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Uncle Musto Takes a Mistress
Uncle Musto Takes a Mistress
Uncle Musto Takes a Mistress
Ebook43 pages55 minutes

Uncle Musto Takes a Mistress

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It is the 1970s, pre-liberalization Delhi. Sanju, a shy ten-year-old boy, lives with his grandparents in a Delhi Colony while his parents work abroad. A close relative, Uncle Musto, begins a love affair that leads to division and discord in the family. Long-suppressed secrets come to light, and Sanju sees and hears things that change him forever.
LanguageEnglish
PublisherHarper XXI
Release dateSep 21, 2013
ISBN9789351361312
Uncle Musto Takes a Mistress
Author

Mohan Sikka

'Uncle Musto Takes a Mistress' won a 2009 PEN/O. Henry Prize. Mohan's story 'The Railway Aunty' was published in Delhi Noir, part of the renowned urban noir series from Akashic Books that was brought to India by HarperCollins.

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    Book preview

    Uncle Musto Takes a Mistress - Mohan Sikka

    abc

    UNCLE MUSTO TAKES A MISTRESS

    Mohan Sikka

    abc

    Table of Contents

    Title Page

    Uncle Musto Takes a Mistress

    About the Author

    Copyright

    Uncle Musto Takes a Mistress

    Uncle Musto had hired the services of a female secretary. In our slow-paced colony, news like this gave the street a charge, with its hint of juicy developments, its premise of slowly revealed impropriety. The secretary’s name was Rose: a Goan lady, dark complexioned, with two pigtails tied in bouncy red ribbons and looped on top of her head, the arrangement embellished with rhinestone brooches and Little Mermaid hairpins. ‘Trimmings suitable for a girl of thirteen,’ Grandma remarked at dinner with a sniff. She’d seen Rose when she’d paid a bedside call on Uncle Musto’s wife, but there’d been no introductions: ‘Skitting about here and there like a doe, eyes made up with too much kohl, Sir this, Sir that, running circles around our Prince Musto. She has taken up quarters in the room above their garage, rent free!’

    ‘Why are we discussing Musto’s affairs?’ Grandpa said gruffly, over his plate. ‘He works hard to put food in many mouths. Leave him alone and eat your own meal.’

    Grandma cracked off the end of a radish. ‘Arré? His welfare is our welfare. I don’t say he shouldn’t have an assistant. But that sort of person? And live-in? How does it look?’

    I was ten and living with my grandparents (my mother and father were abroad). Musto was my mother’s cousin and lived two streets over from my grandparents. Since Musto’s own parents had passed away some years before, he often came to seek Grandpa and Grandma’s guidance on matters both personal and professional. The two households, his and ours, were known in the colony as the junior and senior Chopras respectively.

    Recently, Grandpa had helped Musto make a series of useful business connections—Grandpa was retired from the Ordnance Corps of the Indian Army—and Musto had clinched a large deal to make special field radios for soldiers.

    After dinner it was time for my glass of warm milk with almonds in the kitchen. Grandma stood by to make sure I downed every drop. Meanwhile, Dheeraj, our servant, scraped vegetables with gusto from the bottom of a steel skillet, his unruly thatch of hair flopping over his boyish face. ‘Mataji,’ he piped up, ‘it is not my place to meddle in big people’s affairs, but the market talk is that Musto Master and this Sister Rose are taking long evening walks. What should I say when I hear such words against our family? It makes my steam rise.’

    ‘Those who cast aspersions on decent folk should look inside their own black hearts,’ Grandma snapped. Any other day, she happily ate up the tidbits of street news Dheeraj brought, clicking her tongue at colony

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