I had thought my cousin Bobby would have wanted to keep quiet about what he had done to Rita (see FC72). But not so, it seemed. Bastard Bobby had now become Brazen Bobby.
The family had taken the idiot to hospital, but sadly his
injuries had warranted a quick discharge and he was back home by evening.
At the entrance of our home, he leaned his head on his
mummy’s shoulder and whimpered. Mobby, Bobby’s older brother, was holding him upright.
Even though his legs hadn’t been injured, he was feigning difficulty in
walking.
Bobby’s left eye was shut and swollen, his head
bandaged and he had to turn his head 180 degrees for his good eye to look for me
in the crowd that had formed in the sitting room. He pointed at me.
“Your daughter hit my son with her slingshot!” Sarayu
Aunty screamed into Appa’s face.
“My daughter isn’t violent,” Appa murmured, his gaze
fixed on Bobby, who looked scared now.
“SHE BEAT UP MY SON AND HE NEARLY DIED!”
“Don’t be silly, chechi. My daughter is half your
son’s size. There’s barely a scratch on the brute… er… Bobby.” There was a gasp
and people stared at Appa. At this point, I felt scared.
Sarayu Aunty screeched several unladylike words, forcing
her father to tut-tut in shock. And her husband Mathan chee-cheed first and
then did an about-turn and smiled and nodded in agreement.
It reminded me of the time I overheard my mother say
that Sarayu Aunty and Mathan Uncle’s union was made in heaven. It did not sound
like a compliment and I lingered near her to catch the rest of the story.
Mathan Uncle had spent much of that summer vacation, indeed every vacation, surveying
all of Appachan’s farm and identifying what he wanted to take back. Sarayu later told her mother what she wanted packed. The provisions were usually
enough to last several months to a year.
My father turned to me. “Mol, did you use a slingshot
on your cousin Bobby?”
“N…o.”
There was another gasp, this time of disbelief. A
commotion broke out. People babbled, fingers pointed at me and angry words hurtled
in my direction. There was not a kind eye on me, except Rita’s who was
quivering behind her mother.
“Quiet!” Appachan (grandfather) shouted.
“I see her with the slingshot every day…” gurgled
Mathan Uncle, the rolls of fat at his throat jiggling in tandem with his
agitation “… shooting mangoes off the trees.” I knew Mathan Uncle watched me,
no doubt worried there would be no mangoes for him when his family returned to
their home after the holidays. Satan’s spawn, now defiantly facing him, would
in all likelihood have eaten all the ripe, unripe and budding mangoes.
I saw others nod in agreement, though the girls stayed
silent. It must have been the result of sharing my mangoes with Rita, and
indirectly them, this morning.
“Go and get your slingshot! You can’t be allowed to
play or behave like a boy!” Ammachi (grandmother) shouted. My eyes were glued
to her hairy double chins quivering dangerously. Her jaw looked like an ultra-shaky
caramel custard.
“Go on,” Appa nudged me.
“I don’t have it.”
“What?”
“Someone’s flicked it.”
“Liar! You filthy, lying child!” Sarayu Aunty raged,
taking several steps towards me.
My mother was instantly behind me, her hands tight on
my arms. But Appa pre-empted Amma. “Don’t call my child names.”
It was clear people wanted to say more, but they were
unwilling to cross swords with Appa.
“Get your slingshot, child!” Appachan roared.
“B-but I don’t have it. S-someone’s
taken it.”
He got up from the old teakwood armchair and walked towards our room. All of us followed. He ordered my father’s brother Joy, younger sister Saroj and her husband Pillipochyan to check our room. They rummaged through our things and cupboards.
I felt numb watching the shabby exercise unfold. I looked up. Appa's lips were in a thin line. The three searchers were egged on by the onlookers, but there was no sign of the slingshot.
“Look through the whole house,” Appachan shouted, and
more people were pressed into service. Other relatives went through Saroj Aunty’s,
Joy Uncle’s and the children’s rooms, the dining room, the study and storerooms.
I braved the angry looks. I felt I looked guilty, even
to my parents.
“Where is it, mol?” Appa asked, the room seething
with tension.
I shook my head, wondering how to make them believe
me. Then I heard the low, nervous, boy-man voice. Rajiv, Rita’s brother and
Appachan’s favourite grandson, said, “We haven’t checked Sarayumama’s room.”
“She’s the culprit! She’s hidden the slingshot
somewhere. BAD GIRL, BAD, BAD GIRL!” Sarayu Aunty screeched.
“Afraid, chechi?” I couldn’t believe my mother said it.
It was like we were all forced into a room, once a close-knit family but now everyone
a stranger to the other and all of us teetering on the edge of an unimaginable
and gaping precipice.
Appachan and Ammachi gave my mother filthy looks, but
Appachan said, “Go check Sarayu’s room.”
A churlish scream rent the air, but the mass of bodies
moved quickly to Sarayu Aunty’s room and began to search. And there, at the
back of the bottom drawer of the dressing table and wrapped in a Malayalam Manorama newspaper
was the slingshot.
Rajiv gestured to Roma to come closer and pointed at the
potted plant on a corner table. My grandfather moved to look at the plant, a mix of
disbelief and fury spreading across his face. We all pushed around him to see.
There were smooth, medium-sized white stones placed in a ring around the plant.
My grandfather began to shout at everyone. Most of his
ire was aimed at Bobby and his parents, but everyone got a lambasting.
I sneaked out, but was grabbed by my collar and given
a good shaking. A few seconds later, my father dislodged my grandfather’s hand
from the back of my neck and they stood facing each other for an eternity –
with only their faces betraying corrosive emotion.
I squeezed myself between them, my eyes closed –
muttering a prayer I didn’t believe. I didn’t think God would forgive me for
what I had done. Pitting father against son, being violent with a cousin, inflicting
injury on a pervert, being hard headed, stubborn, etc, etc, etc – all vices
that had no place in a good Suriani girl. I was bad and would go to hell.
I felt cool air. Appachan was walking away, banging
his stick on the ground. Sarayu Aunty screamed at everyone to get out and
people moved out and into their own rooms.
******
My parents were angry with me for several days and I
lurked around the house, avoiding everyone. I stayed away from the mangoes for
a couple of days, but soon I hankered for them and tried pulling them off with
the long stick with the loop at its top end.
Ammachi had thrown my slingshot into the flames of the
stone stove in the kitchen and the burning rubber spread acrid smoke through
the house, forcing us to open all the doors and windows. It had led to a fresh argument
between my grandparents.
My cousins stopped taunting me, but still wouldn’t let
me back into their fold. I knew they suspected me of attacking Bobby, but
couldn’t figure out what had happened. Only Rita kept me company when everyone
else was having their afternoon nap.
One day I noticed a glint on her finger and held her
hand closer to my face for a better look at the ring. “Where did you get it?”
She looked embarrassed. “A-Appachan and A-Ammachi gave
it to me.”
“When?”
“A few days ago.”
“Oh.”
“Didn’t they give you one?” Rita asked. I looked at
the ring again – a thin gold band, with a blue stone in the centre. “Ammachi
made it from the big stone in her pendant.”
“Did Roma get one too?” I asked.
“Er… y-yes.”
I felt a weight press my chest. “Only you two got
rings? Not the other girls?”
Rita squirmed. Her face turned red and she looked at
the ground. She tried to pull her hand out of mine, but my hold was fierce. I
let it go when my vision blurred.
“Go home, Rita. Your mom will be looking for you. I’m
not fit to be around you,” I pushed her towards the house. I turned to the
mango tree and my tears fell freely. I picked up the long stick and hit the
leaves several times and managed to dislodge a mango. I stayed looking up at
the tall mango tree until I heard Rita go.
******
My parents looked my way many times during dinner, but
I was sitting with my cousins at the end of the dining table. The men and children
were eating first.
I ate with disinterest. All my female cousins sported
new rings. The styles were the same, plain solid gold bands set with one, two
or three sapphires. My grandmother’s pendant had been huge. I could see bulky sapphire
earrings, set in gold, in Sarayu Aunty and Saroj Aunty’s ears.
I watched my cousins and then looked at my
grandfather. I felt hurt at being left out. I looked away and, despite my best
intentions, tears fell into my plate.
I felt a little hand squeeze mine and a whisper
against my neck. “Stop crying, chechi. You can have my ring… please stop
crying. Everyone is looking at you.”
After I had composed myself as best I could I looked
up for a fraction of a second. Indeed, there were people looking at me. My
father’s sisters had knowing, happy looks. My parents seemed upset, their eyes
boring into my face, and I didn’t want to look at the rest of my family.
I tried to eat but the food had become difficult to swallow.
Something made me look up and I saw Bobby wink at me
with his good eye and wiggle his left hand’s ring finger and wink again.
I wanted to throw my steel glass at his head. Instead my
eyes crawled over his swollen maroon eye, the fat bandage around his head, the
scratches on his face, the bruises on his arms and I wondered if his groin still
hurt from the biggest stone in my jhola that I had shot at pointblank range.
And then I wondered how the slingshot I had tossed under my bed had found its
way into Bobby’s mother’s dressing table. Someone had saved me
from an inevitable, and irreparable, fall from grace. Someone here was on my
side. But who?
I smiled sweetly at Bobby, balled my left fist over my
plate and simulated the stretching back of a sling with a large piece of potato.
The potato landed on my plate, splashing curry. The look of
shock on Bobby’s face quickly changed to impotent rage. I wiggled my left
middle finger at him and then pushed rice and chicken into my mouth. I didn’t
look up, but ate my food with gusto and took a second helping of Ammachi’s spicy
chicken curry.
When I did care to look, I saw sour looks of disapproval, but surprisingly no expression on Appachan’s face.
******
This is a fictional series revolving around the 30-something narrator. She is reminiscing about a holiday with her father’s family in Kerala. This is the continuation of episodes FC69, FC70, FC71 and FC72.
On her cousin Bobby’s insistence, the narrator’s family believes she has beaten him. There is a showdown and a surprise twist.
(Find the rest of 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)
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