I looked over at the mound that was my parents – the sheet over them rose and fell with their breathing. How could they sleep with so much going on!
I was seething. My grandfather
had endless cunning! He knew exactly what had transpired up in the
loft that day (FC70), and there they were – the photographs… and letters – in his lowest desk drawer. Clearly their possession of the incriminating evidence showed he, and
my grandmother, had been aware of the romance between Sarojmama and the handsome
sardar. A sudden memory of Meeto Singh from school surfaced – he never let me touch his
pagdi or showed me what was under it even though we were good friends. Now that
he had sprouted facial hair and muscles, and grown a good six inches, any eye
contact we had made me uncomfortable. Luckily, Anjali lusted after him too.
I forced thoughts of
handsome Meeto out of my mind. Appachan had to have had help retrieving the
photos from the loft. I rocked to and fro on my mattress on the ground, trying not
to use bad language while thinking of my um… deceitful… grandfather. Deceitful
seemed tame, like home lemon juice versus the roadside one where you got heaps
of sugar and soda in your glass and it frothed into your nostrils.
After what felt like
hours, I went to the sitting room – dark, except for the streetlight
streaming in. I shivered. Even though everyone knew I watched TV in the dark most nights, it still felt like I was doing something wrong and this feeling
was hammered home every time I passed Appachan’s bedroom. There was always the
chance of him intercepting me. As I passed the room I wanted to kick the door, but the dent in it from when I threw the brass vase at it (FC75) made me hesitate. I leaned against an open window in the sitting room and and watched Timmychyan totter along the road,
his gait extremely unsteady, occasionally squinting around him and murmuring lovingly at the stray dog that walked him home each night. I watched him
disappear from sight, around the wall of darkness that comprised the tall teak
trees of my granduncle’s courtyard.
I glared at the wall
behind which my grandparents snored and moved quietly to the telephone in
Appachan’s study. I was going to break his bank with long-distance calls to my
friends. I sat at the desk and took out his keys from the unlocked drawer. Some
hours earlier I had debated leaving his keys in the lock (FC97), as I had found
them. What if he remembered he had left it in the lock, but
what if he didn’t and someone else came and rummaged in his drawers just as I
did. I ran my hands along the polished wood… thinking… and fast losing interest
in punishing him with STD calls. My luck was so good that his wrinkled fingers with their overgrown nails would point at me first.
I opened the bottom
drawer and pulled out the letters. There had been no copies of the photographs.
Even if there had been, would I have been bold enough to take one? Would
Appachan have noticed a couple of photos missing?
I pulled the smallish
bundle of yellow envelopes and blue inlands out. A tightly knotted brown string
bent their sides, and I could see my previous efforts at trying to pull out a
letter had torn the edge of the top envelope. Sweat trickled from my brow with
the effort of loosening and untying the knot. I reached for the large
black-handled scissor in the top drawer. Amma used the same one to snip off
fish fins and tails. Why was Appachan using it to cut his envelopes. Something
shone in the table lamp light – a small brass letter opener. I sniffed the
scissor. It smelt of… nothing.
The letters had
remained unopened all these years, but someone had viciously cut out the
address at the back with black ink. I could still see a bit of the address, so
it seemed a more personal effort at scratching out his name and street rather
than to obscure the address.
Rajouri Gardens and a
pin code. Why hadn’t my grandparents read the letters. What was a real love
letter like? I had read the one a boy had sent across via Nidhi in Sunday
School some weeks ago (FC95) and it seemed like rubbish. Laughable. Surely
grown-ups, rather college students, could write better ones – and they probably
felt love more intensely than us.
I tried to pry the
flap away from the envelope but it tore. On TV people steamed letters open. I got
the electric kettle from the dining room and started it. The journal with the
English and Malayalam entries had also disappeared from the loft. They were
probably below all the rubbish in the lowest drawer. When the kettle began to
whistle, I closed both doors leading into the study, and drew the curtains. I shivered
with fear and tension. I shook it off and held the letter against the billowing
steam, which scalded my hand. I then pinched the top left corner of the envelop,
holding it as close to the steam as I dared. The whistling noise bothered me,
and I wondered what sort of an excuse I could offer in case someone found me
with an electric kettle trying to make tea with an old envelop.
When I finally looked,
the flap was still firmly stuck to the envelop! What was I going to do! My eyes fell
on the untied bundle and my panic began to mount. Hurry, you idiot!
A door opened. Shit. I
jumped up and switched off the kettle and the light and crouched under the
table, trying to hold my breath. The footsteps come to the edge of the corridor
and waited.
After an eternity, it
walked away, the footsteps sounding fainter and the bathroom door shutting. The
latch, which needed oiling, did not slam into its groove. This person – probably
a man – wouldn’t care if someone barged in on him.
There was nothing for
it. I took one, two, three letters… and started to retie the bundle. But… when
would Appachan leave his key dangling from his drawer again… four, give six…
seven for good luck or bartering… or blackmail? What if I got caught going
into my room? I stuffed the letters into my armpits. To the naked eye it didn’t
look like there were any bulges. My gaze lingered on the four remaining letters
in the bundle. What if Appachan decided to tidy his drawer and found the bundle
looking skinny.
Nah, the drawer was
too dusty and there were cobwebs even in there. I started. A big fat lizard
watched me from the ceiling. A dog barked in the distance, and there was a
rustle outside – or did I imagine it.
I reached into the
nearest corner behind Appachan’s chair and took a newspaper from the top. The Malayalam
Manorama folded easily into a thick square and I wedged it between the
letters and retied the bundle. I would have to wait for Appachan to forget his
keys again, and for me to return the letters and get at the next few.
Could I keep the keys and…
make a set? Too many gymnastics required. I left the key in
the lock, adjusted the letters in my armpits and went to the door.
Something wasn’t
right. Anyone could ransack Appachan’s drawer. I turned back to the desk and put
the bunch of keys in the bottom drawer.
I wiped my dusty hands
on the pristine white turkey towel hanging on the back of his chair. There
would be some shouting early in the morning when Appachan couldn’t locate his
keys. Good. Very good.
I eyed the phone.
Tomorrow I would phone Anjali with my findings.
******
The narrator discovers her aunt's missing love letters and photographs
in her grandfather's table .
in her grandfather's table .
******
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