Anu’s Beauty Parlour

Ritika Bali

Ma says the new aunty who lives downstairs is too much. I don’t know what she means, but every time we run into her on the staircase of our building, Ma’s smile becomes small, and she quickly tugs at my shoulder to pull me away.

The Aunty who lives downstairs isn’t like the other aunties in our building. She wears these super bright dresses with big, swirly shapes that remind me of movie posters. When she talks, her hands move around and the big circles and triangles falling from her ears jingle. But Ma doesn’t like that Aunty is so loud, and her house is right below ours, so we can hear everything when she’s on the phone sitting on her verandah. Aunty mixes English and Hindi in a voice that’s all sing-songy, saying things like darling and baby, which makes Ma wrinkle her nose like she’s smelled something bad.

The Aunty who lives downstairs has opened a beauty parlour inside her house. No one from our building really goes there. But I have seen aunties from the other buildings across the street coming to get their nails and hair done. Sometimes, even uncles go in and out, and I wonder what they’re doing inside the parlour. When I ask my Ma and Papa, they start whispering to each other. They always get serious when they talk about the silver merz-deez parked outside our building. Papa says that as a sec-tarary of this building, he will call a meeting to discuss Aunty’s guest problem.

The beauty parlour is named after her—Anu. I sometimes see older boys on motorcycles hanging around near the roadside of our building, laughing as they point at the board with Aunty’s parlour address. When I go downstairs to play in the gully and look at the board, I notice they have painted over the big comma on the top between “ANU” and “S”. When I find the word in the big Oxford dictionary in my house, I don’t laugh at all. Aunty changes her name to ANNU and then ANNUU but the boys come back and paint over the letters or draw the big comma and S.

*

When Ma dresses up in a sari for a party, she pins a sparkly red rose to her hair. The rose doesn’t have any smell, so she sprays jasmine perfume on it. She keeps it far away, in the corner of her almaree. When Papa comes into the room, dressed in shirt and pants, Ma spins around and asks, how do I look? Papa doesn’t say anything but makes a hmph sound and then applies amla oil to his wet hair.

In the evenings, I sometimes watch Aunty singing to her plants. She tucks the hose under her arm, aiming the water at each plant—ones with flowers, others with colorful leaves, and even some with prickly stems. Her eyes go up and down like she’s checking her work, and then she stands still like she is playing statue, waiting for the water to start drip-dripping from the pots. When it does, she laughs and taps her forehead. When Aunty twirls around in her shorts, like Ma does in her sari, Papa stays on our verandah for long.

* 

The Aunty who lives downstairs has a furry black cat. She calls her Mishti. Ma and Papa don’t like her. They say a black cat brings bad luck and shouldn’t even be here. But Aunty loves Mishti. She picked her up from the dumpster behind our building. When it is too hot at night, I go outside and look below. I see Aunty sitting with Mishti curled up on her lap like a jalebi, gently scratching her ears. Mishti is so black that she nearly vanishes in the dark, but her big green eyes give her away. Sometimes, I wish Mishti would sneak out so I could pet her and share my favorite mari-gold biscuits, but Aunty keeps her locked inside.

One day, on my way back from school, I see that Aunty’s door is open. I make a tch-tch sound to call Mishti. She’s crying inside the hall. I want to step inside, but I remember Ma’s words: Aunty is like that evil witch in your storybook. Don’t go near her unless you want her to eat you up. Suddenly, I jump as I see Aunty standing there, staring at me. She waves, but I run upstairs without looking back.

The next day, the door is open again. This time, I see Aunty playing with Mishti. She’s holding a ball and throwing it on the floor. Aunty laughs as Mishti tilts her head, her tail going left and right and left and right like crazy. When Aunty points toward me, Mishti brushes her soft, furry tail against my leg, making me giggle. After a few minutes, I turn to run upstairs. Aunty calls out behind me, come again, Sunday evening at five.

In school, I tell Ginni about Mishti, and her eyes grow big like potatoes; I think they will fall out. She wants to pet Mishti too. So, on Sunday evening at five, we quietly ring Aunty’s doorbell when no one is watching. Aunty opens the door and smiles. She calls us inside the hall and lets us play with Mishti. My stomach does a funny flip, like when I go up and down on the giant wheel or when I take out money from Papa’s pants hanging behind the bathroom door.

This is the first time I see Aunty with a cig-ret. Ginni and I cough in the smoke. Aunty says she is sorry and smashes it under her slipper. Then she disappears inside her room, leaving us with Mishti. When I get back home, Ma doesn’t say anything. She thinks I was at Ginni’s house.

Every Sunday, Ginni and I sneak inside Aunty’s house for a few minutes. We watch as Aunty practices haircuts on dolls with long, thick hair, just like they show on TV. She has a huge mirror in her parlour, and sometimes, when we say a long pleeez she lets us put lipstick and eyeshadow on our faces. But before leaving, we rub it all off.

The Aunty who lives downstairs tells me that I make her laugh. I don’t understand, so she explains that she can hear everything Ma, Papa, and I say upstairs through the vent next to our kitchen, like when Ma yells at me to finish my homework and I make excuses and or when Papa yells at Ma for not making tea on time or when she has forgotten to iron his clothes, and I tell Papa that his voice is making my ears hurt, but Papa screams anyway. Aunty tells me that the next time Papa shouts at Ma, I should shout back at him.

Aunty shares secrets with Ginni and me. She tells us about her friend in the silver merz-deez she met at a party. He’s a sweet one, she says. Ginni and I giggle so hard. He sure must be her “boyfriend”.

She tells us about the time she had a little baby, as small as her palm, but then she died. When I ask how, she laughs and says, I ate her up. Ginni and I look at each other as Aunty’s stomach growls right then and for a moment, I believe what Ma says about Aunty being a witch. When I ask her if she is one, Aunty gives me her hand to touch. Her skin is warm, her nails are painted pink, and her teeth are straight in a line like mine—not crooked and pointy and brown and red.

Then Aunty shares with us her dream–to have the best beauty parlour in the world. She says she even went to a special school to learn all about make-up.

*

The parlour isn’t as busy as it was. No one really goes there now. Even the board outside the building with Aunty’s parlour address has disappeared. It is this dammed building and these dammed people, Aunty cries when Ginni and I are visiting. Her voice is wobbly as she wipes her eyes. I have heard other uncles and aunties say that it is a good thing that her parlour did not work out. They say it like they are happy about it, which I don’t understand. Even the silver merz-deez is gone.

I want to tell Aunty that Mishti may be bringing bad luck because she is always around, watching everything with her shiny green eyes. But I don’t think Aunty would believe me, and anyway, Mishti seems to be the only thing that can make her stop crying these days. Whenever Aunty is upset, she picks up Mishti and strokes her fur, whispering things into her ear. And just like that, she calms down.

The evening Papa beats Ma, no words come out of my mouth. Later that night, when everyone is asleep, I hear a soft preep preep from downstairs, as if Aunty knows I am awake. I tip-toe out to the verandah and look down. Aunty is sitting in her chair, staring back up at me, half of her face hidden in the shadows. She plucks a rose from the plant beside her and throws it up to me. I catch it, and the petals spread out like Ma’s forehead. I squeeze the flower tightly, thinking if I should say something or if she wants me to do something. Maybe Aunty knows things I don’t—things Ma doesn’t tell me, things that happen after Papa shuts their bedroom door. It’s only when my eyes start to droop, and I wave goodnight that she waves back and goes inside.

*

In our building, people keep coming and going. Just three floors above us, a new uncle has moved in. Ma says he walks and talks funny. When Ginni’s Ma, Leela Aunty, comes over for chai one evening, she tells Ma that she saw a young boy going into the uncle’s apartment the evening before. He must have stayed the night, she shivers, can you imagine? How I know? The boy’s white sports shoes were still outside his door the next morning. Ma’s mouth opens like she is waiting for someone to throw a laddoo in it. Then Leela aunty whispers, the boy looked familiar–I’ve seen him working at Parvez bhai’s shop.

The Aunty downstairs has become friends with the uncle upstairs. They visit each other’s houses and Ma, Papa, Leela Aunty, and Manoj Uncle have started saying they should just marry each other now.

One day, when Ginni and I sneak into Aunty’s house to play with Mishti, Aunty takes us to her parlour room. Come, look who’s here! As we step inside, we see a girl sitting in the chair, facing the mirror, dabbing a bright red lipstick across her lips. It is a bit zig-zag like she still needs practice. Her hair is tied in tight little knots with cloth rags. Aunty says it helps make curls.

I don’t really know who this girl is but when she turns around, waves at me and calls my name in a soft voice, I know it’s him—the uncle from upstairs! His eyes sparkle with blue glitter, and they look so pretty, like the sky on a starry night.

Then Ginni screams.

She screams the loudest of the loud screams. I turn around, but she’s already running through the hall, out the door. I chase, but she is too fast. When I reach her floor, I see Leela aunty and Manoj uncle rushing downstairs. By this time, other uncles and aunties have left their houses. Ginni is pointing towards Aunty’s door. It is wide open. They all hurry inside and see the uncle from upstairs dressed in a sari. For the first time, I notice Aunty’s lips and hands shaking, just like Ma’s do when Papa comes home at midnight, swaying like a tree with red, swollen eyes.

*

 After Uncle has left, Papa says no aira gaira nathu khaira should be allowed to live in the building anymore. As the sec-tarary, he’s going to call a meeting this week to talk about the Aunty who lives downstairs. What Kalyug are we living in? What world are we leaving behind for our children? he mutters angrily before leaving for the office.

The Aunty who lives downstairs no longer sits on her verandah at night. Ginni and I don’t go outside alone in the evenings. Papa doesn’t trust you, Ma says, changing the bandage on her forehead. I’m mad at Ginni for messing everything up.

A few days later, I hear Aunty’s voice. Ma and Papa are sleeping, so I quietly slip outside. Below, I see her humming softly as she combs Mishti’s hair. The plants have fallen to the sides as if someone has punched them in a fight. I open my mouth to call out to Aunty, but I stop when I see her pulling Mishti close to her chest. She squeezes her harder and harder. Mishti mews loudly like she is in pain, but Aunty’s fingers keep poking into her fur. Before any sound can escape my mouth, Aunty lets go, and Mishti falls to the floor. For a second, I think Mishti is dead. Aunty is crying, rubbing Mishti, kissing her face. Then, slowly, Mishti moves her head and paws. Aunty quickly picks her up and runs inside the house.

*

The next day, the Aunty who lives downstairs is gone. All the uncles and aunties are happy about it. Ginni, Leela Aunty and Manoj Uncle come over for dinner. Ma has cooked Papa’s favorite mutton korma. Ginni and I sit side by side, but I don’t talk to her. I miss Aunty.

That night, when I go downstairs to throw away the leftovers, something moves behind me. I turn around and spot Mishti licking her paw. 

Her face is half hidden in the shadows, but her green eyes glow in the dark. I think I see her smiling at me.

***

About the Author

Ritika Bali is a short story writer from Lucknow and a recent MFA graduate from Miami University. Her work has been featured in Mistake House, Kitaab, The Punch Magazine, and more. She is the winner of 2024 Literature Live! MyStory Contest (Jury's Pick) and a runner-up for the 2024 Ruskin Bond Literary Award and the 2024 Deodar Prize. Her novel-in-progress excerpt was shortlisted for the 2024 Sandra Carpenter Memorial Fund Writers Scholarship.