Fishy Chronicles 83: The Webs We Weave (15) – Reckoning

I lay under my bedsheet, motionless. I feigned sickness when Appa told me it was time to get up. He felt my forehead, but let me sleep.

It was pointless though. Outside my bedroom door there was a commotion building steadily. I heard feet running up and down the corridor, raised voices, a door slam.

I pressed my hands to my ears, praying I could be transported elsewhere, cursing myself for interfering in things that always got me into trouble. It seemed I had no instinct for self-preservation.

While all these thoughts ran through my head, the electricity went off. I heard the fan creak to a stop and, when I could no longer take the heat and suffocation threw off the sheet to suck air into my lungs and cool my sweating face and body.

I had the fright of my life. Sarayumama was leaning over me, looking ready to kill me.

She bared her teeth and grabbed my shoulders in a vice-like grip, shaking me and screaming in my face about sins and crimes, her first-born baby, and etc, etc. I lost track because my brain hit my cranium too many times, and aimed only to get away from the spray of spittle from my aunt’s mouth.

Sarayumama suddenly let go and I fell backwards, hitting my head against the teak headrest of the bed. It hurt like hell but I stayed frozen, frightened to my core. When the haze lifted, I noticed my parents in the room and there was a babble.

But Sarayumama wasn’t done with me. She dug her short stubby red-painted nails into my shoulder and tried to tear out flesh. I pushed her hands away with effort. This enraged her more and she grabbed fistfuls of my nighty and hauled me off the bed. I tried my best to land on my feet.

“SARAYU!” 

My aunt’s hands became limp and I staggered back, my nightdress bunched up under my chin. I pulled it down, feeling conscious of my bare thighs and the family that had now grouped in the room and outside the bedroom door. I saw my cousins peeping in, mostly curious, fearful and… pitying.

“I told you I would deal with them,” Appachan (grandfather) said.

“She has been targeting my children since we came here.”

My grandfather took a slow deep breath, his eyes behind his glasses moving with exasperation from his older daughter to me.

“Look at her size and look at your sons!” Amma said. From the corner of my eye, I saw Appa’s head turn in her direction, immediately quieting her.

Appachan turned to look at my mother, and she lowered her head. He turned back. “Brush your teeth, eat your breakfast, and then come to my study.”

My chest squeezed. “W-why?”

A fist slammed the side of my head, and I staggered sideways. The room swung around me and I fell to the floor. Arms grabbed me, but I was conscious only of pain in the side of my head and face and the back of my head where the headrest had hit me. My mother was crying and my father was furious and standing with his arms spread wide in front of me, shouting.

When I felt my head steady somewhat people had swarmed into the room and Sarayumama was being hustled out of the door with difficulty by her siblings Sarojmama and Joychyan. My grandfather waved his cane about, roaring furiously at no one in particular, and my cousins Rita and Roma avoiding his cane came rushing to me.

I breathed slowly and kept my eyes closed, lying still on the floor to stop my head from spinning.

******

I cried in the toilet while I brushed my teeth. And then I raged at the memory of my aunt punching me. In the scarred bathroom window, the bruise on my cheekbone was turning maroon.

When I sat at the dining table, I could see my father, his siblings and their spouses standing uncomfortably in my grandfather’s study. The door leading from the study into the dining room was ajar and I sat as far away from it as possible. There was a steady whine, mostly by Sarayumama and her husband Mathanchyan.

I drank the cup of tea Elsa Aunty, Joychyan’s wife, gave me. She stroked my head gently and told me not to be afraid and put a couple of idlis on my plate. I cried some more. Rita put her arms around me and I felt her face wet against mine.

When Elsa Aunty went into the kitchen. Roma grabbed my chin, lifted the edge of her kurta and scrubbed my face dry. “Don’t let her hit you again! Jump out of the way. What got into you, didn’t you see it coming?”

“No.”

Despite being our aunt, Sarayumama had sometimes hit us when we were children. She prized the boys, especially her sons. The girls annoyed her. Her irritation increased whenever she saw her father return from his errands. His granddaughters would race to the gate to open it, even though the car was still about a half a kilometre away. They would mass around his car, opening the door for him, opening all the car doors and pulling out and carrying the packages into the house. The girls chattered all at once. The younger girls’ hands would be in his juba pockets, emptying it of loose change. Then he would open his wallet and pull out a large wad of low-denomination notes – notes he had especially arranged for at the market – and hand them out to the girls. He made a big production of looking through all the bags of groceries and then would go back to his car and carry back a large bag of toffees. There was usually a lot of laughter then, and all his granddaughters would sit around him, or on him, listening to how his day went. The older folks would sometimes leave their work to come and watch. Sometimes Appachan’s brother would come along, and he would call us his “little happinesses”.

“What’s happening?” I asked.

Roma pursed her lips. Rita’s small hands turned my face towards her. “Sarayumama said you and Sarahchechi beat Mobbychacha with a cricket bat.”

I was shocked. The tea I had just sipped went up my nose and I coughed into my sleeve. Roma beat my back and slapped the top of my head with her palm to help me tide over my coughing fit. She did not know how strong she was – it hurt like hell.

“Is it true?”

“No.”

“So, how did Mobbychacha get hurt?”

“What makes you think he got hurt?”

“Lal Doctor,” our neighbour down the road, "visited in the morning. Said nothing was broken, but Mobbychacha told him that he went for a drink of water at night and you two bashed him up.”

“B-But but why would we do that?”

Rita looked at Roma, and Roma slowly shrugged. Something made me shiver. I turned to look into the study. Mobby was looking at me with hatred and behind him, unable to see Mobby, Appachan gestured at me impatiently to enter the room.

Rita and Roma hung back behind me in the doorway, squeezing behind their father even though Appachan glared at them.

Appachan tilted his head at the corner where Mobby sat on a chair. He looked woebegone, probably for the audience’s benefit. My cousin Sarah was standing next to him, her face impassive.

Appachan pointed again at the spot next to her and smiled.

It disconcerted me. I remembered how he thrashed me those weeks ago, assuming I had been having an illicit rendezvous with my cousin Bobby (FC70). How coldly he had treated me thereafter.

I tried not to smile back. I felt fearful and looked at my parents – who looked anxious.

“So, mol, we were discussing your tendency to roam around the house at night,” Appachan said.

I opened my mouth, but out of the corner of my eye I saw Roma shake her head, and closed my mouth.

Appachan smiled, waited expectantly, and then sat further back in his chair. His eyes narrowed on me, looked at Sarah, and Mobby, and then returned to me. He put both his hands on the knob of his polished walking stick, balancing his palms one on top of the other. He swung the top of his cane around in a circular motion.

“Are you going to tell me what happened last night?”

I looked at him, surprised. Didn’t he know? Roma shook her head. That meant to tread cautiously – mostly to shut up.

“What happened last night?” I asked. An incredulous exclamation rose from somewhere in the room and people shifted positions nervously.

“Oho, you don’t know?”

I wondered when Appachan would use his stick to draw a coherent response from me. I shook my head.

“Can you explain what happened to your cousin Mobby?” Appachan waved his hand at his grandson. I stepped forward to look at Mobby properly. He looked angry. He wore a long-sleeved shirt and was covered from head to toe. I could see nothing that was a reminder of last night.

“What happened to him?”

“She’s lying, you-you liar!” Sarayumama shouted from somewhere behind me and I lurched in terror into Sarah. She steadied me and let me go. The family rearranged itself to block Sarayumama’s way.

Appachan leaned towards Mobby and pushed up his sleeve. His skin was blue and maroon. Mobby looked at me with even more hatred.

“Do you know how these got on his arm?”

I shook my head.

“Adi kittum!” Appachan said angrily. It translated to ‘you’ll get a beating’ in Malayalam.

I moved back a step and looked straight ahead. I wondered what Sarah had said. A quick look upwards and her face still showed no emotion. Why were they still asking questions?

“What were you doing outside your room at night?” Appachan asked again.

“Soo-soo. But I didn’t do that,” I tilted my head at Mobby, but looked at a growth on my grandfather’s neck.

“He said you beat him.”

“He’s dreaming, for sure.”

“Insolent child! Beat her, beat her!” Sarayumama shrieked, dramatically straining against her sister Saroj’s tight hold.

From the corner of my eyes I could see Roma shaking her head furiously. I couldn’t bear to look at anyone, so I kept my eyes pinned to the wall in front of me, where Pilipochyan, and Sarah’s parents Georgiechyan and Anniemama, stood. Sarah’s parents looked tense, but Pilipochyan had an encouraging look. I moved my eyes to a large damp smudge on the wall above them and kept it there.

“Are you not scared of the consequences of lying?” Appachan shouted.

Why was Appachan assuming I was guilty? “What makes you think I’m not telling the truth?”

“You are not!”

“Would you believe me if I did? You didn’t believe me when I told you Bobby grabbed my breast in the loft.” I heard gasps and ignored them. “Yet you thrashed me and treated me like a scoundrel. You assumed I was the guilty one. And when he did it again, you were okay with it.”

“He did it again…” Appachan looked shocked.

“You left me out when you bought the rings for everyone (FC73). You let everyone see it. Because you punished me, everyone did the same. If you want to believe me you can. But I’m not going to tell you something just because you think that’s what happened.”

I saw him lift the cane. “That’s right. Hit me… go on… hit me because you didn’t like what I said. Did you want the truth? How do you know whether anything I say is going to be the truth. Why believe me when all this time you haven’t been able to believe me.” I stopped because Sarah was shaking me.

“Really, Sarahchechi, tell him the truth. But can Appachan handle it?” I pulled myself out of Sarah’s grasp. I lunged at Mobby, slapped my palm as hard as I could on his lap and squeezed.

He howled in pain. The stick came down on my arm. I hopped in pain, oblivious to the sudden explosion around me. When the stick rose again and stopped, I looked furiously into my uncertain-looking grandfather’s eyes, “Scared, Appacha?” the stick stayed up a second and then came at me. I ran out of the way into the crowd, which was too dense for me to make an escape. I felt hands push me towards my grandfather, but smaller hands dragged me back. I saw my grandfather get up, using his stick to push himself forward, and snorted. The scene was priceless. I looked around, still in the moment, watching relatives snarl, my parents trying to get to me, my aunts and uncles holding back an apoplectic Sarayumama. Bobby’s hand grabbed my hair, I wondered if it would hurt. In a moment it did and suddenly I was free and stumbling sideways because a blow caught me on a shoulder.

Bodies fell on me in a sudden fracas and I felt suffocated. Had there ever been a sane person in this household? Someone was lifting me up by my ear. My grandmother! I had forgotten Ammachi! Sarayumama shrilly urged her to give me the hiding of my life. Ammachi was right handed and had to let go of my ear to hit me.

Too late, I darted back, again trying to squeeze through the bodies. I looked at my parents, my father was deathly still, but mostly upset. I stopped. Next to him, my mother was crying. I knew what it was. My father was upset I was running away. If I wanted to stay home to avoid a bully at school, he’d say, “Will you run every day?"

My dad, upset with everything happening around me, was more upset I was not facing it head on.

I felt dread but turned and walked back to Sarah’s side. The family quietened.

“Not trying to run?” Appachan said sarcastically. He was standing next to Sarah and glaring at us both.

“Where would I go?”

“You can hide in the rubber fields, under the guava tree… next door.”

“That is for lesser beings.”

I thought he’d beat me, but I felt a movement next to me. Sarah’s eyes looked at the floor, but her nostrils flared and her mouth was tightly pursed… trying to stifle a smile.

I had to ask the question. “Appacha, did you ask Mobbychyan why he was out of his room last night?”

“That is not the issue here. He is free to leave his room anytime.”

“I am not?” What inequity! Appachan opened his mouth to argue. “Why did he need to be out of his room at night?” I could see Mobby shift in his chair.

“He wanted to drink water.”

“There’s water in his room.”

“No. There wasn’t!” Mobby said.

“The jug was half full in the morning.” I hadn’t bothered to look, but went with it. There was usually water in the jugs in every room every morning.

“How do you know?” Appachan asked.

“I saw Bobbychyan throw the water out of the window in the morning.”

There was sudden silence. Everyone turned to look at Mobby’s younger brother Bobby. “Bobby?” My grandfather asked my cousin, shifting his body to face his grandson.

“Er, y-yes, A-Appacha. Er-er, n-no, no!” Bobby’s eyes darted to Mobby and back to Appachan.

“Yes or no.”

Bobby hesitated looking at Mobby. “No.”

“Liar,” it crept out of my mouth before I could stop it.

“You b…!”

“I’m what? Say it, Bobby. I’m a what? I’m a b-b-b-bottle of water?”

He stepped towards me, but looked around at the silent crowd and stopped.

Appachan’s stick rose, pointing at Bobby. “Stand where you are.” He turned to Mobby, “Why did you need to leave your room when you had water in your room.”

“Toilet.”

“Why did you say you went to drink water… several times. Stand up!”

Mobby stood up hurriedly. “I did go to have water, a-and to go to the toilet.”

“Tell me again what happened in the corridor.”

“Er, er, they saw me in the corridor… an-and they told me to go back to my room. And-and then, she,” Mobby pointed at me, “she took the bat and started hitting me. And then Sarahchechi took the bat and hit me. I begged her to stop but she didn’t.”

Grandfather was silent. After a long time, he moved to his chair and sat down.

I hated Mobby with every fibre of my being. Sarah was still, her mouth tight and eyes staring straight ahead.

When my grandfather continued to stay silent, I said, “Giving up?” So easily.

“Quiet!”

“I can’t. Not when someone is accusing me of something I didn’t do. Also seems the rules are different for different people.”

“Quiet, mol! Keep quiet!” this time it was my father from across the room, furious at me. I was angry, and close to tears. Your parents should be on your side. Apparently not. I looked ahead, and took a deep breath.

Appachan stood up. He felt on the top of the bookshelf and pulled out the thin length of stick that he used to threaten us with when we were younger but never used. Bits of cobweb clung to it. There was a gasp and a murmur. “Put out your hands!”

My hands curled into fists and stayed tucked tightly into my side. “Put out your hands!” Appachan screamed.

“Put out your hands, child. Hold it out,” people said around me.

Suddenly the stick whacked my legs. I flinched but held myself still. It stung bitterly, but the pain was blunted slightly by the kurta-salwar my mother had insisted I wear this morning.

My eyes filled and I felt sad. After two more quick lashes, Joychayan stood in front of me, his arms outstretched. “She’s a grown child, Appacha. Enough now. She’s learnt her lesson.”

“Go!” Appachan yelled at me, pointing at the study door. The crowd parted quickly and I turned my back on my grandfather and walked away.

******

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

Her grandfather believes the narrator and her cousin Sarah are responsible for causing injury to his grandson Mobby and is having it out with them. Things do not end well for her. 

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 #forbiddenlove              

 

Fishy Chronicles 76: The Webs We Weave (8) – Breaking point

The next morning there was a buzz in the air. People stood in clusters, murmuring and looking wary.

I asked Roma what was going on.

“Someone was in the house last night. Dropped the brass vase in the sitting room near Appachan’s* room. When they checked the house, all the doors were locked.” (FC 75)

I was flummoxed.  I hadn’t thought of the burglar angle.

“Er… was anything stolen?”

“No! That’s the strange thing. Appachan said he heard people running, but no one woke up except Georgechyan and Pilipochyan.” Their rooms were near Appachan’s. “Ammachi^ says she can’t make out if anything was taken.” Maybe except jaggery and snacks. Ammachi’s grandchildren had been making inroads into her legendary stocks of savouries – one of the boys had got a spare key made to Ammachi’s snack-morgasboard and the key was passed around. Snacking never seemed to be an issue in Amma’s parents’ home – my grandmother and great grandmother left cakes and snacks out on the side table for the kids and adults. There was just one rule – everyone had to eat well at meal times.

Every time we walked past Appachan’s door, I glanced at it. When he was away in the fields and everyone seemed busy, I examined the door. I ran my fingers over the dent in the door, where the sharp mouth of the worked vase had gouged out the wood. 

A hand slapped the back of my head hard. I felt humiliation wash over me. I had done my best to avoid being hit during this trip. I whirled around.

Mobby… and Fatty, holding a ladle. I wondered if it was hot. “Don’t hit me.”

“Hahaha. Why not, baby? Do you know something about the door?” He watched me carefully.

“Yes.”

Shock crossed their faces. “What do you know!” Ammachi pushed Mobby aside and I leaned away to avoid the saliva popping out of her mouth. Shee!

She was squeezing my shoulder hard and I twisted myself out of her painful grip. “I-I heard a loud noise and some footsteps.”

“And?” Mobby said. He looked uncomfortable and his jaw was tight.

“Nothing. Is it true, Ammachi, there was a robber in the house last night?” I tried not to watch my cousin openly.

“Yes. They stole food. And were trying to take the brass vase and some uralis (traditional brass utensils).”

“How many uralis were stolen?”

“Er… nothing… so far… but the kitchen was in disarray. I have work to do.” She marched away. I wondered what Ammachi had to do. Every day she sat on a chair in the kitchen and ordered the womenfolk about, while looking for chores for her granddaughters. In Ammachi’s eyes everyone was idle and needed to be gainfully occupied.

“She’s training you girls,” Amma said when I complained.

“For what?”

“For marriage. No need to act so surprised. Your husband’s family will expect you to have all those, these, skills. And more.” I hopped on each leg, trying to keep quiet.

“B-but Uncle John helps Aunty Glory in the kitchen,” I said of my parents’ friends in Mumbai “and Appa he…” I was going to say “Appa helps you”, but my mother shook her head. Even if some husbands helped their wives in the kitchen, that was best kept under wraps here.

“Strange ideas all these girls have,” my father’s older sister Sarayumama said, rolling her eyes at the mound of rice in the wide rattan tray on her lap. “They think their husbands will be modern like American men and do housework. Hah!” She was concentrating on picking out tiny stones from the rice and had barely progressed all morning. Her sisters-in-law didn’t react and kept working.

But Ammachi didn’t relent. In addition to embroidery and sewing, we were made to cook, clean and keep house. For that is what good Syrian Christian girls did! It was a good thing Ammachi didn’t know that all this ended once we went home – all her children employed maids. Ammachi probably wanted to believe that we still swept and scrubbed the windows, even with a maid around. I didn’t understand why. Most of our relatives in Kerala had at least one elderly servant, and managed some staff for busy periods like vacations.

Anyway, early every evening, all the girls were lined up and made to peel or chop or mash something. Then, whether we wanted to or not, we stood next to the older girls while they fried what we had mashed and moulded into flat balls and another older cousin simultaneously boiled a massive tureen of water and milk for the tea on a four-burner stove. In the background, our grandmother shouted instructions.

If guests arrived, our pain worsened. Or, I should say, humiliation. We were made to serve them. All the while our relatives, mostly men, joked about us getting married – how imminent marriage was, that parents had to look for a groom years in advance, cooking skills were in demand, good manners, blah blah blah and bloody blah.

And then there were the sly jokes about marrying doctors, engineers, civil servants and NRIs. The implication was that if we looked pretty enough, or were fair enough, or were ladylike and well mannered, and wore enough gold ornaments to blind an oil-rich sheikh, we’d marry well and save our parents a large dowry.

My older cousins preened, drew their eyes religiously, Appachan frowned at lipstick, and went on sari-buying missions. The younger girls watched and our eyes popped at the silks and materials. My cousin brothers waited for every opportunity to tease their cousins about marriage and boys and grooms. And they tossed newspapers and wrappers and even banana peels in corners, expecting the girls to pick up the trash. Bobby told an irate Shyla that it was practice for marriage.  

This sort of crass behaviour was unusual. So far. For some reason, the boys began to harass the girls more. The elders would get into a snit and demanded to know who had thrown the garbage on the ground and why no one had picked it up.

Because of our idiot cousins, we girls were on tenterhooks and had to sweep the house at least twice a day and be on the lookout for rubbish on the floor. All we seemed to be doing was tidying up after our cousins. 

The younger boys, and those with sisters, eventually stopped. But the older boys, Mobby, Bobby, Joey, Tino and Tomo, accelerated their efforts.

One day we decided to see what would happen if we didn’t pick up after the boys for the whole day. Just before tea time, Ammachi cornered the younger girls in a bedroom and gave us a tongue lashing and stiff lecture about filth and faith – it was hard to find a connection. Ammachi sounded like a medieval priest run amok. We kept our heads down because she waved a fat stick at us.

My male cousins listened from the doorway and sniggered, while Bobby and Mobby guffawed. Over the next few days they diligently dropped fruit peels, bits of paper, trimmed nails, plastic bags and more. They took care not to do so in their bedroom – even they were afraid of Sarayumama. The girls complained to their parents. My uncles admonished the boys and they nodded dutifully, but continued their torment.

One day my grandfather’s brother and his family, from down the road, came over for lunch. As is customary, the men and older boys had lunch first. We wiped the table clean for the next set of diners – the ladies. This time, the boys had gone a step further and dropped food on the floors. There was not much we could do about it now. It was awkward seeing our great aunt, her daughters-in-law and grandchildren walking around the dining table to their chairs in discomfort – the food on the ground stuck to their bare feet.

The dining room floor was a mess and soon it found its way into the sitting room with the guests. And, finally, what we had tried hard to avoid for weeks happened. Appachan, finical about cleanliness, blew his gasket. First, he aimed his fury at his wife, then at his daughters and then at his granddaughters.

Ammachi screamed at the girls to get brooms and mops and we went to work cleaning the dining room floor, while the guests sat in uncomfortable silence in the sitting room. Appachan banged the connecting door shut and, slowly the dull murmur of a reviving conversation began.

Rice and curry were smashed into the floor and had dried up. It was disgusting. The braver among us tried to scrape it off the floor with our fingernails but couldn’t. We poured soap water on the floor and tried to wash away the mess with a spindly broom, but the food clung stubbornly to the floor. Finally, we brought in a tough brush we used to scrub moss off the concrete area near the kitchen garden. We scrubbed the floor in turns. It was an effort to get the soap off the floor and we had to swab the floor many times until it stopped being slippery. We watched as years of dirt was sucked out of the floor and it almost shone. But it was a deadening, humiliating experience. All the older ladies had disappeared into the sitting room with my grandmother and we girls were alone in the dining room, toiling quietly, feeling miserable.

Once we were done, we stood to the side, watching the floor dry under the fan. Bobby walked in through the study door at one side of the dining room. We watched in horror as his food-caked slippers instantly dirtied our floors. He seemed to revel in it. Despite our protests, he walked around the dining room, around the table a couple of times, drank straight from a bottle of water without using a glass, smirked at all of us and finally stopped to admire his handiwork.

Most of the girls seemed to be in a stupor. It was when he laughed that Roma ran forward and punched Bobby in his gut. The air left his body in a shrill sigh and he doubled over. Then she slammed her elbow into his back several times until the older girls pried her off and dragged her away. Nina grabbed his slippers, ran into Appachan’s study and threw them out of the window as far as she could in different directions. There was a narrow dirt road nearby and in all likelihood the slippers would fall into the puddles there. Nina returned, locking the study door with the key that always stayed in the lock and tucked it into her bra.

Bobby was cowering and mewling loudly on the floor, a dish towel stuffed into his mouth, and the little girls were now pummelling and kicking him. Nina and Shyla pulled them off one by one and nearly threw them at the kitchen doorway. Sarah, Georgiechyan’s daughter, gently turned the key in the lock of the dining room door leading to the sitting room, pulled it out and slipped it into her kurta pocket. She whispered to us to get out and gestured wildly at the kitchen door.

Once we were all in the kitchen, the older girls latched the kitchen door from the kitchen and the other connecting doors. All of us rushed out into the backyard. Nina and Shyla pushed Sonimol chechi, the maid, out of the door and ordered her to stay out of the way and not to tell anyone what she had just seen. They latched the kitchen door from the outside of the house and all of us ran in different directions.

Some of my cousins went into the fields adjoining the house and onto the road. They began walking briskly to the junction. They were following Sarah, who was walking towards the church. That was where she often went and stayed for hours. It wasn’t piety, like the others thought. She hated the tedium of household work and often took books and newspapers with her. Though my grandmother had stopped trying to enslave Sarah, Ammachi didn’t stop complaining about her.

Others walked stealthily to the front of the house, opened the squeaky gate gently and stepped out. We needn’t have worried. There was shouting and a major commotion in the sitting room, with people banging the connecting doors to the study and dining room. I knew the family would try to get into the dining room through the kitchen via the store room.

When I saw a head bobbing into view through the window near the front door, I began to run after my cousins. They were half way down the road, walking to my great uncle’s house – my grandfather’s brother’s. I wondered what his family would make of what had just happened.

I watched my cousins trying not to run. Suddenly I didn’t feel alone. Now my cousins knew how I had felt for most of my vacation.

Bobby deserved what he got, but now we were in serious shit.

                                                                        ******

* Grandfather in Malayalam

^ Grandmother in Malayalam

                                                                        ******

This is a continuation of The Webs We Weave (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) series and is about events that occur during the narrator's childhood family vacation in Kerala. Please note that this is a work of fiction.   

Fishy Chronicles 59: The Escape

I chafed. Fish were annoyed at me for not reeling in my anchor and sailing away. Our war of words had attracted attention and Joy Uncle cleared his throat many times before losing his temper.

“Next time keep your fish at home!”

“There’s no next time,” Portas muttered from the fish tank.

“Yup,” said the lovers, treading water beside Portas.

“Next time, next time, so many promises. Yet we dust off the mobile tank and come here every time Uncle orders you to. We should stop visiting, my dear,” Gregory gritted his tiny teeth. 

I was stuck between a rock and a hard place, but I still wanted to finger my father’s brother. “Hard to do now, Uncle.”

“Why?”

“Because you chased away Genie – the one person who would feed and take care of Fish. Now I will never be able to stay here overnight. Either they are here with me or we are not here at all.”

There was a groan from the tank and the water swished menacingly. “Oh, please say we’ll never come back!” Pervez said, actual hope coming through in his voice. He had been in a state of distress since Genie left (Uncle’s Man and The Unravelling). 

“Shhh!” I couldn’t hear myself thinking.

“Don’t shush me!” Uncle roared.

“Umm, I wasn’t telling you.” I had meant Fish, but I couldn’t say it out loud. Fish chuckled and moved closer to the glass wall to get a better look at Uncle.

He was a sight. He was turning pink, and his patrician face was screwing up painfully. What a pity – he was such a handsome man when he smiled.

“Were you telling your fish?” he spat out. I stayed silent. “Why are you silent! Be bold and say what you think!”

“I was telling Fish to keep quiet.”

“Next you will say the moon is maroon.”

“No. But… you just said it.”

I don’t know where the swear word came from, but my best friend Anjali, Danny and my cousin Rita laughed despite the angry noises coming from the relatives gathered at Joy Uncle’s house.

My great aunt Beasty tore into me. “You are a horrible, horrible child.”

“Idiot!” my cousin Rajiv shouted and I bristled. 

“Shut up, you!” I howled at Rajiv.

He ran towards me aiming his hand at my face, but he exclaimed in terror and fell flat on his face. There was a moment of pin-drop silence, and then absolute commotion. Beasty got up and was confused about whether to come and hit me or peel her much-loved nephew off the floor. I couldn’t figure out what had happened. It seemed like someone had tripped Rajiv, but the ones closest to my cousin had been his sister Rita and… Danny.

No. It couldn’t be.

“Come on, this is our chance. Let’s run for the door!” Fish shouted.

“Come on!” Gregory said, “Let’s go before they figure out we’re missing.”

I tried to release the brake of the wheels of the fish tank, but the lever was stiff and suddenly I felt the light dim. I turned and stepped back hard into the book shelf behind me. Uncle's face was red and angry and I thought he was going to hit me. I raised my elbow to ward off a blow. A couple of seconds later, I looked up. He had a faint look of surprise on his face and had moved back a tad. “You are not leaving. You are staying until I say you can leave!”

“Tell him that we’re going!” Pervez shouted. Penaaz tread water, but did not restrain him.

“Got to go, Uncle,” I said.

“Because of Genie?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I need to ask him when he’s leaving. I’ll have to help him pack.”

There was silence in the room.

“That’s interesting. Do you always help him pack for his trips?” Uncle said, barely hanging on to his temper.

“If Genie is to leave as soon as you want him to, he will need my help.” I heard Anjali laugh. I could see Beasty and Rajiv glare at Anjali, but they were too afraid of her to react more.

“As long as this is the big goodbye, he can take his time. He’s got the weekend.”

“I don’t know, Uncle. You’re always on his case. He might cry, and I’ll have to help him blow his nose.”

“You are not going home and that is final!”

The angry words reverberated around the room and much as I wanted to retort I couldn’t. I was too embarrassed all this was playing out in front of an audience.

I pressed against the handle of the bookcase trying to keep a distance between Uncle and I and felt the pain between my shoulder blades intensify. I looked at Fish, my eyes filling and finally my tension spilled out in tears.

“Idiot,” a voice said. “You made her cry!”

“Who said that!” Uncle shouted in the silence.

“You keep asking… and I keep telling you… you’ll never know, you pig!”

For good measure, water hit Uncle in the eye and he moved back in a hurry. He opened his mouth angrily and his hand moved impulsively to the door, but then I started smiling and his mouth closed and his arm went down.

“You will stay here and help Elsa in the kitchen!” Uncle growled, turned around, glared at everyone, especially at Anjali, and went back to his armchair.

                                               ******

This is a fictional series about the narrator, her parents’ former man Friday and Fish. The narrator is trying to escape her Uncle’s house but he has foiled her plans. Fish decide something more drastic is needed.

                                               ******

When there was a lull in the conversation, someone switched on the TV. I stood in the kitchen’s doorway feeling stressed.

It felt like Uncle had elaborately planned to introduce me to a potential suitor – Danny – and insult and drive Genie out of my home. Uncle had made me the laughing stock of the family. Why was he doing this? And now I was reduced to being a cook, to make up for his daughters’ unwillingness to don aprons and aid their mother Elsa.

I glared at the guests and at Uncle. He had become a monster. Why was he so angry at me?

“Come here,” Penaaz ordered. I glared at her, annoyed at her command.

“Please,” Dimitri, my favourite fish, said. My anger melted a tad.

“Please, sweetie, come here,” Portas said. “Open the lid and play with us.”

The idea of dipping my hands in the cool water, and letting Fish chase away my agitation appealed. I washed my hands at the kitchen sink and went to the sitting room and opened the lid of the fish tank. I slid my hands in and Fish rubbed and nuzzled my palms and fingers. I leaned my chin on the edge of the tank, let my hands float and listened to the TV. I could feel people watch me, but I didn’t care anymore.

“What’s Wuhan?” Portas asked, trying to catch a glimpse of the TV.

“The place where that virus originated. According to news reports, China had a lockdown to contain an epidemic. But the Chinese were too late and the virus is racing around the world and killing people at a horrific rate,” Gregory said.

I straightened. Last week Genie had topped up our grocery reserves and even stored them in the loft. I had joked about him being paranoid. “We can’t wait until it is too late,” he had said.

“We’ve never been affected – even when it was SARS, Swine Flu, etc.”

“There have been cases in India, but we were isolated in many ways. This time, I’m not so sure.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but Genie put a finger on my lips. “Let’s watch the news some more and take precautions. For now, that means a mask and staying away from public spaces.”

“And you got this information from WhatsApp?”

“From the experts on TV. At worst we have food stocks for a couple of months.”

I wanted to say more, but held off. And things had worsened. I wasn’t even sure I should have come to stay this weekend at Uncle’s place. Anjali and I had tensed every time someone coughed or sneezed. Danny’s mother had a cold and Anjali and I stayed a safe distance away.

We had been watching the news and worrying about the spread through Asia, but it was spreading through Italy and parts of Europe like wild fire. I had tried to buy hand sanitizers at DMart, but staff told me it was being rationed. I could buy only one bottle. I stopped teasing Genie. Perhaps it wasn’t paranoia, but he was a middle-class hoarder for sure.

I felt a presence near me. Uncle had a strange expression on his face. I began to feel tense.

“Strange to see you play with your fish. Is this what Nigel did too?” Nigel Poonawala had given me Fish many years ago. He had owned the ad agency my ex husband had worked at but Uncle Nigel and I had made an instant connection.

“He had toys for them. And yes, he spent a lot of time with his hands in the tank,” I said reluctantly.

“Perhaps I should try. They always hide behind the bushes in the tank,” Uncle said.

“Wash your hands first, Uncle.”

“Isn’t that extreme?”

“Didn’t you make all your visitors wash their hands before they handled your newborn grandchildren?”

“Right. You think my germs can kill your fish?” Uncle smirked.

“Tell him he’s hit the nail on its head, sweetie,” Gregory said, but Uncle had moved to the bathroom and came back holding up his wet hands like a surgeon.

“Oh, no, he doesn’t!” Dimitri said and grabbed his bicycle and started cycling furiously. He flew out of the tank, somersaulted with his tiny bike and landed with a splash in the tank. The water smacked us in our faces and Uncle slammed backwards into the bookcase. It shook. I took the chance and wiped my face on his shirt.

Fish grabbed their bicycles and started somersaulting out of the tank and splashing hard into the water. They rained water on Uncle, and he cowered against the book case, exclaiming, “Aiyyo!” over and over again.

“Run, run, run! Let’s get out of here,” Gregory shouted.

I bent and pulled the lever hard. This time it clicked and I could feel the tank roll forward slightly. “Get in, get in, get in!” I shouted at Fish and wheeled them into the sitting room.

I saw my relatives watch me in shock, but Rajiv started running towards me. This time Danny stood up and blocked his way. I didn’t wait. “Anjali!” 

She was at the door, helping me lift the tank over the doorstep. I slammed the main and security doors shut and Anjali jabbed the lift button frantically. The flat’s door opened, and I could hear Uncle, Beasty and Rajiv shouting, children screaming and furniture toppling. “Run, you two, run!” Rajiv’s sister Rita shouted.

The lift's doors opened, and we pushed the tank in and the doors closed. We breathed hard, holding our chests.

“Shit!” I said, feeling my heart hammering all over again. “Shit, shit, shit! I left my bag and keys upstairs.”

“No, we’re good.” Anjali pulled the strap of my bag she had slung across her chest.

“Our luggage?”

She grinned. “I asked Aarav and Aditya to put them in the car without their mother or anyone seeing. I thought it best to be prepared. Aditya was upset at the thought of you going, but after that stupid lunch session he was amenable" (The Unravelling).

Bless my darling nephews. I’d be baking them a nice fat chocolate cake when they came around next.

We got the fish tank into the car. There was no one chasing after us. But when I looked up at Uncle’s window, he was staring at me angrily with a furious, blabbering Rajiv beside him. I stepped on the accelerator. I’d figure out the consequences later.
                                               ****** 

Fishy Chronicles 31: Kiss And Make Up

I watched Roma's children run ahead in the small tree-lined lane in Lonavala. Roma was some way ahead, walking and talking with Genie, who was wheeling along the fish tank.

Beside me walked Arief, the unsuspecting friend of my, until this morning, estranged married cousins Eva and Ashok. I had messed Arief about in the morning with a well-aimed table tennis ball, run out of the hotel, been dragged back to Pretty Villa Hotel by Roma's cousin-in-law Ashok and had a massive war of words with him. Plus, I may have ticked off a few people, who subsequently played football with my things in my hotel room. I blame Ashok's sister Nidhi, with whom I had been sharing the room, though now I think it could have been anybody.

The narrator does her best to burn her bridges with the family on their trip to Lonavala... and almost succeeds.  

Only Arief, a family guest and unwitting victim of family tensions, insists on setting right their status quo. One gesture sends their equation into an immediate skid.

"You owe me an apology," Arief said.

I stopped in my tracks. In my mind I had apologised profusely - not preserving an iota of my dignity. Then I had left Pretty Villa Hotel with my baggage and posse and my cousin Roma, her kids and Arief had tagged along. "Is that why you followed me out?"

"Not exactly."

"Then what exactly."

"I think we haven't made up properly."

"Really? I apologised from the inner recesses of my recesses and it felt like I grovelled and dug a hole and buried myself. The only thing I didn't do was prostrate in front of you... it didn't occur to me!"

Arief's head tipped back and he laughed. He didn't sound like a man still nursing a grudge against a violent, loony, rival table tennis player. "Right. I meant kissing and making up."

"Right. That's all that's left, kissing," I said sarcastically. "We've already made up, and I have witnesses... though many are likely to turn hostile if put to the test..." I looked up, feeling grumpy that my day was slowly losing its fine wintry Lonavala charm. The sun went dark and I felt a pair of warm, damp lips on my mouth. I felt deep shock radiate through me and my cheeks, forehead and neck ignited. I looked frantically at Roma and Genie. They were still walking and talking.

I spluttered. "What the fig!" Arief's head bent threateningly again and I leapt back in fright. But I felt... I pulled my sweater away from my neck, feeling unbearably hot and sped to the side of the road. Idiot, go back, I heard a voice telling me. The voice seemed to be mine. Arief was grinning at me broadly, amused. He held out his arm and tilted his head toward the road ahead and nodded. "All good now. Come along."

I stayed on my side of the road and walked shakily, trying to hug the dew-damp walls lining the narrow road.

I was breathing too fast and tried to slow it. What had just happened. Shit! Fish were now at the back of the tank, watching. Nothing escaped them. BUT WHAT THE EFFF!

"Come on! You're acting ridiculous trying to walk through the walls. The other two will turn around any moment and you'll have to explain why," Arief laughed.

That got me to the middle of the lane. Arief held out his arm again. I looked away. He came closer and put his arm around my neck in a swift movement. I struggled to break free, feeling panic. "Don't shout. We'll have to explain what happened and I'm not inclined to lie," Arief said, still smiling.

"What are you playing at?! This morning it was Eva and now you're making a move on me?!"

"Tut, tut. I was never with Eva. At least I was interested in her until I landed here yesterday and discovered she's married to Ashok, who, by the way, is an old friend."

"If he's an old friend how come you didn't know he's married to Eva!"

"I agree. We're work friends. A drink here, and occasional guys night out. We lost touch some years ago, but I was uncomfortable with us being here in the middle of a family holiday and Ashok watching."

"So why didn't you just leave?"

"Felt awkward. And it felt like running away."

"So what's this kiss about?"

Arief grinned and took off his arm from around my neck. He put my arm through his and clamped it to his side.

"Let go, Arief."

"Why?"

I didn't answer. Fish were squashed against the back of the tank, trying to get their best views.

"You think Genie will get pissed off?" Arief's breath shifted some of the strands of hair off my forehead. His face was too close to mine.

"He won't like you manhandling me, for sure," I mumbled, unnerved by Arief looming in my face.

"Reallllyyy," Arief chuckled. "He doesn't seem possessive. Though for some reason everyone seems to think you guys are a pair."

"Yes. A great big bunch of idiots they are. I'm surprised you're not thinking that way," I looked up nervously. But Arief was looking at Genie, a very strange thoughtful look on his face. I tried freeing my arm, but it was still in a solid grip.

"And Genie seems as devoted to your fish as you are. Strange," he said.

"Er, why is it strange?"

"Doesn't fit in with his macho image."

"He's got a very tender side." Arief laughed and I bristled. "What's funny?"

"Did you know Mr Poonawala always brought his fish to work?"

Yes. "No."

"Your ex knew."

"My ex?" all my excitement withered away.

"Who died?" Arief said.

"What?"

"You went cold. What happened?"

"We're talking about my ex. I don't know what else could kill a conversation faster." I started to pull my arm out of his, but Arief didn't let go.

"How did you guys get the fish? Everyone at the agency wondered."

"I don't know."

"You're lying!"

"Mr P gave them to my ex. Willed them to him. There was an understanding between them. He'd asked me to care for them a few times, so my ex and I went to Mr P's place and he walked us through their routine."

"Why?"

"His pets had all died. He felt it was only a matter of time when he would too. Uncle wanted someone to care for Fish and we didn't mind." The first time he had invited me into his office, Nigel Poonawala only had Fish in their tank next to his massive rosewood table and plenty of pictures of his dead, but much loved, pets. I could talk about Uncle Nigel now. Fish had never been a secret.

But I felt ill, the old memories squeezing my heart unbearably. The first time we met, Uncle Nigel and I had bonded instantly. Maybe it was that way when you liked animals. It had taken a few visits for Fish to be comfortable with me. By then I was married. Considering how he never took care of Fish while they were in our care, I didn't understand my ex's fascination for them or his need to covet them. Certainly Fish never warmed up to him, or talked to him. For a strange reason Uncle Nigel had never seen through my ex. Neither had I, until it was too late.

"You still don't say his name," Arief said.

"Whose?" 

"Your husband's."

"We're divorced. I'm entitled not to sully my being by saying his name."

"That seems harsh."

"Yet it is true. And he lives and continues to blight humanity with his existence."

"At this rate, you'll never get a boyfriend."

I laughed. It was at once incongruous and the truth. Eventually every boyfriend had seemed a reflection of my ex. Somewhere it was written into my genes that I needed to be treated badly and bent out of shape. "I'm definitely not looking." That was a lie. I was always hopeful, but Arief didn't need to know.

"Why do you talk to the fish so much? Surely they're unlikely to understand."

I shrugged. I was in another world when I was with them. Uncle Nigel and my parents had been too. No one was going to understand my feelings for them or how they stimulated me.

I saw Genie turn and his eyes caught mine. His eyes took in Arief and our intertwined arms and he turned away again. 

No one would understand, except Genie.