Fishy Chronicles 71: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (3) – Afterwards

Before we left our bedroom in the morning, my father listened quietly to my account of what happened the previous night (FC 70). He asked me about the photographs and journal that were still in the loft.

“Did you read the diary?”

I was embarrassed at how bad I looked. “No-no. Bobby found me by then.”

My father’s mouth tightened and his eyes bulged. He took a deep, noisy breath through his nose. Was Appa going to thrash me like his father did? “Keep away from Bobby.” Appa’s hands gripped my shoulders tightly – his face close to mine, looking deep into my eyes. “Don’t let any man touch your body. No one should touch your chest or in places that make you uncomfortable, understood?” My face burned, but I nodded.

My parents eyes met, their faces grim. Soon, my mother left our bedroom for the kitchen. All the women were expected to start chores early in the morning. Appa caught my hand and pulled me to a corner of the room. “Mol, this area,” he pointed at his groin, “is a sensitive area for men. If someone is attacking or touching you and you don’t want them to, punch hard here. Ball your fist, like this, and slam this area or grab and squeeze hard. You have my permission to do that to Bobby if he touches you again. Okay?” I nodded, wondering how I would ever grab a man’s privates. “Shout loudly that he’s a bastard and should keep his hands to himself. Make a noise, scream. If someone grabs you from behind, what will you do?”

I shook my head.

“Bite, kick, scratch. Keeping biting. Bite anywhere. Bite like your life depends on it. Tear out flesh, inflict as much pain as you can. Kick the knees, punch the Adam’s apple, punch their noses upwards, my darling, anything to free yourself. Don’t be frightened. Be calm when someone is attacking you. Think and plot attack. Also, him grabbing you is not your fault. And, it will happen again and again.”

“What?”

“Yes, mol. Men are like that. Any woman or child is fair game. Hit, fight, scream, bite. Throw stones and run like mad. Be smart and cunning. Hurt the bastard and make him scream.”

I nodded, unable to make much sense of it. My gentle father was asking me to inflict pain on another human being. And I was relieved. What Bobby had done was wrong (FC 70).

The bedroom door flew open and Sarayu Aunty charged in. She planted her hands on her hips, her face was red and her eyes burned into me. “What is this I hear that you are saying my son touched you.” Behind her, my mother’s eyes bored into the back of my aunt’s head. My grandparents were pushing each other to fit into the doorway.

My father put his arm around me. “I will thrash Bobby if he so much as looks at my daughter again, chechi (older sister).”

Sarayu Aunty screamed a volley of abuse and her husband mouthed something incoherent. My father pushed me behind him and my grandmother pushed my mother out of the door, jabbing her in the chest with her elbow. My mother’s mouth opened in pain, but she barged in through the crush of people, her hair askew, furious. She stood in front of us, her arms stretched wide.

The air was full of tension. Some people stood with arms akimbo, others were ready to pounce. Everyone looked unsure.

The silence stretched and then my grandfather said, “Teach your daughter some manners! Teach your daughter to behave herself around boys!”

My father leaped at the group of people standing near the door, an angry wordless roar reverberating around the room. My mother ran after my father and Bobby’s father and mine were scuffling and wrestling, Appa seemingly trying to push him out of our room. My grandfather shouted abuse at me, his eyes full of venom. I threw myself into the scrum, landing an explosive punch into Mathan Uncle’s lower back. He screamed in pain, arching backwards. He let go of Appa, his hands trying to reach his back to stanch the pain.

Sarayu Aunty shook me roughly, hitting me a couple of times until my mother grabbed her hand and held it tightly skewering my aunt with an icy look. Aunty pulled her hand out of my mother’s and rubbed her husband’s back, all the while glaring at me. My arms were around my father, his shirt torn and hair messed up, all of us breathing hard.

My angry grandfather pushed his daughter, son-in-law and wife out of the room. “Teach your daughter some manners… hitting elders!”

Appa pulled me closer. When the last person was out of the door, he murmured, “Good punch, mol. That’s the way to do it.”

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Things did not get better. The three of us were suddenly out in the cold. When the rest of my father’s siblings and their families arrived, we were left out of conversations and activities. No one talked to us and the children refused to let me play with them. Snide remarks were passed in my hearing. Only Roma talked to me when the others weren’t looking. A couple of days after their arrival, she asked me what had happened.

But the look of disbelief on her face and the doubts she voiced humiliated me all over again. She thought I was lying! I raged at her, angry at her reaction and we stopped talking. All the while, Bobby smirked at me. I stayed far away from him.

I felt sorry for my parents. They were being punished because of me. Something as innocent as wanting to look at the photos and journal in the loft had taken a horrible turn.

And its cause, Saroj Aunty, was sitting pretty and looking scornfully at us, and judging us. She had no clue what had led to the skirmish in the loft. The photos and diary were still in the loft. I had to get them out now, and have a good look. Now I had to know what was written in the diary. I wanted to punish them all.

A few days later, the family was readying for a baptism in church and I had the runs. My parents did not want me to be alone at home and were planning to stay back when my grandfather began to shout at my parents. Appa cut his father off midway, unusual for my obedient father. “She will sit alone at home.”

The others smirked and I went back to sit in our bedroom. “Lock the door and don’t open for anyone unless it is your mother or me, okay?” Appa said.

I read a book near the window. Sometime later, I unlocked the door, my heart beating insanely fast, and turned the door handle of Sarayu Aunty’s room. The door squeaked open. No one was there and I breathed deeply to ease my tension.

I listened for sounds in the house and tiptoed along the corridor. I ran lightly through the house to check for the dregs of humanity that might have lingered. No one.

I quickly climbed the table in the store room and hoisted myself into the loft. I looked for the photos and diary. I checked all the bags and holdalls – they were gone!

In one of the bags I found an old slingshot – the rubbery portion could still stretch. I took it and climbed down, ran to my room and locked the door.

Fear chased around my being. Who had the photos and diary? I was certain my grandfather didn’t know about them. I couldn’t believe Bobby might have them. I hadn’t heard him boasting or making fun of the photos with his male cousins. I lurked around all the time, I knew what was going on. Maybe I didn’t know my cousin enough.

My parents returned home early, before the others. My mother came around the house to the window of our room to check on me. I opened the kitchen door for them. 

“All okay, mol?”

“Yes, Appa.”

(Continued in the next episode)

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This is a fictional series following the Mumbai-based narrator. She is recounting a story about her aunt Saroj during a childhood holiday spent at their ancestral home in Kerala. Read the previous episodes here and later ones here 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91.