Preeta’s Web of Chaos: Chapter 5 — Hyacinth Bucket
You’re about to read a sample of my book Preeta’s Web of Chaos. I’ll add new updates each and every week so follow me for more. You can go back to the first chapter, see a list of all chapters, or buy the full book. You can also contact me @ kieren [at] kierenpaulbrown.com.
Still decked out in her purple fluffy elephant pajamas, Preeta ran downstairs at full speed, barreled into the kitchen like a mid-air cannonball, and slid across its tiled floor with all the grace of a rampaging rhinoceros. Mom was there making a cup of tea, while Grandmother Dadi and Grandfather Dada were sitting at the table eating breakfast. All three looked up at her in shock.
“Hello, Dada!” Preeta said in Hindi, while giving him a super-duper big hug.
“Hello, Pree Pree!” he replied in English, squeezing her so tightly that she couldn’t quite breathe.
“Hello, Dadi!” Preeta said in English, while hugging her grandmother.”
“Hello, Pree Pree!” she replied in English, while rubbing her shoulders gently.
Grandfather Dada was 65 years old and easily the oldest and most ancient human Preeta knew. But, despite his advanced years, in some ways she thought he felt like he was even younger than her. His ancient frame and wrinkly face housed a boundless optimism and jubilant nature which was as infectious as it was youthful.
He grew up in Mumbai, came to the UK when he was 15, worked like a donkey (as he always loved saying), saved up all his money with his parents and eventually achieved his dream of owning his own Indian sweet shop. This meant he always had coconut barfi on hand to spoil Preeta with behind Mom’s back, or scoff down on the couch with Dad when they were watching comedy movies.
Grandmother Dadi was always telling him to retire, but he just wouldn’t do it. Whenever she brought it up, he always told her he was “too legit to quit”. Preeta didn’t really know what that meant, but she kind of got the point.
A practical joker to the core, Grandfather Dada was the self-proclaimed world’s biggest fan of Manchester City. He sat in front of the TV wearing his full kit every week shouting: “Kick the ball in the net! Kick the bloody ball in the bloody net!’ and “Khotey ki aulad!” meaning “Son of a donkey!” when the other team scored. When his team won, his mood was highest, along with his penchant for practical jokery; but when they lost, he was usually too miserable to do much of anything but sit on the couch eating sweets.
This meant that the rest of the family secretly prayed his team would lose so they wouldn’t have to deal with a near endless assault of stink bombs, whoopie cushions, salted cookies, frozen cereal, impeccably hidden alarm clocks which went off loudly and randomly, Play-Doh cleverly disguised as chewing gum, or his recent classic, covering a bar of soap with transparent nail polish and laughing until his sides ached when Mom frantically tried to wash herself to no avail.
But Grandfather Dada wasn’t just a self-amusing jokesmith of the highest order; he was also a snappy dresser with a fondness for fine suits. This, in conjunction with his boundless optimism and near-unshakable happiness, made him instantly magnetic to pretty much everyone who met him.
As for Grandmother Dadi, she was 60 and almost as ancient as Dada, but you’d never know it by looking at her smooth face. She always said that water was the fountain of youth and made a point of drinking four litres every single day without fail. She carried a water bottle everywhere she went and if she ever lost it, she’d freak out worse than most people do when they lose their phones. Somehow, she had an uncanny ability to know exactly how hydrated Preeta was and would accost her multiple times a day to pour far more of it down her neck than she was comfortable with.
“You’ll thank me for this when I’m long gone, you’re 72, have your own grandchildren, but still look and feel like you’re in your 40s!” she always said.
Preeta didn’t really see the point though. 72 and 42 were both older than Gandhi, so who cared which one she looked like?
Anyway, Grandmother Dadi could always be found in the kitchen.
Like always.
Literally.
Always.
She was never anywhere else in the house, only the kitchen.
But you know something? All those countless hours spent slaving away in that kitchen to hone her culinary talents had given her a level of mastery which was second to none. When you were fortunate enough to sample her food, your tastebuds thanked you for the experience. Your tongue was eternally grateful.
Your belly owed you a debt of true gratitude.
Grandmother Dadi’s food was far more than just mere sustenance. She wasn’t in the business of making nutritionally complete meals that would keep her family alive until the next time they ate.
No.
Grandmother Dadi was an artist.
Da Vinci had his paintbrush, Dahl had his typewriter, and Dadi had her ladle.
Her food was a sumptuous blessing for the tastebuds. A scrumptious gustatory experience. A mouthwatering journey of sensatory delight, which made even the staunchest of atheists wonder if perhaps there was indeed a higher power.
Her food was art.
But having said that, she made a point of beseeching to everyone who would listen about how much she actually didn’t like cooking. She would never stop pontificating about how beleaguered she felt in that kitchen and how little time it left for her own pursuits. All who knew her knew how she longed for the day when she could finally rest and not have to shoulder such a heavy burden.
From the way she talked, you’d think her family had kidnapped her and forced to cook delicious meals under the threat of gunshot; and what was hilarious was that she continued to say this even though nobody believed her.
She was the undisputed matriarch of the family and took pride in her position for more reasons than one. They didn’t believe her for a second.
She knew she loved cooking.
They knew she loved cooking.
She knew they knew she loved cooking.
And they knew she knew that they knew she loved cooking.
Never was a single fact more obvious.
But still, and for reasons which were inexplicable to Preeta, her grandmother felt the need to keep up the pretence month after month and year after year, apparently going back well before she was born. Odd as it seemed, proclaiming with great vigour that her life’s passion was an eternal prison from which she could never escape was one of her favourite hobbies.
Anyway, being somewhat loud and also in lifelong possession of a penchant for the dramatic, she also took pride in her ability to out-shout Dada and would bicker with him whenever she was bored. He called her Hyacinth Bucket, which really offended her for some reason, and she would call him “badir” meaning “idiot”. They argued from dusk till dawn but everyone knew it was all in good fun. She and Dada would be really loving at one moment, angry the next, and go right back to being loving immediately afterwards. It was just how they rolled.
Preeta lived at home with Mom, Dad, and her two grandparents. And, she also had an older brother called Pevin who was studying at Oxford, that big school for big kids who were almost all the way adults. It was a house of fun, a house of laughter, and a house of silliness.
To say Preeta loved her family to bits would be a massive understatement.
“Mom, you won’t believe what happened!” she cried in Hindi.
“What?? What happened??”
Preeta took a deep breath, composed herself, and blurted it all out.
“I was in a dream and I was in a place called Preetaria with tribespeople called Preetarians who all had black curly hair, blue eyes, and blue bindi spots on their foreheads! They all loved me and called me Devi and said that I created them and Preetaria and everything, but I didn’t remember doing it at all and I still don’t! And I had a big elephant friend called Hughpert Pumpernickle the Third, and he’s like my advisor person except he’s not really a person he’s an elephant and looks like Ganesh even though he’s not Ganesh and he told me about Preetaria and a disease called The Curse of the Forgotten which makes people disappear and then everyone else forgets they existed afterwards!”
“And, and the sky kept changing colour and there were explosions everywhere! And I was fired out of some weird catapult light energy thing and time slowed and I heard whispers but Hughpert didn’t hear any whispers and time sped up again and I almost crashed into the floor which was like ice and crystal but a giant massive huge tiger with a blue Bindi called Nomi saved me but I think I kinda grazed my knee when I was walking up the steps to the altar to see…..errr I can’t remember his name, but he was dying from The Curse of The Forgotten, and he actually died from The Curse of the Forgotten, but he loved me and kept telling me that he did except he said ‘I am for you’ and everyone there said I am for you, even Aqua and Echo too; they’re two dolphins that can turn into people!
“And uhh, after uh…uh…whatshisface died, everyone wanted my help and I was standing on top of this altar looking down at loads of people but I didn’t know what to say and I was really nervous and they wanted me to say something but I was really nervous so I didn’t know what to say because I was really nervous! They all wanted me to leave them and stay safe even though they were in trouble but I couldn’t do it because I like being a good person and they’re all good people so I said I’d stay and help and everyone was happy but now I’m back here because you woke me up!”
Mom took a few seconds to work out what the heck Preeta just said, standing with her mouth wide open, tonsils exposed, eyes scrunched tight, and forehead furrowed like it had never furrowed before. She looked like she’d encountered the world’s hardest maths quiz and was realising she’d bitten off more than she could chew.
“Sounds like quite the epic dream!” she eventually said, looking down at her daughter with confusion etched all over her brown-skinned face. Mom was the prettiest woman Preeta had ever known and maybe the kindest too. She was 35 and kinda super-duper ancient old, but like Dadi she looked younger than she was and had really soft and clear skin. Preeta guessed this was because of her determination to consume naught but fruits and vegetables. But Mom wasn’t just kind, she was also one of the most peculiar human beings Preeta knew too.
Her silky smooth, jet black curly hair was home to streaks of red, purple, blue, and often other colours too, and her dress sense was nothing short of unique. She made a point of always wearing either baggy hoodies and ripped jeans, beautiful multicoloured saris or smart business suits, but nothing else.
Never anything else.
That was all she ever wore!
She worked from home as a painter and was always in her studio singing along to 90s pop music while she painted. Her favourite band was an ancient one called East 17 and she’d always drag Preeta into her studio to dance to their song House of Love. She always said music and movement were her muses, so she listened to powerful songs while dancing to get out of her head, into her body, and allow her soul to inspire her artistically.
But, anyway, on with the story.
“No, Mom! It wasn’t a dream!” cried Preeta in Hindi.
“You just said it was a dream!” said Mom in Hindi, looking puzzled.
“Yeah, it was a dream but it was a real dream, look!”
Preeta lifted up the right leg of her pajamas to reveal the cut on her knee. Mom’s eyes widened in shock.
“Preeta, when did you do this?”
“In Preetaria! I just said!”
“Yeah yeah, but when did you really do it?”
“I did it in my dream!”
“Preeta, we don’t have time for this. Dreams aren’t real.”
“I know but this one was! That’s my point!” cried Preeta in Hindi.
“OK so you must have fallen out of bed in your sleep. Wait here while I get a plaster,” said Mom, speaking in English with a tone so dismissive it could be felt in any language.
“No, Mom, I tripped up some steps on my way up to an altar in my Grand Celestial Palace.”
“No, Preeta. You’re a clumsy sleeper and obviously fell out of bed during the night.”
Al four of Preeta’s limbs were shaking with frustration.
Adults are so annoying! They never listen!
“Now Preeta, I need you to focus. I’m going to go get this plaster, and after that I want you to take this dream out your head and get ready for school. Now I don’t know if you’ve forgotten, but today’s the day you’re going to find out if you’ve been selected to meet the Prime Minister.”
“Oh yeah! Do you think I have, Mom? I really need to talk to him!”
“So you can ask about becoming empress of Earth, right?” asked Mom.
“No, I don’t want to be an empress!”
“Sorry, Pumpkin. THE empress of Earth.” Mom said with a patronising smirk.
“I just have some ideas about how we can make the world a better place that I want to tell him about! I want to pick his brain,” said Preeta in English.
“You know he’s only the Prime Minister of England, right? Fixing all of Earth is a little outside his jurisdiction,” Mom replied in English.
“I know that, Mom. But if he runs England, he might know people I could talk to about my plans. Or, or maybe he could tell them for me.”
“Is that right?”
“Yeah, I read somewhere that to be successful you need a big network of people who can help you; and, and it said you need to give those people value so they think you’re special and actually want to help.”
“So what value can you as an eight-year old girl offer the Prime Minister of England?” Mom asked with a sly smirk.
“Well, he’s ancient like you, so he only knows what ancient people are doing. But I don’t think he has anyone to tell him how the children are feeling about things; and, and what our plans are so maybe that’s how I can help? Maybe I can be his eyes and ears on the ground!”
“Firstly; I’m not ancient. I’m just coming into my prime. Secondly; you really want to spy on other children and give that information to the Prime Minister?”
“Mom, you were born in the 20th century, so you’re definitely ancient. And no, I don’t want to spy on children. Just tell him what we’re all thinking so he can do things to make us all happy maybe. I’m trying to build my network.”
“Well, anything’s worth a shot, so let’s get this plaster, and get you ready for school so you can find out.”
“But what about Preetaria?”
“Let’s go, Preeta.”
You just read a sample of my book Preeta’s Web of Chaos. I’ll be adding new chapters each and every week so follow me for updates. You can go back to the first chapter, read the sixth chapter, or buy the full book. You can also contact me @ kieren [at] kierenpaulbrown.com.
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