, but nothing that a bit of plaster and a coat of paint will not cure.”
“Munshi,” Panditji was exasperated, “I admit, I am an ardent admirer of your ability to make a situation look better than what it is. Believe you me, it’s a useful quality in our profession. However, this is not the time to play games. I fear it will need much more than plaster and paint. After talking to you yesterday, I got the impression that it would be ready to move in with my family. I really don’t know how…”
“Don’t judge the house so hastily, Panditji. In the twenty years that we have worked together, have I ever let you down? Haven’t you said on many an occasion that I have an uncanny eye for the best clients? I am telling you Panditji, this is a great bargain. Where else will you find a bungalow like this for the price they are demanding? Or the price we are willing to pay? I agree it is not as good as the Peeli Kothi we visited yesterday, but you have always said that appearances can be deceptive. For the price that we are offering, this is a far superior deal. Trust me!”
Panditji acquiesced all good sense that seemed to have prevailed in his life until then. Those who knew him were bemused. They asked, ‘why?’
Why?
Why is the sky blue? Or the ocean so deep?
Sometimes the most complex, existential mysteries of the universe have the simplest explanations.
It could be that in the spring of 1975, the air was heady; fragrant with the delicate smell of raat-ki-rani and parijaat flowers dangling from the trees that dotted Bangala Number Unnees. There was also numerology to provide answers to the unknown—the numbers nineteen and seventy-five share a high affinity. It was possible that in a season marked by the end of the Vietnam War and the rise of the cruel Khmer Rouge on faraway shores, this weed-grown driveway of a derelict bungalow with its fragile parijat blossoms, was reminiscent of a sublime serenity. A symbol of all that mankind was willing to forfeit in pursuit of its ruthless ambition.
Or perhaps, Pandit Dinanath Awasthi was exhausted. Tired of a large, brabbling family in a small, rented house, he was convinced that it was time to create memories in a home of his own. A home that he could afford with his meagre earnings as a fledgling advocate; no matter if it was cracked and crumbling.
Against his better judgment, succumbing to Munshi’s advice yet again, Panditji appended his flourishing signature to a cheque and secured a place in Paradise.
As they shifted into the rambling, eight-bedroom house, the family discovered how right and how wrong Munshiji had been.
“It is entirely Munshi Shyamlal’s fault. Ever since he has joined Panditji, he has brought all kinds of trouble. It is true that he is effective in the court. Panditji says that he can reel in wealthy clients like fish on a line. But this time, he has crossed all limits. How dare he call this hovel a bungalow?”
“It’s okay, Mataji.” Chhaya tried to pacify her mother-in-law. “It’s not as bad as we thought. First of all, Panditji finds it more convenient to reach the court from here. I’ve noticed that there is hardly any traffic on the main road. And then, the children’s school is close by. They walk down in the morning without any difficulty. Most importantly, when Sumi, Vinu or Anu would come with their children, we are going to have all this space. The old house used to feel so cramped.”
Mataji visibly brightened at the very mention of her beloved daughters.
“Hmm. That, at least, is something to celebrate. But I tell you, Munshi did this deliberately so that I shall have no peace for the next few years. All my hair will turn grey trying to bring this house in order.”
Despite Mataji’s qualms about the house, it took only a few weeks for the dilapidated, run-down Paradise to start glowing like a young bride. Neglect by its erstwhile owner had almost killed it. Panditji and his family seemed to have given it a new lease of life. Their love and care changed the weather-beaten Paradise into a vibrant home; gradually, the name ‘Paradise’, reminiscent of its ugly yesteryears, was forgotten and it came to be known as ‘Panditji’s Haveli’.
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Shubha Sarma is an alumnus of Lady Shri Ram College and Jawaharlal Nehru University and a member of the Indian Administrative Service. She currently lives in Bhubaneswar with her husband, two sons and four dogs. Her debut book, Fly on the Wall & Other Stories was launched in 2013 and was translated into Hindi and Italian. The Awasthis of Aamnagri is her second novel. You can find her on Twitter: @Shubha_Sarma and Instagram: @penofshubha.
