Fishy Chronicles 72: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (4) – Bobby

Being ostracised has benefits.

I became angrier, tougher. My male cousins called me names. The girls gave me haughty looks and locked themselves into a room, playing with dolls, clothes and makeup. The elders tolerated my parents, but looked through me.

I no longer felt close to Appachan (grandfather). We eye-duelled often, each refusing to look away first. One day my father caught me at it and took me for a walk into the fields.

“They are all treating me badly, even though I didn’t do anything wrong!” (see FC69, FC70, FC71) I slapped my hand against a tree trunk, imagining it to be Bobby, and my palm stung. Appa took my hand and rubbed it.

“Every experience is going to teach you something, mol.”

“What is this teaching me?”

“Patience. How to deal with a… a pervert. How to deal with elders who should know better. How to deal with love turning sour.”

“We didn’t seem to handle them well.”

Appa knelt in the wet mud, unconcerned about the dark brown mud staining his starched white mundu  and looked me in the eyes. “Yes. Not to make light of what happened… but it was an experience. Next time you are angry with someone, you know you can handle it better.”

“How can I handle this better?”

“Don’t say what jumps into your head and mouth. Think. Manage the situation.”

“Then, Appa, I’ll be just like every other girl filled with guile. Isn’t that what you keep telling me you hate in a woman… her needing to be manipulative because she doesn’t have the opportunities of a man?” I still hadn’t understood what it meant, but Amma assured me I would understand in time.

Appa opened his mouth and closed it. “No. Not the same. I was referring to a different person in a different situation. You know, I want you to be in a better place… to have choices Amma and your aunties didn’t, don’t, have.”

I was getting bored with this stream of thought and nodded vigorously.

“And Bobby?” I had christened him Bobby Bastard. I called him a bastard several times a day, mostly when he whistled and taunted me in the company of his cousins. Luckily, no one had heard me. Yet.

“Stay away from Bobby. You know what he is. In fact, you know that’s what all men are capable of.”

I wondered why Appa was telling me this. It scared me. “Why are the others siding with him?”

A drizzle began and we moved under a large rubber tree. “Lack of good sense. Your uncles and aunties are taking sides even before they know the truth. The truth can be uncomfortable.”

“Can we go back home to Bombay, Appa?”

“This is home.”

“No!”

“It is. It is my home and Appachan’s and yours. What happened was unfortunate. I tried talking to Appachan, but he’s an old-fashioned man.” 

“It is going to be like this for us… for me… for the rest of this vacation.” My mouth turned downwards. Every night Amma told me to adjust with my cousins. But I could see her get upset when they left me out of their activities. After a while she let me walk about alone in the fields and I played with the slingshot. I got better at knocking mangoes off the trees, and started following Appa into the fields with the workers. I picked kandaris, which were small vicious chillies, wild mushrooms and fallen cashew fruit.

My father had a childhood friend who lived near the fields and every day I drank a small glass of tea and ate hot salty peanuts from a paper cone, listening to Appa and his friend laugh and reminisce. 

Returning to Appachan’s household stressed me, but I counted the days.

                                                ******

I was lying in the shade of the guava tree at the side of the old house. The grass was damp but by the time it was time to go indoors, the back of my clothes would have dried. 

I had eaten some unripe guavas and my mouth felt like a scrap of sandpaper. I opened my eyes, blinded by the light shining through the leaves, and looked for the old mango tree in the adjoining field. I would have to get out of the compound and nearer the tree to get at its mangoes. 

I had tried a combination of shooting down the mangoes with the slingshot and using the long stick with a small noose at its top end to tug the fruit off. I knew the girls watched me often, salivating over the mangoes. So, I always got down just enough for myself.

“Don’t be greedy and selfish. Just because you’re angry with your cousins doesn’t mean you shouldn’t share your booty,” Amma had said, with a smile, when she saw me eating my loot in partial view of my cousins in the room they had kept locked despite my pleas. I knew they could hear my mother scolding me. I nodded, making appropriate grunting noises and keeping my eyes wide and innocent. When my mother disappeared I sat in the shade, my back against a dry patch of mossy wall.

I knew my cousins Roma, Rita, Eva and the others were watching me. After I had gnawed all the pulp off the mango seed, I licked my fingers, hands and arms. Then I washed my hands, face and feet under the tap near their window, not once looking at them.

I smiled at the memory and squinted at the mangoes swaying in the cool breeze, the swishing sound of the moving leaves making me feel lazy and contented. I lay there even though I heard my older male cousins talking. They were hiding behind a nearby shed and smoking.

I felt a hand touch my bare leg and sat up in fright. I must have dozed off and now there was a shadow bending over me – Roma’s sister Rita. “Please may I have a mango?”

I raised myself and wanted to say no, but Rita, about 10 years old, was asking so earnestly. “Sure. Wash it first.”

She looked doubtfully at the four damaged mangoes, resting on leaves on the ground beside me. I had not mastered the art of felling a mango without bruising or splitting it, even though I practised constantly. “They’ve broken open in places, but are all good.”

“May I take one for Roma too?” Rita said in a small voice.

I gritted my teeth, “Take them all.” And I lay back down again. I knew Rita was watching me, but I kept my eyes closed and a little later her footsteps faded and water gushed from the nearby tap.

I sat up with a sudden sense of foreboding. The boys had moved away from the shed several minutes ago and the girls were not at the window. My cousin Shyla had ordered everyone to the dining room to eat the mangoes.

A big red ant bit me and I stood up. I brushed off the large translucent insects from my clothes and skin. Their numbers had suddenly increased and hundreds of them were now marching up and down the guava tree’s peeling trunk. I grabbed my slingshot, wrapped my jhola’s (large open-mouthed bag) strap around my neck and shoulder and straightened.

Revulsion stole over me.

My cousin Bobby was watching Rita from behind the shed. She was washing the mangoes and bent to pick up another from the ground and Bobby lunged. He clamped a hand on her mouth and his other arm was around her stomach. He lifted her. Rita struggled and tried to scream, her legs flailing. Bobby loosened his hold and the mangoes rolled out of Rita’s hands. He turned and moved swiftly towards the shed.

Suddenly he screamed in pain and dropped Rita. “Run, Rita, run!” I shouted, shooting another stone at Bobby. I had a pile of stones in my bag. I preferred smooth, medium-sized ones and these were now pounding Bobby everywhere, each stone finding its mark.

“You bitch!” he bellowed. He was bleeding from his temple, the blood dripping down his face and staining his shirt. I panicked and then remembered Appa’s advice a few days ago. “Stay calm. Plan and attack.” I slowed my breath and the fuzz in my mind cleared. Bobby rushed towards me even though he could see me drawing back the sling. I let it go at pointblank range and Bobby doubled over, screeching. He fell to the ground and rolled in the dirt.

I heard running feet behind me. “Run, chechi (older sister), run,” Rita screamed, looking pale but peering from the front of the house.

I watched Bobby writhe. I wanted to remember this moment for eternity.

Then I turned and ran. I grabbed Rita’s hand and we sprinted into the house through the open front door. There was a ruckus and people were rushing out of their rooms and out of the house through the kitchen.

I pulled Rita close to me, “Not a word to anyone.” She nodded, her face wet with tears. I wiped her face with the end of my skirt and we followed the others out of the house.

“I don’t want to see him,” Rita hiccoughed, dragging her feet.

“He can’t do a thing to you now. And if we hide, the rest will know we had something to do with it. So act as though you know nothing. Else, we'll get a thrashing.” A crowd was forming over my cousin who was still prone on the ground. Sarayu Aunty was bent over him, his bleeding head on her lap.

“But I did nothing wrong!” Rita whimpered.

“I know, Rita, but neither did I and look where it got me.” Our eyes held and there was sudden understanding in Rita’s. 

Then we merged into the group. Rita and I held hands tightly. I felt terrified. Rita now had a look of concern on her face, and I forced myself to look the same way. Bobby stilled when he saw us. We continued to look at him with fake concern.

“What happened, Achacha (older brother)?” I heard myself say. Rita looked at me in surprise and then turned her face back to him. “How did you get hurt?”

I saw fury on Bobby’s face, and then his eyes darted around the crowd. They lingered on Appa and Joy Uncle – Rita’s father. When I glanced at Appa, he was looking from Bobby and Rita to me, and our entwined hands, with narrowed eyes – disbelief creeping over his face. From the corner of my eyes I could see Amma look at Appa and then at me. She turned away quickly and focused on Bobby.

The family members grouped around Bobby shoved us aside and the boys lifted the idiot and carried him into the house like a sack of rice. I heard an uncle tell someone to call the doctor. Neighbours yelled from across the dirt road, asking about the commotion. A couple of aunts moved to the low boundary wall to explain.

“What do we do now?” Rita whispered.

“Nothing.”

“But…”

I shrugged. “You can tell your parents what happened.” I saw the doubt in Rita’s eyes. “Either you tell your parents, or keep quiet.”

“What if they don’t believe me?”

I shrugged.

“What if Bobbychyan says we hit him?” Rita said.

I felt a sudden warmth when Rita said “we”. “There’s two of us to tell everyone what happened. But I have a gut feeling he may not want anyone to know.”

Rita buried her head into my shoulder and cried. I dragged her behind a tree and waited. I had not the slightest idea what to say.

“Thank you, chechi.”

I was thrown. I put my arms around Rita and patted her back. We stood like that until we heard people moving in the kitchen. Rita washed her face at the tap and we went in.

(Continued in the next episode.)

                                                ******

This is a fictional series revolving around the 30-something narrator. She is reminiscing about a family holiday with her father’s family in Kerala. This is the continuation of episodes FC69, FC70 and FC71. The narrator has crossed swords with members of her extended family and is facing isolation. But something disturbing happens and she addresses the problem head on.

Find all the episodes here 

FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91