‘Welcome to Ideal Haven, a residential complex so lavish and affordable…it will make the cream of the town envy you.’  I didn’t write those lines. It was the advertisement company’s branding team’s idea. I was just there, looming over her—the poor trainee who had jotted those lines after getting a rude rebuttal from her womanizer boss. Anyhow, this story isn’t about the intern. This is about Ideal Haven, the residential paradise, which hoped to lure in the middle class with its price and facilities. Swimming pool, gym, community hall, a supermarket within the complex and what not. The cheap cement used for construction, the underhand dealings…God, I am gibbering away, am I not? Don’t worry, I am not a stalker. So rude of me to not introduce myself first. I am the narrator of this story; you see. It’s my duty to relay what I see and hear with honesty.  Let’s move towards the actual story. I don’t recall whose idea it was, but they decided to name the buildings in the complex after different synonyms for heaven. ‘Paradise’, ‘Olympus’, ‘Jannat’…you get the idea.  ‘Paradise’ was the first building built in the complex, and all its flats were all booked in three months. Guess the advertisement worked after all.  There are eight flats in ‘Paradise’. Two flats in 'Paradise' were bought to avoid income tax. That leaves six.  If are an early riser, chances are you will see a woman in her mid-thirties on her first-floor balcony. She is super lean, mere bones covered by fragile, sun-kissed skin. When you see her there in the morning, you might find her tending to the holy basil plant. Watering it and folding her palms before it, praying to the universe for some inner peace. She is a proud mother of a two-year-old boy. Her husband, Asmit Khanna, dated her for seven long years before marrying her. But when he asked her how soon could he tie a sehra* on his head, she met his question with a blank stare. The differences between their last names were quite discernable.  He was a Punjabi Khatri* and she was a Shinde. Renu Shinde. A Maharashtrian by birth. Both their families had staunch beliefs where marriage and caste was concerned. Renu has two sisters. One older than her and the other younger than her. The eldest brother, Pranav, felt responsible for his sisters, since their father had passed away when he was ten.  He considered it a brotherly duty to find respectable Maharashtrian matches for his three sisters. He married off Renu’s older sister, Kamini, when she was just 19. After 12 years of marriage, Kamini returned home with her only son. Her husband was an alcoholic and beat her up at the slightest provocation. When he observed the bruises and scars on Kamini’s hand and neck, he took a decision to not make any mistakes in Renu and his younger sister’s case.  Renu had succumbed to familial pressure and had even got engaged to a guy from her own caste, picked by her brother of course. When Asmit learned that his lady love was being forced to marry someone else, his Punjabi blood boiled, and he barged into her home during the wedding ceremony. The fracas he caused could have put a Bollywood movie to shame. The marriage was called off and after a lot of confrontation and discussion, Asmit was allowed to marry Renu.  During the bidaai*, when Renu hugged her brother and cried, he whispered into her ear, “you’ve made your choice. Don’t come running back to me if things go awry at your new home.”  Renu promised herself she wouldn’t ever seek her brother’s help. When Asmit held her hand and drove her to his home, she was certain that he would be there for her. Come what may.  But reality is like a stack of stones, destroyed by a gust of wild wind. Turned out Asmit’s family wanted a fair and beautiful Punjabi bride for their son.  Asmit’s mother was the most vocal about her views about a non-Punjabi girl of some lowly Marathi caste. At first, Renu avoided replying to her mother-in-law’s taunts. But there were days the taunts got too personal and hideous. She then told Asmit about it.  “Your mother said something really offensive to me today,” she said as she collected his dirty laundry and dumped them in the washing machine.  Asmit did not reply and continued untying his shoelaces.  “Don’t you want to know what she said to me?” Renu asked when she saw Asmit’s deadpan face.  “I’ve just returned from work. Can you please bring me some snacks and tea first?” Asmit asked as he changed his clothes.  “Your mother called me a lowly slut today. She also said that she will pack me off to my parent’s home, just like my sister’s husband sent her back.” Renu raised her voice.  “That’s my mother you are talking about.” Asmit’s spoke even as his jaw hardened.  Renu could read signs, more so when it came to the guy she had loved and dated for seven years. So, she let the matter go that day.  A few days later, Asmit’s mother complained about a chicken curry Renu had made with coconut.  “We don’t eat this shit in our home!” She rancored away as Renu wept silently in the kitchen. “Throw that Marathi crap into the dustbin. My son will never eat it.”  On days like that, Renu poured her curry into a Tupperware vessel and walk out of the flat, slamming the main door behind her.  She climbed up two floors. Up on the third floor, lives Mrs. Das. Mrs. Das is a widower who started living with her son and daughter-in-law ever since her husband passed away.  Whenever Renu rang her doorbell in the afternoon, she would hobble towards the door as fast as she could. Her arthritis made walking tedious. But she knew who could be knocking on her door at this hour. She greeted Renu with her usual wide grin, something that warmed up Renu’s heart with hope for the future.  “Bhetore aaho, aaho*,” Mrs. Das invited her in, in her own regional dialect of Bangla. She was born and brought up in a village somewhere near the Sundarbans. By fourteen she was married, and by seventeen she was mother to two boys. Her younger one had won a scholarship and left for greener pastures in the States. Her older son had married into money and had started his own medicine shop. Mrs. Das had always cherished a desire to be a chef, like the ones who hosted shows on television. All her life, she kept begging her husband to go out and work. But he would quieten her with just one sentence.  “You want to be a chef? You can’t even speak two words in Hindi properly, leave alone English.”  Her husband’s words burnt her heart like raw mustard on someone’s tongue. But no matter how scathing things got, she never wept in front of him. That was when he lived. Now, with him gone, she had to practice the same with her daughter-in-law, Adriti Chatterjee.  “I prefer my maiden surname to Das,” she announced to her would-be husband, Mrs. Das’s older son, the very day he went to meet her for the first time at a café of her choice. Her son, Somnath, was smitten as soon as he laid his eyes on Adriti. He knew city girls had better fashion sense than village bumpkins. But Adriti was something else. Her big kohl-rimmed doe-eyes spoke even when she did not. She had a nose chiseled to perfection. Her lips were of the colour of red hibiscus petals. Somnath knew the day he met Adriti; he would be a slave to her all his life.  Mrs. Das, however, knew her son had brought home a siren. She sang, and he followed. Adriti trampled down anyone who dared to stand in her way. Mrs. Das also realised that she was an eyesore to Adriti. Sometimes you don’t need to offend or piss a person to earn their hatred. They just hate you whether you deserve it or not. Adriti’s dynamics with her mother-in-law were set right from the point she entered the household.  In Renu, Mrs. Das found a soul-daughter, someone like her and yet different. Their love for new recipes and food from different regions paved a bridge between them, one of mutual respect and genial camaraderie.  The dishes Renu’s mother-in-law detested even without tasting, Mrs. Das gobbled like a famished bird took to a bowl of bird seeds.  “Darun hoise kintu*,” Mrs. Das uttered as she tasted Renu’s chicken curry. Renu did not understand her language most of the time, but she could see Mrs. Das’s heartwarming smile that went all the way up to her eyes. She could tell when Mrs. Das loved her cooking, which was almost always. If on a rare occasion, something did go wrong in her dish, Mrs. Das would explain it to her in the gentlest tone, like people spoke to a kid who had been hurt. Renu could never muster up the courage, but she wanted to hug the old lady so badly sometimes for just being kind.  Renu knew about the unspoken cold war Adriti raged against Mrs. Das. She had stumbled into her one day after she returned from work. Adriti was a woman out of a fashion magazine. Her sari pleats were straight and crisp like blades of a fan. Her makeup was minimal, but made her look regal. When she walked in that day, Renu felt slightly ashamed of her unkempt appearance. A casual bun clumped together haphazardly with a clutcher, a faded printed kurta with simple white leggings.  But Mrs. Das’s introduction lifted her spirits. “Adriti, this is Renu. She lives on the first floor. She is an amazing cook.”  Adriti cast a sideways glance at Renu and gave her a wry smile. She extended her hand towards Renu with her usual corporate swag, “Adriti. I own Pandora’s Box.”  Renu’s jaw dropped as she shook Adriti’s hand vigorously. “Pandora’s Box, the luxury salon?” She asked.  Adriti smirked as she cussed Renu in silence. She could see why her mother-in-law liked this woman. She had no class, no grooming and was probably a dropout from some nondescript government school.  “I have a headache,” she turned to her mother-in-law, “please make me a cup of chamomile tea. Please don’t let the tea leaves overboil like you did last time.”  Adriti did not wait to see the pain of humiliation in Mrs. Das’s eyes or the indignation in Renu’s.  “Aunty, please sit. Let me make the tea,” she requested to Mrs. Das. But the old lady. shook her head and smiled.  “Na Ami cha koira nimu. Tumi bari jao. Tomaro j koto hyapa aase, aami jani.*” She said.  Renu understood Mrs. Das had politely turned down her offer. What she did not realise was the fact that her friendly old neighbour knew about the beating her husband gave her on a semi-regular basis. While he whipped her with his belt, bhajans* were played at a loud volume in the living room, where Mrs. Khanna drank her evening tea.  What she also did not know was how much it pissed Adriti. The screaming, shouting and the loud bhajans melded into an infernal cacophony which nipped her evening beauty nap in the bud.  Now let’s move to the fifth floor, where not too long ago, a young couple has moved in. Sheena and Shaurya. Theirs was an arranged marriage. No caste or language barriers here. But issues crop up even without those tropes.  Love flowed in this couple’s veins alongside blood during the first five years of their married life, which they spent in Australia. Then life took a downturn. Shaurya’s mother fell ill, so they informed him over a call.  Sheena wanted to stay back in Australia. She had just bagged a huge promotion. But at Shaurya’s insistence, she tagged along. His mother's blood pressure was low, but it had balanced out.  “We are growing old, son.” She spoke in a honey laced tone that could make the bees envious.  Sheena had a weird feeling about the entire situation, but she remained quiet. Her mother-in-law had been good to her for the past five years. And whenever she was out of line, her son put her in her place.  The jolt came later as they started to live together in India. At first, it was normal interference. But hell broke loose when Sheena conceived their grandchild.  Don’t exercise every day in that condition.  Don’t eat eggs during pregnancy.  Dress in an appropriate manner. This is India.  The retorts got unbearable by the time Sheena delivered her first child. She wasn’t ready to adhere to more rules and decided to rent her own place for Shaurya and her. Ideal Haven seemed to be a perfect pick. But not an auspicious one, not for their marriage anyway.  While Sheena found everything mesmeric about the residential complex, Shaurya maintained a stoic and oppressive silence on her observations.  “You are trying to pry me away from my family,” he said one day when they were seated on the balcony, and Sheena was gushing about how beautiful the pool was and how well-maintained the lawns were.  “Excuse me?” Sheena’s gaze widened as she heard his words.  “You heard me.”  “I asked you before I started to look for apartments.” Sheena’s brows came close together as she stated.  “Yes, you did. It’s not rocket science to understand what you would have done if I had refused,” Shaurya maintained his passive-aggressive pose.  “What was that?”  “You would have packed your bags and rushed off to your parents’ place.”  “Didn’t you come back from abroad after hearing about your mother’s fake medical condition?” Sheena bellowed.  She never realized Renu had heard their entire argument from her balcony. After a time, she knew by the clock when the couple would start fighting. She had met Sheena several times in the lift. From the corner of her eye, she had observed Sheena. She was a catch, somewhat like Adriti but more carefree. She was beautiful in a way, perhaps even she hadn’t realised. They met once every day in the morning. Renu entered the elevator with garbage bags, and Renu marched in her formal office wear. Renu sighed within and often imagined herself in Sheena’s place. The thought also crossed Renu’s mind that what a fool her husband was. Who would want to upset such a pretty wife?  You might be thinking what’s the point of these mundane stories about four different women living in the same building? There isn’t one, really. But wait, the story isn’t over yet.  Recently, a new twist has changed the dynamics between these characters. Adriti stormed down to the first floor one day, threatening to sue Asmit for the disturbance he caused every evening.  Asmit and his mother countered her threats with their own brand of cuss words. The next thing they knew, Asmit found himself neckdeep into a legal battle.  Mrs. Das suffered a stroke a few days after her 75th birthday. Renu still visits her at the hospital and goes with her dishes to the hospital to visit her. Of course, Mrs. Das’s diet is too restricted for her to taste Renu’s recipes. But Renu has gained a new aficionado who appreciates her cooking.  It was on a rainy day when she was carrying piping hot pakoras for Mrs. Das. She had just stepped into the elevator when she saw Sheena calling out to her. Renu placed her leg between the elevator doors to let her in. Sheena looked pretty as usual, but she was drenched. Also, she was drunk. Renu could make it from her besmeared makeup and her slurred speech.  “Would you like a pakora?” Renu asked, even as her heart hammered inside her ribcage.  Sheena did not reply. She simply picked one from the Renu’s container. Renu was sure Sheena would forget about it. But the next day, Renu found her smiling at her door.  “Hi, I got you some pasta. I don’t think it’s as tasty as your pakoras. But this is the only dish I can make.”  Sheena wasn’t lying. Since Shaurya had started ignoring her, she had cried and stained her pillow innumerable times. Renu’s request to taste her pakora was a friend's invite for Sheena.  Thanks to Sheena, Asmit and his mother are charged with domestic violence. They are in jail. They could have avoided their fate if they refrained from calling Sheena a b***h.  Sheena was a lawyer, you see. Imagine what Adriti would do now.  Welcome to Ideal Haven Complex. Bookings are on now.  Sehra: a wedding headress Khatri: A caste amid Punjabis  Bidaai*: A ritual where the bride’s family sends her to the groom’s family after marriage.  Bhetore aaho, aaho*: ‘Come Inside’ in Bangal language Darun hoise kintu*: ‘It’s excellent’ in Bengali  Ami cha koira nimu. Tumi bari jao. Tomaro j koto hyapa aase, aami jani.*: ‘I will make the tea. You go home. I know how troublesome your situation is’ in Bangla. Bhajans* : Songs sung in God’s praise   Penmancy gets a small share of every purchase you make through these links, and every little helps us continue bringing you the reads you love!