Fishy Chronicles 87: The Webs We Weave (19) – The secret

Though it was a state secret, everyone in the family got to know of Sarah and Johnny’s ‘disengagement’ (FC86) in a few days – even the youngest kids.

We had just spent awkward hours in a humid church, squeezed into an increasingly stinky crush of people there for the Sunday service. All the while people glanced our way, whispered to each other, hastily looked away when we looked at them, and either spoke with a smirk or double meanings.

Elsamama and Amma stood on either side of Anniemama, effectively fending off questions. But then some girls approached Shyla and Nina after church and asked. They were saved the trouble of answering when a stony-faced Sarah stepped out of that side entrance and almost bumped into them. The girls scattered in different directions like an army of ants interrupted, while Shyla and her sister stayed rooted to the spot in shock. Sarah raked her cousins with a filthy look and walked past.

I kept out of everyone’s way. It was too much tension. Today people who had seen through me for weeks wanted to speak to me. My nosey second cousins who lived opposite Kunjappachan’s house, Eenya and her sister Tara, blocked my way. I composed myself – lying, or being economical with the truth, was easier when emotions didn't come in the way.

“Is it true?” Eenya asked.

“What?”

“The engagement is off?” Tara said.

“Engagement?”

“Sarahchechi’s engagement to Johnnychyan!” Eenya burst out.

“As far as I know it’s still on,” I pushed past and walked quickly to the dirt road leading out of the church. The church had loads of money – every parishioner had someone in the Middle East, the US, UK or Australia and the church often got hefty donations from those wanting to make good impressions – yet the road outside the church stayed clay red and untarred year after year after year, and when it rained there was a strong chance you would slip. 

A puddle splashed and I felt cold wetness at the back of my salwar. But I hurried on. A hand grabbed my elbow. I started in fear, but relaxed when I saw who it was. I started walking away from the church’s gates.

“What does it mean? They aren’t going to get married?” Rita asked. She had been standing a way off but must have heard the conversation with our second cousins.

“No.”

“What happened?”

“Johnnycha’s family called and said they didn’t want to marry.”

Rita caught my upper arm and made me stop. I sighed and stood under the stoop of a shop. I watched people go past in their Sunday whites, and slippers, unperturbed by the 99.99% possibility of top-quality slush scarring their whites for life.

Rita looked confused. She opened her mouth, but words didn’t come out. Finally she said, “He doesn't want to marry Sarahchechi?”

“Yes.”

“He said that?”

“Ye… er… there was a phone call. I don’t think it was him.”

“So he didn’t say.”

“Someone in his family said it for him.”

It doesn’t count.”

“Yes it does.”

“Someone could be doing it chumma (just like that).”

“Too serious a business for someone to do chumma.”

“I mean… I don’t think he wants to.”

Something about the way she said it made me pause. “What do you mean, Rita?”

She looked around and pushed me back into the damp brick wall. “You remember we went over to Eenya’s house for her birthday?”

I snorted, but stilled my cynical tongue. There was no traditional payasam that Eenya’s mother was known for, but some awful cake Tara had baked. The plain yellow cake at the bakery was better. “Yes.”

“Achacha was there.”

“Which Achacha?

“Johnnycha!”

“What?”

“Not at the party, but he was in a car down the road. And after a while, Chechi disappeared. I saw her sitting in the car.”

“But... how? He's in Bombay... and... and... his family would have known! Thomachan would have known!” Thomachan was Eenya's brother and Johnny's friend.

Rita shrugged. "He was in the car with Sarahchechi."

I shook my head. It was too farfetched. No one took such risks. Not in this village at least. “Kasam se, God promise, chechi!” Rita pinched her throat with one hand and touched her head with the other, indicating that God would smote her if she lied.

Rita squeezed my arms and pushed me deeper into the wall. “Believe me, chechi, Achacha was in his friend’s car – like the car Appapa has. A white one, with big scratch marks. You remember Johnnychacha used to drive around in that.”

"Rasool?" Johnny’s friend drove a dented Padmini Premier. They spent a lot of time in the car. Apparently there was no way to enjoy the company of adult friends in this village, because even if you hid in the fields someone would see you.

"Yes."  

"He was in the car with them?"

"I didn't see him."

"Er, so who drove the car?"

Another shrug.

“I don’t understand. If Johnnychyan had come everyone would have known.” 

“Yes, but he was here last week.” She counted her fingers. “On Sunday.”

How was it I hadn’t seen them. It was impossible. But even more impossible was the possibility of Rita lying. 

“He stopped calling on Wed…” 

“Who stopped?”

“Nothing.” No one knew about the calls. I pushed her away but suddenly Rita was pinning me against the wall. 

“So they are talking!”

“Er…” I clawed at the little fingers that were digging into my fleshy forearms.

“How are they talking?”

“Let me go, ouchhhhhhhh!”

She let go, but stood on tiptoe, her small body pressing aggressively into mine – a most determined expression on her little face. “He’s called Sarahchechi? When?”

“I’m not supposed to say.”

My chest compressed into my shoulder blades and the damp came right through the back of my clothes. Amma would get mad at me if the mossy bricks stained my clothes. “Come on, Rita. A secret is a secret is a secret,” I mumbled.

She didn’t move or ease the pressure on my chest. I tried pushing her, but she jammed her feet into the ground and pressed me against the wall with her upper body and arms. This was something Roma sometimes did to Rajiv and now Rita was doing it to me!

“Ok, ok. He calls late at night.”

A calculating look settled on her face, and she stepped back. “What movie are you watching?”

“Eh?”

“Which movie?”

“A-a s-serial. Crime programme – CSI.”

“What time?”

I remained quiet. That was the only 'me' time I got in our overcrowded household. I didn’t want another person to join. Rita pressed into me again, but this time I didn’t budge. But when her index finger wouldn’t stop skewering my right kidney, I gave up, “ouch... one o'clock... ooouuucccchhhh.” I shoved with some effort, and she staggered back.

Rita grinned and walked to the middle of the road. “Come on. Let's go before Ammachi comes out and thinks we're loitering.”

******

After a nice fat Sunday lunch we sat in the sitting room waiting for the adults to leave for their afternoon naps. But the boys grabbed the TV remote first and after watching them surf channels and laugh at their sisters’ entreaties to allow them to watch a certain film, I walked out. The house was stifling.

I opened the sitting room door and looked back at the scene in the room. The long baby pink curtains (Appachan’s choice) were billowing with the breeze coming in from the windows, the boys were spread across all the chairs and sofas, unwilling to let their sisters sit, the only exception being Rajiv and Roma who were squeezed into a love seat. None of the boys were willing to toy with Roma, especially after the chapter of violence Bobby was subjected to some weeks ago (FC76).

At this moment, I hated the boys with all my heart. They were crude, awful to the core and I did not know how my family favoured them. I shuddered when I looked at Mobby and Bobby, their heads together discussing something in low tones. Idiots.

I wanted to bang the door, but that one moment of rebelliousness would unleash demons that were right now safely snoring in their beds. Why chance a typoon when you could eat a sweet chubby mango. I closed the door gently and ran around to the back of the house for the mango-lassoing pole. It lay near the shed and I hurled it over the side gate and climbed over. I ran joyfully, but carefully, through the pineapple patch, enjoying the sudden rain-induced coolness. 

From a point on the property it was possible to see the river. You could hear it all the time if you stood still and slowed your breathing – a gentle whooshing sound that almost sounded like the trees shivering, but not quite.

Rita followed me and we smiled at each other. I howled and barked, imitating the dogs in the neighbourhood, enjoying our moments of freedom. Rita bared her teeth and yipped like our neighbour's pomeranian. We howled and yipped until we noticed a passerby stop to watch. Another nosey idiot neighbour.

******

Past 12.45am, I peeped warily at the sofa and sighed in relief. Sarah was not there. I felt my spirits sag thinking of how she had been forced to give up on Johnny.

A cold hand caught my arm. I leaped backwards and hit the wall. I cowered with my arms up to protect myself, when I heard someone shush me. I opened an eye and saw Rita. I wanted to wring her neck.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed.

“I want to watch TV too,” she whispered in my ear.

I was stumped. “You’ll get into trouble.”

“Ok.”

I glared at her, until she gestured for me to come closer. I leaned towards her lips. “What?”

“I got a plan for that.”

“What?”

“When anyone comes, we should run in different directions.”

“What if they block the corridor?”

“We can run through the study to the dining room, get to the store room and wait there till all is clear.”

“But what if they go after only one person.”

“Then we’re screwed.”

******

Fear didn’t deter us. We watched our crime serial without sound, trying to figure out what they were saying, until Rita leaned into my ear and said, “We’ve got to call Johnnychyan.”

“Why?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Ask him the truth?”

“How?”

“Just ask.”

“He’ll laugh at us and complain to our parents.”

“Ok. I’ll do it then,” Rita straightened in the sofa and continued watching TV.

You irritating pimple. “Ok, let’s ask.”

“Deal. You get his number from Sarahchechi.”

“Whhatttt? She’ll bite my head off!”

“Hmm. Ok. I’ll try and get it,” Rita whispered nonchalantly.

“How will you do that?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find a way. Now keep quiet and let me watch. Here. Eat this.” She pushed a large oily ball of sugiyan into my hand. Ammachi had made the ladies cook namkeen and other eats the last few days – she was preparing to send off her children with many goodies. The sugiyan, filled with a sweet moong (lentil) filling, had been made fresh and would stay a few days.

“How… how…”

“How did I get them? Ammachi changed the lock and Rajiv saw her hide the key under the paper at the bottom of the sideboard.”

I had been made to clean said sideboard recently, and had lined its shelves with clean back editions of the Malayala Manorama newspaper. I eyed the little one… had we corrupted this 10-year old more than we knew?

“Eat. Don’t drop any crumbs, or the ants will come and Ammachi will track us down.”

“Ok. Got it.”

After the sugiyan and the serial, too lazy to wash our hands, we wiped them on the back of a curtain in a neglected corner of the sitting room and parted ways, promising to keep the whole day, and night, a secret. 

******

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related
to a family vacation gone wrong in Kerala. 

In this episode she comes to know, through another cousin, that their cousin Sarah had been meeting her fiancé Johnny without the family's knowledge. Johnny's family ended the engagement a few days previously.   

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

#ants #antarmy #river #bombay #crumbs #washinghands #fiction #keralachristians #keralastories #kerala #keralavacation #keralafamilies #love #loss #brokenengagements #marriage #food #mobby #bobby #sarah #fishychronicles87 #grandparents #websweweave #mumbaimalayalis #malayalistories #cake #secret #padminipremier #crimesceneinvestigation #crimeserial #CSI #malayalamanoramanewspaper #sideboard #payasam #bakery #kidney #johnnyandsarah #keralachurch #typhoon #mango #sugiyan #namkeen #10yearold #corrupt #neighbour's #dogs #pomeranian

Fishy Chronicles 19: Hello Again

Dear Me,

It’s our last night here. I’m done packing. Fish are silent in their tank, bobbing up and down, their eyes wide and staring, mouths moving in a silent collective monologue. For sure, they will hate me for this depiction.

Our days in Cambodia were hectic, driving around the country, visiting Genie's old haunts, meeting some of his very interesting, and dubious, friends, eating at stops on the way to finally packing sandwiches and fruits or searching for Indian restaurants and Bread Talk every where we went. I thought we were of  adventurous palate, but after our third bowl of unfamiliar nosh, we stopped trying and ate what Genie did.

Everything has been an ‘otherly' experience. I have promised myself I will have a more open attitude to travelling and other cultures. I found the Cambodians a warm race, unsullied by development, though I saw many high-end cars – more than in Mumbai. I saw more in one square kilometre here than in most of Mumbai, though Mumbai is a huge metropolis with more people than the whole of Cambodia, so maybe not a fair comparison.

                                  ****** 

This is a fictional series. The narrator, Genie, her ex manservant, a former underworld don turned world traveller and now friend, and a school of vocal, irascible fish are at the fag end of their holiday in Cambodia.

                                  ****** 

The last few days have been chilled. We have been the focus of Genie's full attention. Genie moved us in to a service apartment next door to his friends – Indian expats and surprisingly good fun.

Most evenings we sat by the swimming pool with them, drinking tea and feasting our eyes on the sunset, catching the occasional drizzle and looking at the tranquil city below us.

Evenings on the terrace.
(Photo: A. Peter)

Genie wouldn’t let Fish into the swimming pool because of its chlorine content, but I screamed and waved from its depths. I only piped down when I knocked my head against the pool steps. From underwater, I could hear Fish screaming with laughter.

Each day was filled with outings with Sindhu, our de facto guide and expat friend, taking us to the palace or temples. Dimitri has a special corner for her daughter Adi who took us to most of the markets in Phnom Penh – Russian, Central, Orussey and the Night market.

We went to the Siem Reap Silk Farm and followed the process of silk making. Despite feeling sad about the number of silk worms dying, we bought beautiful silk objects from the shop.

Gregory and I went to buy stamps, which is strange because I don’t know where his stamp collection is. But I do know he visits post offices around the world. I bought a few too. The Cambodia Post building is charming and old world inside and out.

Cambodia Post, where we bought limited edition stamps. The stamp business isn't what it used to be.
(Photo: A. Peter)

The young lady manning the philately bureau seemed surprised at our interest. She seemed reluctant to part with Cambodia Post's wares. But eventually the department came away with a tidy fortune. We bought most of the stamps – limited edition, the young lady assured us.

Greggy and I, giddy with our purchases, sat at a nearby café, hoping for anything resembling a cutting chai but settling for an iced tea, and made each other promise not to tell the others how much we spent on the stamps.

I don’t know why we did that though as Genie gave us spending money every time we stepped out. We returned the change every night. He just put the change on his bedside table and gave us fresh notes the next morning. From being so independent, it felt unsettling to take money from Genie.

But Dimitri put it in perspective for me. “He's in charge. Let’s just humour him. Besides he’s so happy we're enjoying ourselves.” Genie certainly was happy. He smiled most of the time, and nothing seemed to faze him – even the odd kerfuffle in the fish tank.

Most days we spent Genie's crisp 100 dollar bills on museums, roadside food, souvenirs and tea and eats at posh cafés.

Genie even let Dimitri, the lovers, Donny and I take tuktuks about Phnom Penh. You see, we figured out how to bargain. And Fish are not afraid to voice their opinions. They bargained at the markets, with the tuktukwalas and even wrangled some freebies at a small supermarket. They didn't let me ogle the cute expats, but hurried me into some shops and proceeded to buy me silk and silver.

We bought lots of stuff at the markets. I bought a fake Rolex for my cousin Roma and shoes and clothes. Genie assured me we could take about 60 kgs back with us. He’s already accounted for 20 of those. He’s taking mangoes and some stuff for his friends. He wouldn't say who for.

I couldn’t close the suitcase I bought here, and finally filled the knapsack with some junk.
I’m feeling sad to leave. I fell in love with the peaceful Cambodians. I even searched online for English newspapers in Phnom Penh – there are quite a few. You never know, they may need experienced journalists.

I went to the palace twice, to look at the treasures there – the room filled with the gifts the Kings got over the centuries. I stared at the silver floors, about 6000 pounds of it, and then stood in a spot where the diamonds in the statue's eyes and forehead winked at me. I stared until another tourist bumped into me and unintentionally dislodged me from my trance.

I saw headless cross-legged Buddha figures in glass cases and wondered how only the heads had disappeared. It’d have been easier on the stone artefacts, but harder for silver. Was there a method to the madness?

Genie took us to the Tuol Sleng Genocide Museum. I’m glad he was around. It was depressing. So many people visited and the only sounds we heard were of the boisterous groups of schoolchildren leaving the museum.

It’s an old school that Pol Pot converted into a prison cum torture unit. There are some graves on the lawn outside, and according to the signage, the last 14 of the victims at this place are buried here. Most of his victims were very young, many ranging from their teens to 30s.

The rooms are empty except for metal beds and pictures of dead prisoners with blood pooled on the ground. These poor prisoners were tortured for long periods. You can’t help wondering if the stains on the ground are blood they couldn’t get out.

Other rooms show many photos of executed prisoners. There are small biographies. All deeply disturbing. While leaving we saw one of the survivors of Pol Pot's torture. He was the artist made to paint all the gruesome details of torture. Some of his paintings hang in the museum. He lost his wife during that period. That day he was trying to sell his book.

When Genie asked if we wanted to visit the Killing Fields, a little outside the city, we said no. I felt sick at the idea of not going, but distressed at the scale of wickedness some could perpetrate on the majority. These were a people brutalized in modern day. It still continues all over the world.

I look at Fish, Genie and Donny and feel comforted. Nobby is on my shoulder, part reading what I write and part slumbering.

We are set to make our way back to Mumbai tomorrow. We won’t be returning in a small plane this time. We stop in Kuala Lumpur and then land in Mumbai in the dead of night. I'm wondering if this was intended to avoid a certain neighbour.

Genie even had a haircut. Or a tender trim. We dropped into the high-end salon to watch a young man gently massage Genie with cream, wash his hair and trim his hair and moustache. The salon happened to be unisex, so I got similar treatment and more – manicure, pedicure, foot massage, the works.

I feel like a million bucks. My holiday straightened out the kinks. I didn’t think of work or Peaceful Society. Tonight, when I rest my head on my pillow, I will sleep well.

Good night.

P.S. I have not weighed myself since my last interaction with the scales. Watch this space.

                                       ******