Fishy Chronicles 97 – The Webs We Weave (29)

Joys of school
(Photo credit: A. Peter)

At lunch I managed to sit in the chair next to Jimmy (FC96) just as Mobby lowered himself into it. The breath squeezed out of me, I became lightheaded and things blackened as Mobby’s butt pressed my chest and stomach.

“Hey!” Jimmy pushed Mobby with both hands. Mobby jumped off – too shocked to be his usual rude self. Jimmy shook me, and I took in a deep quavering breath and the room stopped looking grey. Unfortunately, the incident only excited more looks of annoyance among some of the elders, notably my mother, grandmother and father’s sisters. I ignored them. A little body pressed into my side, and I groaned. Rita and Eva, Sarojmama’s daughter – a pestilential 11-year-old, sat beside me. But in the next instant, Roma hauled Rita off her chair and flopped into it. Rita protested and tried to pull Roma off, but it looked like she was trying to budge a massive bull. In the end, Eva scooted to the next chair and Rita sat next to her sister. This was awful, like a silent inquisition, a surveillance in progress – I felt like a fly knowing a swatter was over its head.

I couldn’t ask my questions. Despite Roma disliking Jimmy she wanted to know all that we were doing. Anjali had once suggested that Jimmy might be interested in Roma and so never looked at her because he felt shy. But he talked and joked with other girls – so bashfulness wasn’t the reason for his disinterest.

Then Anjali suggested that Roma might be interested in Jimmy and was miffed by his inattention. That was an interesting point of view, so I watched the two at Sunday School, until I felt cock-eyed and decided to stop. Stopping had to do with the realization that I was overanalysing everything and clearly barking up the wrong tree.

“Masticate your food,” Jimmy muttered.

“Eh?”

“Eat! You’re attracting attention.”

I wanted to tell Jimmy that cows masticated their food, not humans, but he was probably learning a new word with all the livestock at his grandparents’ home. I could see what he meant when I looked up, so I mixed the sambar into the rice, my mouth watering with the aroma, and waited till his mouth was full. “Who’s C?” I whispered in his ear.

I acted innocent until Ashok stopped slapping Jimmy’s back. He had choked on a piece of fish and was red in the face. He blew his nose into his brother’s handkerchief, because of course he hadn’t carried one or had lost his, and gave me a filthy look. That day in the church courtyard (FC95), when Nidhi whacked me on the head, I knew who had written the love letter that dear ‘love pigeon’ Nidhi ferried about the church and school courtyards. I just could not figure out who ‘C’ was or why Jimmy was calling himself a humongous lover T and writing such rot. Anjali’s theory was that Jimmy was fronting for someone else.

I didn’t think so. Could it be the impossible had happened and Jimmy had fallen in love with someone in school?

He was grim all through his meal, though it did not affect his appetite. But I was forced to keep quiet because all the adults’ radars were trained on me now.

I used the ensuing quiet to work on my strategy. Jimmy was going to fob off every question I had. I had lost the advantage of surprise by asking him at lunch – where there was no privacy. Now he would build his defenses in anticipation of my next set of questions.

Whenever I glanced at him, he was eating stiffly, and his brother Paul’s eyes darted from Jimmy to me, forcing me to stay quiet.

Maybe I could use the telephone tonight. I had finally discovered the code – Appachan had been making a call and I was standing nearby. I had spent the rest of that day memorising it and celebrating the discovery. 

                                                            ******

Anjali and I couldn’t figure out why Jimmy was using the initial ‘T’.  Was he using an alphabet from his surname. Was he writing the notes to throw off anyone who’d intercept them? It was all farfetched. Why would someone make Jimmy write a note that his girlfriend might not be able to read? Jimmy’s handwriting was worse than a doctor’s.

Plus, it was too elaborate for Jimmy, who liked to charge ahead first and then think. He wasn’t middle-man material.

And then the letter explained Paul’s interest in it. Did he think his baby brother had a love interest? Paul should never know. Jimmy would tell me. In his own time. Maybe. Maybe later. Maybe never.

At the gate, while bidding them goodbye, I told Jimmy, “So you’re going to act as if there are no C and T and that you don’t know what the note is about?”

“Shhhh!”

“Why? I have nothing to hide!”

“Shhh!”

“Don’t shhh me! Anyway, Paul’s been asking me about the note.”

Before he could reply, his father grabbed his arm and hustled him into a rickshaw. As the yellow and black rickshaw hurtled down the uneven road, he looked dismayed and did not wave goodbye.

“What did you say to Jimmy?” Roma said softly, her breath tickling my neck.

I turned and walked back to the house. A few steps from the doorway, a sharp pain shot through my shoulder – Roma’s fingers were digging into my flesh. She pulled me away from the door and slammed me against the wall, her arm jamming my throat.

“You idiot. You dare fool around with me!” Roma thundered in my face, her breath smelling of sambar and pickle. There was a bit of curry leaf stuck between her bared teeth.

There was nothing for it… I pinched her breast hard. She screamed and let me go, grabbing her chest but feeling embarrassed to rub it. I darted into the house, and looked for a hiding place. None was available, so I sat near Pilipochyan, and pretended to be interested in a Malayalam magazine. Roma rushed in and stopped. I looked up nervously. She gave me a dirty look, but seemed intimidated by Pilipochyan’s presence, especially when I held out the magazine and pointed at an article. Roma marched off. She would be waiting for me, sometime and somewhere, probably with her minions.

                                                            ******

“I tell you, Anjali, he’s hiding something! He’s probably T!”

“No way! There’s no girl in school who could make him interested in her.”

“What rubbish. There are hundreds of pretty girls in school. It’s a paradise for boys.”

“But you know Jimmy, na. He doesn’t like ordinary girls.”

“Kuch bhi. He talks only to ordinary girls.”

“Why are you whispering? And why are you calling me so late at night?”

“Everyone’s sleeping and I’m not supposed to be using the telephone here. They’d skin me if they knew I was making a long-distance call. Why haven’t you been replying to my letters?” My cries of desperation in longhand, I wanted to add.

“Er, I was busy.”

“Doing what?”

“You know Trevor?”

“Trevor Mascarenhas, your brother’s friend?” And Anjali’s latest crush.

“Yes. He’s got a new girlfriend.”

“What! Who’s your source?”

“It’s not important.”

“Of course it is.” It was the difference between reliable and unreliable gossip.

There was silence on the other side, so I asked, “How is Anita taking it?” Anita was Trevor’s erstwhile girlfriend. She was a year our senior in school and only became our focus because she and Trevor had become close walking up and down the shady corners of the school during recess. Their break-up had been a hot topic for days in our class, because many girls had a crush on Trevor. And, unfortunately for Anita, she was in our school bus. Not that she spoke about Trevor, although when she did speak to her friends about him it was in whispers. We tried to catch every word despite the sounds of whooshing air and Mumbai traffic coming in through the bus’s open windows. We closed the window next to us, and suffocated in the heat while listening to the whispered conversations going on in the seat in front of us. We heard snatches, mostly cuss words and expressions of sympathy from Anita’s friends.

For this privilege, we had to dislodge the kids that were already in the seat behind Anita, which led to a one-sided scuffle. One sided because we were bigger than the younger kids, although we had to get through some loud wailing and the occasional well-aimed kicks to our ankles. Things settled down soon, when the children couldn’t get a rise out of us – our efforts at eavesdropping meant we stayed hunched unresponsively in our seats for most of the long ride home.

“I think Anita has taken the breakup very well. She’s hooked up with Benny Wong.”

“What!”

“And Trevor took Sarita Kumar to Juhu Beach.”

There were too many things going on. Suddenly Jimmy was unimportant. Trevor-Sarita, Benny-Anita – the mind boggled. All the girls wanted to be friends with Benny, because he was clearly a foreigner, though his family – originally from China – had been in Mumbai for over 60 years. He was very cute and a flirt. A charmer, a girl’s boy. Anita was the unattainable hottie, and Trevor’s ex.

“So where are we on ‘T’…?” I spotted the bunch of keys dangling from Appachan’s drawer. He rarely forgot them at his desk. At night he dropped the keys into the top drawer of the chest of drawers in his bedroom. But tonight they were innocently stuck in a keyhole. I pulled the drawer’s handle – it was open. I moved the lamp closer to the edge of the desk – papers, envelopes, official-looking letters, printed pamphlets.

“You’ll have to try harder with Jimmy,” Anjali said, startling me. This was easier said than done. Anyway, I had probably run up a large telephone bill for Appachan. Would he ask the telephone exchange for a bill with all the telephone numbers listed, like the cops did in American TV serials? Or maybe he’d call all the telephone numbers and verify them for himself. “Will ring you another day, Anjali.” I hung up before she could reply.

Anjali would be annoyed, but there was Appachan’s desk to be explored. I listened for a sound around the house, then used the keys to open the other drawers – files, bundles of cash – 100s and 500s and smaller ones of lower-denomination notes, a little filigreed silver bowl containing small change, a pair of spectacles. In the lowest one, I found some dried flowers sticking out of a dictionary, big fat books that seemed to be encyclopedias but were ancient telephone books, some smooth white stones that I suspected were the ones that were found in the flower pot in Sarayumama’s room and had likely been in my jhola the day I damaged Bobby (FC72, FC73), and irrevocably spoilt relations with my eldest aunt at the start of my vacation here. In the lowest drawer, there were some albums, yellowing documents and leaves of loose paper, and… I gasped, feeling the adrenaline rush through me faster, the photographs from the loft – the ones of the handsome Sardar and Sarojmama (FC69, FC70). How had Appachan been able get up into the loft and retrieve them?

I pulled out the envelop and looked at the photos. They were a handsome couple. The colours in the photos were fading. There were some photos taken in a garden against a large flower bush. Sarojmama had a large red rose behind one ear and her long plaited hair rested on one shoulder. There was a photo of them holding hands with the Taj Mahal in the background, just one photo – a polaroid snap. I had a strange sad feeling looking at the pictures. I looked at them over and over, wondering what had happened to their romance, why they hadn’t stayed together. I put the pictures back into their cover reluctantly and then saw the letters addressed to Sarojmama, tied in a bundle, right at the bottom. I tugged one out from the side, but it was likely to tear. I knelt on the ground and reached in. My heart jerked at the sound of a door opening.

I shoved the envelop and its photos back on top of the bundle of letters and moved the rest of Appachan’s papers over them and locked the drawer as quietly as I could. I stayed under the table, switched off the lamplight hurriedly, and gently slipped the key back into the top right-hand drawer of Appachan’s desk. I wanted to come back and read the letters, but I didn’t want to risk taking Appachan’s keys – he would raise hell if he couldn't find them. But it was unlikely this opportunity would come again. I wondered if I should have kept one of the photographs, if I needed them. For purposes of blackmail or to put my aunt in her place in an argument.

The door to the bathroom in the corridor opened, and closed noisily. I keyed the locking code back into the telephone and ran back to my bedroom.

                                                            ******

The narrator makes a long distance call to her best friend and is apprised of new developments. 

This is a work of fiction and is the latest episode of the Webs We Weave series. You can read the earlier ones here   FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80,81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96)

                                                            ******

#younglove #jimmy #sarita #trevor #juhubeach #breakup #trevormascarenhas #love #cops #americantvserials #crimeserials #americancrimeserials #youngadult #fiction #keralastories #keralavillage #kerala #farmanimals #youngboy #younggirl #teenager #teenageescapades #teenagestories #fishychronicles #websweweaveseries #websweweave #bombaymalayalis #syrianchristianmalayalis #syrianchristians #bestfriends #friends #breath #rita #oldphotos #roma #oldromances #oldloves #brokenlove #lovestories #mol #paul #jimmy #oldphotos #loveletters #teenagelove #teenromance #teenagers #adolescence #romance #failedromance #sardarji #sardar #tajmahal #love #polaroid #silverbowl #filigree #coins #money #cash #bull #youngadultfiction #mumbaitraffic #mumbai #mumbailove #loveletters

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Fishy Chronicles 96 – The Webs We Weave (28)

As soon as we reached home and the pleasantries were done with, Sam Uncle went into my grandfather’s study and called his home.

I hung around the sitting room windows, while the ladies stood at the doorways. Soon enough I heard the steady ringing of a bicycle bell and then saw the lanky raggedy figure on it careening at top speed into our gate. I held my breath. He was able to brake just before he hit the gate’s grills. He hopped off, wheeled the ancient bicycle inside the compound and shouted.

“Mol, come out!”

“Appa, I’m going to meet Jimmy.”

There was sudden silence in the room. Jimmy, aka Chacko, was Paul Mathew’s (FC95) younger brother. I was always nervous meeting him because my family felt there was something going on between us because he was a boy. There wasn’t. But I got all the crazy looks. We had been good friends as children and Anjali and I hung around with Jimmy and his friends at recess in school. Plus we both didn’t care for his cousin Nidhi. We had the same friends, and almost the same enemies – Jimmy didn’t waste time hating anyone. Roma and Jimmy never saw eye to eye and she was annoyed whenever I preferred him to her.

I waited for Appa’s reluctant nod but kept moving to the main door. There was shock on Roma’s face and growing anger.

But Jimmy, a pet name he coined for himself as a child, was already at the door, dirt stains on his orange t-shirt and beige pants, a dark smudge on his pink face and a big smile for everyone. He marched in shook hands with all the elders, cracked a joke, and then grabbed my elbow.

“Mol is going to show me Kunjappachan’s animals… next door. We’ll be right back.”

“Can I come?” Rita demanded, blocking our way, and backed by some of the smaller kids.

“Say no, Jimmy,” I murmured.

“Sure, but I’m going to look for the snake that is behind the cowshed, where the manure is piled. You will have to dig holes in it with me. Are you okay with that… walking in it and carting the manure away?”

There were loud sounds of disgust from the children, and chuckles from the adults. The kids couldn’t back away fast enough. Only Rita looked suspicious and held her ground.

“Get the koondali (hoe),” Jimmy told her. She ran towards the kitchen to get to the shed outside, where we stored the farming tools. “Get two, Rita, and meet us at Kunjappachan’s cowshed,” Jimmy shouted at her back. He pulled my hand and we rushed down the steps of the house. He picked up his bicycle, and sat on it. I opened the gate and closed it after him, and sat sidesaddle on the back seat and we waved at the crowd at the windows. It was amazing how suspicious young people were too – my cousins were at the windows watching us.

Jimmy cycled at a furious pace, and past Kunjappachan’s place. He stopped at the side of the road further along. “Are you comfortable sitting like that?”

“Of course not.” I got off and sat astride.

“You remember the last time I took you on my bike? Dad gave me a lecture about love and arranged marriages. I tried not to yawn,” Jimmy said.

“I may keep getting the lectures for some time this vacation. I’ve got to tell you loads of stuff – a lot has happened this last month and a half. By the way, you holding my hand will tip them off balance.”

Jimmy laughed. “Do they really think we’re going to get married? I’m only 15. I have at least 15 or 20 years more to go.”

“Where are you taking me?”

“I’ve something to show.”

“What is it?”

“Secret. Wait for it.”

We cycled past lush paddy fields, the light glinting off the water in places, narrowly missed the speeding autorickshaws and tumbled into a ditch.

“Sorry, sorry. Are you hurt?” Jimmy asked after he pulled me up with some difficulty. I checked my dress to see if it was torn. I had heard a rip, but probably imagined it. But my left side was stained with mud from our fall. Jimmy tried to pry off the wet mud with a dried leaf. “Sorry, mol. I don’t know how we’re going to explain this,” he pointed at my clothes.

“We can tell them the truth.”

“They’ll stop you from coming out with me.” There was genuine regret on Jimmy’s face.

“I can have a wash before I go home. Tidy up my clothes.”

“Ya. Good idea. Come on.” We got on the bike, which was in cyclable shape, and sped on. I soon realised we were going to Jimmy’s grandparents’ house. I usually visited them with my parents towards the end of our vacations. But Appa visited them often.

As soon as we rode in through the open gate, both of us jumped off the bicycle, and Jimmy leaned it against the side of the house and showed me where the tap was. Most Kerala houses have at least three or four taps outside the house, mostly near the entrances.

He watched while I sluiced water over my left side, and tried to rinse away the drying stains. He brought me a grungy turkey towel to dry myself. Then he took me to his room and told me to take off my skirt, which he’d iron in another room. We closed the windows to thwart voyeurs and I handed him my skirt through the door. He returned in five minutes. Some of the stains still showed but the skirt was dry.

“Hold out your blouse and I’ll iron out the wet patches,” Jimmy said.

“You’ll burn me!”

“Let’s give it a shot.”

So I stood still, and stretched out my blouse while he tried to iron it suspended in the air. It was quite useless and so he gave up.

I knew he was an ace at ironing because his sister Marina had made him iron her clothes, until he managed to burn a nice dress. When I got to know I asked him if he had done it on purpose and he didn't answer. I didn’t know what it to make of it.

He took me to the storeroom, which was at the back of the house, and switched on the zero-watt light bulb. “Be quiet,” he whispered.

While my eyes got accustomed to the dark room, I heard squeaks. It came from the basket in the corner. He lifted the conical lid of the basket and a hen twisted her head this way and that to look at us. She allowed Jimmy to lift her and he kept her tucked under his arm, gently caressing the top of her head and murmuring to her.

“Can you hear the noise?” he asked.

“Yes. But what is it?” I couldn’t see any chicks – only eggs in the basket.

“The sounds are from the eggs. They are about to hatch.”

“That’s crazy. Are you sure?”

“Look here.” A portion of the egg was broken and a large hole had developed in the shell. “Can you see the chick moving?”

I looked in awe. I had never seen a chick hatch out of an egg. Jimmy put the hen down and slowly lowered the conical lid on her. He lifted the egg and peeled away a small bit of the shell from near the hole. We could see the chick trembling inside. It wasn’t fear, it was just the way new life happened.

The wooden doors behind us opened and Jimmy’s grandmother Kunjumaria Ammachi came in and watched us. After a few minutes, she told us to leave the eggs be. Jimmy placed the hen back on its to-be family and latched the storeroom’s doors.

Ammachi put her arms around us and listened to our chatter while we walked through the dark rooms to the kitchen. She served us tea and jackfruit chips and halwa, asked us questions, and seemed keenly interested in the family’s reactions to Rebecca and Roy’s marriage (FC92, FC93). Jimmy and I sat next to each other on the long wooden bench in the kitchen and sipped our tea.

When the phone rang, Jimmy said to his grandmother, “It will be for us.” He answered the phone and said yes three or four times. “Ammachi, I have to take mol back. Is it ok if I eat lunch there?”

A dimple showed in Ammachi’s cheek when she smiled. She nodded her head and held out an arm. We bent our heads to her lips for a kiss and I could smell the clean smell of a fresh cotton sari.

This time we cycled slowly taking in the sights of the village and when we reached Kunjappachan’s house Jimmy rode in, circled the front courtyard, rode behind the cowshed and stopped there. We waved at the aunt watching us suspiciously through the kitchen window.

“What’s going on, Jimmy?” I asked, eyeing the knee-high pile of stinking manure.

“We’ll need to say we were at Kunjappachan’s house.” He turned to face me. “We’ll come back of course, I want to see the animals here. You’ll also need to sit ladylike.” This I had forgotten. So I hopped off and walked to the front of the house. In a minute, Jimmy was with me and I sat sidesaddle behind him. We had to keep up appearances, there’d be any number of hawks at the windows waiting for us to re-appear.

In the end, our lone hawk turned out to be Rita – who was furious at us for not waiting for her. She claimed she had dug herself a hole in the cow dung behind the cowshed.

“Who told you to do that!” Jimmy said aiming to look shocked, although one side of his mouth twitched. Chuckles sounded behind us.

“You said there was a snake there!”

“But snakes are dangerous. You should have let me come and take care of it.”

That stumped Rita… but just for a few seconds. “But you weren’t there. I waited and waited and waited!” her voice shrill.

“Are you sure you went to the right place? I was there and didn’t see the hole… Do you think the snake filled it up? And normally you’d stink the place up if you were mucking about with manure.”

Roma stepped forward her arms akimbo. “Where were the two of you? You said you’d be next door but weren’t.”

“You were there with Rita?” Jimmy asked.

“No.”

“So basically you don’t know.”

Roma’s mouth flapped a bit, not knowing what hit her. Jimmy turned to Rita, “The truth is mol and I waited for you, but you took too long to show up. So I took her home to show her a hatching egg. I’m sorry, I had no patience. But if you like, we can go now and look for the snake. The snake may have gone off by now, but there may be some large worms.”

“Jimmy…” Sam Uncle said, shaking his head but his eyes dancing and his lips closed tightly – probably trying to rein in a laugh. My eyes darted to Paul and there was a cool look in them, no sign of a smile. I never had a chance with him anyway. Life was for living, and I’d rather do it looking at eggs hatching and falling in ditches with his cooler brother.

“I would have liked to look at the eggs too,” Rita said throwing a cold look at me. I suddenly realised I wanted Rita on my side… always.

“Yes, Jimmy, all of us would have,” Sarah said, leaning against the doorjamb of the dining room, smiling mischievously at Jimmy who looked away and blushed.

“Next time then,” he muttered.

Rita and Roma glared at Jimmy but he sat on the arm of the sofa his father was seated on. When he pointed at the stool next to him, I felt a hand pull my blouse from the back and I was hauled into the dining room. Amma ordered me to set the table for the guests, and Rita and Roma soon followed me.

                                                            *****

The narrator is spending the summer vacation with her grandparents in Kerala and an old friend drops by for a visit and serves up some intrigue. 

This is a work of fiction and is the latest episode of the Webs We Weave series.
You can read 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, 92, 93, 94, 95, 96, 97)

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#younglove #jimmy #love #youngadult #fiction #keralastories #keralavillage #kerala #animalstories #eggs #hens #snake #worms #cowdung #cow #cowshed #ditch #bicycle #youngboy #younggirl #teenager #teenageescapades #teenagestories #fishychronicles #tea #websweweaveseries #websweweave #bombaymalayalis #syrianchristianmalayalis #syrianchristians #bestfriends #friends #hawk #sidesaddle #sari #freshsmell #rita #keepingupappearances #rebecca #roy #marriage #rita #roma #cousins #family #school #recess

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Fishy Chronicles 86: The Webs We Weave (18) – An ending

I watched the shadow move. I had stopped being afraid of the shapes that danced on my wall at night, because I knew now that it was the tree’s branches moving gently – illuminated by the weak streetlight. I had conquered my fear of the shadows outside, but I stayed awake at night consumed by the shadows within.

I had remained in our bedroom every night since Romeo had been cut up and cooked into a curry (FC84). It was brutal and I couldn’t stop thinking of it. I missed my little feathered friend and avoided going to the guava tree now. I missed his kinship and the way he seemed to speak to me. 

In the day, I spent time next door with my grandfather’s brother Kunjappachan. But I had developed a nagging distrust, which I tried consciously to shrug off every time I understood what was happening. Appachan had been loving, a larger-than-life presence always. His sweet treats, taking his grandchildren out to the local market – we took turns as his car could only fit some of us at a time – bringing us flowers and cashew seeds from his morning rounds of his fields, his stories about his long-dead parents and other family. But in one swoop all that had changed for me, and watching things unfold – for some of my cousins too.

In a few weeks I had witnessed all of this family turn from Dr Jekyll to Mr Hyde. It was something I couldn’t wrap my head around. I felt myself hold back from simple interactions, wondering if the person I was talking to was secretly plotting evil against me. I couldn’t share my thoughts, I had to debate everything I wanted to say, how it would be construed, consider the backstories... eventually it felt easier to nod and keep quiet. It was all confusing and frightening. I clung to my parents, following Appa to the farm and drifting into the fields, much to Appachan’s irritation. I wanted to avoid the house, Ammachi, her daughters and my cousins at all cost. When I spotted my great uncle, I stayed close to him.

Every morning I swallowed my breakfast, doing my best to avoid eye contact with the others and then, while my grandmother was mid-sentence listing out my chores, I was out the door and at the gate next door. The day I was cornered, my father reluctantly blocking my path, Ammachi gave me an earful about being ungrateful and bad mannered and it being a sure-fire route to the gates of Satan’s vile quarters. It was tedious listening.

Just the previous night my father had given me a restrained lecture about good manners, and having to accept what had happened and moving on. We had had a bitter argument and I had demanded going to my mother’s parents’ home. When there was no let up, I burst into tears and the matter ended.

I looked at my parents – they were snoring. Their ritual night-time chats and light laughter had stopped – not that I had noticed. But I did notice that I had not heard any family gossip in a long time.

                                          ******

There was news at Kunjappachan’s house though. His eldest grandson was visiting from the US. He’d just got a job and his parents had insisted he meet his grandparents before he returned. I had met my cousin occasionally over the years, but we had little in common because of our age difference – except for being able to speak in English.

My great aunt and her daughters in law fussed over him – partly because he was so handsome and mostly because he enjoyed their attentions – and luckily his pants had elastic at the waist because his gaunt look had disappeared quickly. Every relative of ours that lived abroad usually returned to India ‘healthy’, a polite way of saying fat in Kerala, but in Roy’s case this was the reverse.

He was the brilliant cousin, who had studied at a tony university in Delhi and soon after gone off to do a PhD in the US. He was hot, according to my cousins. I had to agree, he looked chiseled and did not have a potbelly. And he was nice too. His face was mostly buried in the newspapers, his grandfather ordered some English magazines and newspapers just for him, and when he wasn’t reading he was either at our house or roaming around the village and fields.

When I did get over my awe of him, we chatted, played chess, and because I always lost we ended up playing draughts, Snakes and Ladders or cards. And after a while, I became aware that my older cousins would be there too.

One day, I pushed through the crush that had formed around Roy. I petted Petty the goat and then saw the glistening deep purple jamuns on the ground a little further on. Many had been trod on by the visitors, but some were in good condition nearer the bushes bordering the courtyard. I moved forward, picking up a coconut shell from near the cow shed to hold the jamuns.

From the low wall separating the two properties, I could see the men in my grandfather’s study, and an argument in progress. So what was new – my relatives only knew how to fight. When I asked Appa about this trait, he said they discussed politics. The snatches I had heard confirmed it, but once in a while they got heated and shouted their heads off about other things. One day it was about an old friend and some money. Another day one of the uncles was denying a smoking habit, and another day it was about one of their wives being treated rudely. But this seemed unlike any other argument. Anniemama, Sarah’s mother, was standing in the doorway of the study, her face pressed into her open palms.

Georgiechyan was looking down at someone and screaming blue murder and Appa and Joychyan were pulling him away. Suddenly Ammachi appeared at the windows, grabbing two shutters at a time and slamming them shut.

                                       ******

Georgiechyan and his family did not appear for lunch. I wondered what they were doing for food. They did not appear for evening tea either, even though the youngest kids were sent to knock at their bedroom door.

I was surprised Ammachi could spare a daughter in law, chores might be heaping up. Ammachi looked disturbed. Her daughters sat on either side and the only noises were of my cousins eating their food and bantering.

Inhaling the aroma of the etheka appams, I gave thanks for the extra snacks on my plate. The George family didn’t know what they were missing. 

                                         ******

I wiped the sweat off my neck with my hand. Ugh. The fan was spinning slowly over my parents and the air didn’t quite disperse into my corner of the room. The fluorescent dial of the clock on the bedside table showed 12.53am.

I debated getting up. Usually Sarah had her call with Johnny about now (FC80). It had become a prolonged nightly ritual, and was a pain because it coincided with a murder serial I had started watching. They were still not allowed to talk to each other, unless supervised, till their marriage some months away. As the family didn’t know that the two were speaking to each other, Sarah had sworn me to secrecy. The understanding was that I would not listen in on the call, and no one would know that I was watching TV on the sly.

For some reason Mobby had stayed firmly in his room since our night-time episode (FC81, FC82) … or else he was visiting Sonimol chechi later at night – after Sarah’s call and my serial.

What could I do this time of night? No movie and no night-time snacking – Ammachi had changed the padlock on her goodies cupboard. She still hadn’t figured out who had been making inroads into the snacks or that there were a few copies of the same key floating around. Sometimes we watched her open the cupboard to see her reaction. She thought someone was taking the key from under her pillow at night and couldn’t understand how she didn’t wake up.

I remembered the magazine Roy had given me. It was a political one but had a gossip column of sorts in the back. Plus, there was a Bollywood special in this issue – the only reason I had wanted to read it. I found a torch in the dressing table drawer, but it didn’t work. There were no batteries to be found either. The bedside clock yielded only the narrow pencil variety. I snuck out of our room and stood still in the corridor until my eyes got used to the darkness, and then followed the faint light from the street coming through the sitting room windows. 

I crept forward, the memory of Mobby’s thrashing coming to mind and I was mindful that I would get the same treatment were Sarah to catch sight of me. I still felt bitter at the thought of me being punished and Sarah getting away scot-free. For sure, Mobby and his parents were afraid of Sarah, else she would have been court martialed or locked up in the store room for a few days.

There was no noise coming from the sitting room. The call must have ended early. This was strange because lovers talked for an inordinately long time – as did Sarah and Johnny. I held back. Sarah was seated on the red sofa, staring into the distance. I leaned forward to see what she was looking at and could spot nothing in particular. The phone was next to her on the sofa. I hesitated, but then cleared my throat. It would be worse if I was caught spying.

Sarah didn’t seem to have heard. I went closer. She was holding herself stiffly, her hands by her side, her back straight but leaning forward and bathed in white streetlight. And then I saw a tear roll slowly down her face, with another dropping from her jaw. I began to move forward, but then remembered our pact and moved back into the corridor. I watched for a while, but she didn’t move or stop crying.

Finally I stood next to her and waited. She sat back against the sofa.

“What happened, Sarahchechi?”

There was a long sniff. And a shrug. But she still didn’t turn to look at me.

“Did… er… Johnnychacha call?”

She looked down at her hands.

“Er, chechi, did you guys have a fight?” I couldn’t remember ever seeing her cry.

She looked up and one side of her lips rose in a false smile. “No. We didn’t fight.”

“So?”

“His family called yesterday and ended the engagement. He hasn’t called me for several days.”

My breath stopped. “What?”

She stood up and brushed down her kurta, swaying. I caught her arm to steady her. “You’re joking, right, chechi?”

“Wrong, mol. I’m not joking,” she said with some force. “His uncle called up and said they did not want to proceed, th-that… Johnny had had second thoughts.”

I was stunned. My perfect brother in law. Now a never-brother. It was unbelievable. “But why? What’s wrong with you?”

It seemed a source of mirth for my cousin, and her lips thinned.

“You think it is funny?” I asked.

“You think I’m perfect?”

“Yes!”

“Even after pinching your ears and shouting at you?”

“… I think a guy would think you’re perfect.”

She snorted and sat, bending over, with her elbows on her knees and her face in her palms. I babbled, “I mean, you’re pretty, fair, and thin,” and you have brains, “and guys like that.” Guys didn't like brainy girls – beautiful yes, clever no. And after several weeks of Ammachi’s training and her grand plans for her granddaughters, Sarah knew how to keep house. That made her perfect.

I was putting my hand on her shoulder when I heard the savage swear word. I quickly pulled it away. “What now, chechi? … Er… The announcement was made in church… What will happen now?”

She shrugged.

I didn’t know what to make of it. But I did know most of my cousins had had ultra-short engagements, and been raced to the altar. Was this why our weddings occurred so quickly after an engagement – to kill the possibility of the union not happening? “Have you tried calling Johnnychyan?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“He hasn’t picked up his phone for a few days. Since Wednesday.”

I felt horror seep through my being. It was the day before Romeo’s life was brutally snuffed out. “Y-y-you think it’s related?”

“What?”

“Feels like a coincidence.”

“What?”

“Romeo’s death and your engagement ending.”

“Don’t be silly, mol! There is no connection.”

“Or the same person who wanted Romeo dead, spread stories about you, enough to end your engagement?”

“What stories?”

“I don’t know.”

“Romeo and ‘this’ are not related.”

“How can you be sure. And why now, why not before your engagement?”

“I can’t be sure, but I don’t think anyone would break my engagement just because they were angry with me for something. It is too cruel.”

I could believe it. Anything was possible in this house filled with insane people. My cousin looked up, searching my face, “You don’t think so?” her voice broke and tears started falling again.

“Sorry, chechi, just me being paranoid.” I sat next to her and squeezed her hand. “Maybe Johnnycha will change his mind… and-and want to get back with you…” I wished I had a hanky because now my cousin’s face was twisted and red, and she was sobbing.

I held onto her for an eternity, begging God to ease my chechi’s misery. In that fell swoop, I realised that it wasn’t the engagement that mattered to my cousin – she had lost her heart to Johnny too. When she stopped crying, a long time later, we held hands and watched the street outside until the sky started turning pink and the streetlights were switched off. Then we went back to our rooms.

                                            ******

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related
to a family vacation in Kerala during her childhood. 

She is traumatized by the demise of her pet rooster, but it seems the malevolent force prevailing in her household isn't done with her and Sarah yet.   

Read the entire The Webs We Weave series here FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94

#fiction #keralachristians #keralastories #kerala #keralavacation #keralafamilies #love #loss #brokenengagements #marriage #food #satan #clock #mobby #sarah #fishychronicles86 #grandparents #goat #rooster #Romeo #websweweaveseries #swearwords #beautifulwomen #mumbaimalayalis #malayalistories #chess #boardgames #snakesandladders #draughts #johnnyandsarah #spying #beautifulwomen #cleverwomen #prettywomen #savage

******

Fishy Chronicles 84: The Webs We Weave (16) – Mob justice

I left Appachan's (grandfather) study, but the commotion behind me continued. My world felt like it was crashing around my ears (FC83). I felt a deep shame and my skin tingled with humiliation. Plus my legs, where Appachan had beaten me with his stick, stung.

I slowed near the front door. I could disappear for the rest of the day… but then I’d be a quitter. I had just told Appachan that running away was for losers. I turned to the corridor, my thoughts raging. I heard running feet behind me.

Saruymama, hatred in her eyes and her mouth stretched back in a snarl, was rushing at me. I backed away, terrified. Too late. Her hands gripped my arms painfully and shook. My head rocked back and forth sharply and I tried to push her away.

“Get up! Get up! Appachan will get annoyed if you miss breakfast! How much can you sleep?” I sat up with a start. My mother was sitting beside me on the bed,  glaring. Her face softened, she felt my forehead, and then wiped my face with her sari pallu. “If you cover yourself fully under a thick sheet, you are only going to sweat. Go brush your teeth and get ready for breakfast.” She got up and left.

I looked around. The sun was bright outside the window. The fan was spinning at top speed. In the corridor outside my bedroom, the closed door muffled the sounds of a big household at the start of its day. I threw the sheet off and rubbed my legs. No pain, no marks.

I thought back. Did all that happen? I was wearing the same nighty as last night. My head didn’t hurt. The bruise on my face – I rushed to the dressing table mirror. Nothing.

I slowly ran my hands over my legs. It had to have been a dream. It seemed to have been filled with my darkest fears, and showed my family in the worst possible way – a family of monsters.

A slap sounded on my door and it opened. My cousin Sarah’s head appeared. “Not hungry?”

“Y-yes.”

“Going to hide all day?”

I opened my mouth but couldn’t figure what to start with. Memories of last night flooded my brain (FC82). Sarah thrashing Mobby with a cricket bat. Oh God.

“If anyone asks… you were sleeping.”

I nodded.

“Even if they demand, or beat you for it… Understood?”

I nodded again. “M-Mobby?”

She left.

I jumped off the bed and folded my sheet. As dreams went it was the mother of all nightmares. I changed, brushed my teeth and ran to the dining room.

A quick scan of the room. No Mobby. The Mathans were missing. Appachan was angrily waving at the table and I sat next to Rita. She put a dosa on my plate and sloshed chutney next to it, some of it hitting the front of my kurta. I rubbed the spot. The men were discussing details for Sarah’s wedding (FC80) – lists and invites, and preliminary arrangements. I looked at the bookshelf in the study and wondered if Appachan’s stick still lay nestled in its cobwebs. I had worn a pair of jeans under my kurta, just in case my body met his cane. Roma’s elbow poked my breast, reminding me of my dosa.

******

The Mathans didn’t leave their room the whole day, though I saw Sarayumama come out during meals, and at one point crying near her mother. I stayed out of sight, but within sight, and did my chores.

Later in the day, while standing near my guava tree, our neighbour from down the road came through the gate. Dr Lal waved at me and went into the house. I stayed near the guava tree as it was near the Mathans’ room. I heard voices, but was too scared to peep through the half curtain. Romeo skulked near my legs and I picked him up. At that moment, Sarayumama appeared in the window and her face turned vicious. “Spying on us! You good for nothing!” She slammed the windows shut. An involuntary laugh bubbled up because my aunt had to bang the windows together several times as the wood had expanded and wouldn’t close.

I balanced my bum on the narrow ledge below the Mathan family’s windows. The wall behind my back was cool and though I could not hear anything, I felt hanging about was a way of showing my aunt my middle finger.

Some time later the doctor came out and was near the gate, when he glanced my way and began to walk across the gravel. “Hi, mol, you’re from Bombay, yes?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

“Sarayu Aunty said you hit Mobby with a cricket bat. Is that true?” he said it with a smile.

“No!” I was shocked.

“Do you walk around the house at night?”

“Y-yes. But that doesn’t mean I hit Mobby!”

“No-no. Sometimes the ideas Sarayu Aunty gets. But did you see anything at night?”

“No-no. I watched a movie and then went to bed,” I embellished. I felt the kind eyes bore into me. “W-What’s wrong with Mobby?”

“Someone gave him a good whacking. Looks like someone strong.”

I shook my head in disbelief. It was just my luck. Someone else did the crime and I was being blamed for it. “Is-Is he badly hurt?”

“Not really.”

“Has he been broken?” I said in my stressed state.

Dr Lal chuckled. He pushed his round spectacles further up his nose. “Luckily not. But he has some deep bruises. By the way, which of your family lives in Bangalore?”

“Er, Georgiechyan. Appa’s oldest brother. Why, Doctor?”

“I’m moving there for work.”

“Oh.”

“Feeling bad I’m going to leave?”

“Of course.” Not quite true, but who cared.

“Which of the kids are Georgiechyan’s?”

“Sarah chechi and Rebecca chechi. She’s studying in the US.”

His head moved up and down. “Yes, I know her.” He gave a quick smile. “Okay, got to run. Don’t watch too much TV at night, and sleep latest by 12.”

“Er, why are you telling me this? Did someone complain about me?”

“No. It will regularise your sleep pattern,” he grinned.

I watched the goodlooking doctor walk away. I should have been happy he spoke to me, but I felt unsettled. Worse, my cousins were pressed into the bars of the sitting room window, watching.

“Hey, you. What was Dr Lal talking to you about?” my cousin Shyla asked. She and Nina were watching the doctor drive away.

I shrugged and disappeared around the wall. There would be too many questions, and I had no answers.

****** 

In a couple of days, Sarah and I knew we had been marked.

No one talked to us, including her parents. And my parents, not publicly.

My mother had it out with me. “You beat Mobby?” there was disbelief on her face. My father was pacing up and down our bedroom. I shook my head.

“I understood you using the sling for self defense (FC72), but you don’t have to beat up people you don’t like. And Mobby has some bad injuries.”

“I didn’t hit him!”

“But you know what happened and aren’t saying! Did Sarah tell you to keep quiet? Or is this some misguided effort at avoiding punishment. Whether you tell the truth or not, everyone thinks you are guilty.”

I wanted to protest, but uncannily my mother had touched on the truth. She had to have some sort of inner vision. I glanced at my father, who had stopped pacing, but his lips were squeezed together and jutting out, and a deep frown accompanied the look. I looked at Amma.

“Don’t you realise you have to accept the consequences of your actions… that you have to think of the effects before they occur? And beating someone is unacceptable.”

When I didn’t say anything, Amma said, “Appachan and Ammachi are very angry. I don’t know what your grandfather will say to you, but he has said a number of hurtful things to Appa.” My head sunk lower.

“Go and apologise to Mobby. And find a way to make amends. Don’t let me find you beating anyone again. What is it with your midnight roaming,” Amma shook me and stopped when Appa cleared his throat. “You don’t stay awake at night in Bombay. Why are you doing it here? All the family is talking about it. I get a lecture about you every day from Sarayu chetathi, ‘she did this, she did that, she has no manners’… do you think I like hearing this nonsense?”

I had stopped listening at ‘Go and apologise to Mobby’. Was Amma mad? I didn’t do anything to the ass, but he got what he deserved! But looking at my raging mother, I felt it best not to say so. She pinched my arm in frustration and left the room.

I rubbed the tender area and looked at Appa from the corner of my eyes. He too left the room.

I thought about it a bit. How was I going to keep out of trouble when it came unbidden, despite my best intentions.

I stayed put in my room until there was silence in the corridor and I couldn’t hear anyone further away. I slipped out through the front door, closing it carefully. I had seen Sarah oiling the latch a couple of weeks ago, but had only made the connection the night I saw her stealing out of the house with a backpack (FC78, FC79).

I whistled long and low, feeling the afternoon heat even though I was standing under the guava tree. Sitting was not an option – the large red ants roamed all over the guava tree and around it. I had to keep stamping my feet, gently and as noiselessly as I could, to dislodge them. The day was nice though. A breeze rustled the leaves of the trees, making them shiver and emit that lovely shushing noise. Even the birds seemed to stay quiet to listen. No wonder Appa loved this place so much. There were mangoes in the trees, but unripe. A blue bird swooped into a tree nearby and I stayed still hoping it wouldn’t fly away quickly. When it flew away I whistled again for my favourite bird. Romeo, my rooster boy, usually came running at my call. Maybe he had more tasty bits to eat today. One of my cousins had started feeding the kitchen’s vegetable waste to the hens. An aunt had remarked to Amma that the eggs had started tasting different and could it have been the birdfolk’s new diet.

I crept as close to the back of the house, where the shed was, and whistled for Romeo. I saw my cousins washing clothes and Sonimol chechi, the servant and Mobby’s ‘girlfriend’, collecting firewood. She gave me a dirty look and walked away quickly. I saw Roma through one of the windows. “Hey, open the front door for me.”

She came close to the window and opened her mouth to say something, but shook her head and closed it. I rushed around the house to the front door. She opened the door and moved away into the kitchen immediately. Odd. I went back to my room. I didn’t understand it. Ammachi no longer had work for me and I was now sitting in my room most of the time.

I stayed there until I heard the call for dinner.

******

I entered the dining room, and the room turned silent. People looked up and then looked away. My grandmother and Sarojmama were looking at me coldly, but Sarayumama was sitting where I normally sat, smiling at me. I felt repulsed, and a little afraid. Most of the family were looking at each other or looking through me. My grandmother had made her chicken curry, and the delicious fragrance was all over the room. But now this room full of people intimidated me. My mother stood with her sisters in law – her eyes and nose red. She was looking at my father, who was sitting stony faced at the end of the table. My eyes went to Pilipochyan and it was blank.

“Sit quickly,” Appachan said gruffly.

I sat next to Rita and it was a squeeze because of Sarayumama. We bent our heads in prayer, and Appachan thanked the Lord for our food. I looked around, wondering why no one was reaching for the food. Even the aunts were standing still and not serving. My grandfather rectified that when he glared at my grandmother and she started bustling.

But next to me, my aunt was ladling the thick dark naadan chicken curry into my plate. I wondered which chicken they had killed today.

My aunt smiled at me and put rice and vegetables on the side. She was behaving so strangely.

I looked around. My grandfather was eating, but casting glances my way. I slowly squeezed some curry and rice into a ball and was raising it to my mouth when I noticed Rita staring aghast. “Why aren’t you eating, Rita? What happened, baba?” Rita’s sudden tears frightened me. I put my left arm around her shoulders, and whispered, “What happened, why are you crying?” There was no food on her plate. Nor in Roma’s. Nor in Pilipochyan’s or my father’s. Appa was… in a cold rage.

But Rita wouldn’t stop crying. And… Roma’s head was down, tears falling into her plate.

“Eat your food, mol, Ammachi’s curry is excellent,” Sarayumama said from next to me, looking happy.

I nodded and tore a piece of chicken off its bone when Rita’s hand grabbed mine. “D-d-don’t e-e-eat ith.”

My aunt grabbed Rita’s hand and threw it away. “Eat your food now!”

I hesitated, an awful sense of foreboding creeping into my being. Something was totally off. Why was this hateful woman being nice… now? And why was everyone quiet. Even Appachan was not eating the curry, and he loved this particular dish.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Oh-ho. Why?”

Maybe you poisoned my food. But there was curry in some plates. Why did Mobby look happy. From the corner of my eyes I could see Sonimol chechi in the dining room, watching. She never came into this room when we ate.

I pushed my plate away. “No.” I got up. But instead of shouting at me to sit down and eat my dinner, my grandfather ignored me and continued to eat. Sarayumama grabbed my arm and forced me into my chair. I looked at my father, his face was furious, “Sarayuchechi, let her go. You’ve punished her enough.”

“When she’s eaten the curry, I’ll forgive her.”

What the hell were they talking about. Suddenly my aunt was stuffing pieces of chicken and rice into my mouth.

“No, no, no, chechi, don’t eat it. they’ve killed Romeo and cooked him. She’s forcing you to eat him!” Rita screamed in my ear, shoving away Sarayumama’s hand from my mouth. Killed Romeo and cooked him? My aunt’s fingers were in my mouth, pushing the food right in, and I bit down as hard as I could to stop her. Someone pounded my back hard, while Rita and Roma jumped on me trying to push our aunt away. Sarayumama screamed in pain, punching the side of my head and my shoulders to release her. When I was sure I was going to vomit because of the blood from her fingers, I opened my mouth. But her screaming didn’t stop.

All around me was chaos, people shouting, chairs falling backwards. I saw Appa trying to reach me, but Bobby and his father physically holding him back, and them scuffling. I felt none of it, heard none of it, only feeling a growing horror. I tried walking out of the room, but bodies blocked my way. My grandfather had the long stick in his hand, there were no cobwebs on it. He swung it at my legs and I stood still. I heard his sons begging him to stop, but it was Pilipochyan who stood in front of me. The thin long stick hit him once and there was immediate silence. I tried to look around me, at the plates. I wanted to know who was eating my Romeo. Traitors, all of them. Bastards.

I opened my mouth to tell my grandfather about his precious Mobby and Sonimol chechi’s night-time rendezvous, but Pilipochyan’s hand gripped my shoulder and pulled me close. “You cannot take back anything you say… you will always regret saying what you did in the heat of this moment. Best to leave it unsaid, mol.”

Sarah pulled me away, pushing through the family angrily. “Shame on you for killing an innocent, and tormenting another. And shame on you for enjoying it all!” 

She took me to her room.

That night I slept in my cousin’s bed, hunger gnawing my stomach, and crying for my beloved Romeo. I hated them all.

                                                                 ******

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related to a family vacation in Kerala during her childhood. 

The family is punishing the cousins for their midnight attack on Mobby (FC82). Unfortunately, quite harshly.  

Read the entire The Webs We Weave series here FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91, 92, 93, 94

                                                                 ******

#fiction #keralasyrianchristians #lifeinakeralavillage #FishyChronicles #mumbaimalayalis #malayalam #clandestinelove #love #rooster #romeo #chicken curry #naadanchickencurry