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 73: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (5) – Showdown

I hadn’t expected things to unravel fast.

I had thought my cousin Bobby would have wanted to keep quiet about what he had done to Rita (see FC72). But not so, it seemed. Bastard Bobby had now become Brazen Bobby.

The family had taken the idiot to hospital, but sadly his injuries had warranted a quick discharge and he was back home by evening.

At the entrance of our home, he leaned his head on his mummy’s shoulder and whimpered. Mobby, Bobby’s older brother, was holding him upright. Even though his legs hadn’t been injured, he was feigning difficulty in walking.

Bobby’s left eye was shut and swollen, his head bandaged and he had to turn his head 180 degrees for his good eye to look for me in the crowd that had formed in the sitting room. He pointed at me.

“Your daughter hit my son with her slingshot!” Sarayu Aunty screamed into Appa’s face.

“My daughter isn’t violent,” Appa murmured, his gaze fixed on Bobby, who looked scared now.

“SHE BEAT UP MY SON AND HE NEARLY DIED!”

“Don’t be silly, chechi. My daughter is half your son’s size. There’s barely a scratch on the brute… er… Bobby.” There was a gasp and people stared at Appa. At this point, I felt scared.

Sarayu Aunty screeched several unladylike words, forcing her father to tut-tut in shock. And her husband Mathan chee-cheed first and then did an about-turn and smiled and nodded in agreement.

It reminded me of the time I overheard my mother say that Sarayu Aunty and Mathan Uncle’s union was made in heaven. It did not sound like a compliment and I lingered near her to catch the rest of the story. Mathan Uncle had spent much of that summer vacation, indeed every vacation, surveying all of Appachan’s farm and identifying what he wanted to take back. Sarayu later told her mother what she wanted packed. The provisions were usually enough to last several months to a year.

My father turned to me. “Mol, did you use a slingshot on your cousin Bobby?”

“N…o.”

There was another gasp, this time of disbelief. A commotion broke out. People babbled, fingers pointed at me and angry words hurtled in my direction. There was not a kind eye on me, except Rita’s who was quivering behind her mother.

“Quiet!” Appachan (grandfather) shouted.

“I see her with the slingshot every day…” gurgled Mathan Uncle, the rolls of fat at his throat jiggling in tandem with his agitation “… shooting mangoes off the trees.” I knew Mathan Uncle watched me, no doubt worried there would be no mangoes for him when his family returned to their home after the holidays. Satan’s spawn, now defiantly facing him, would in all likelihood have eaten all the ripe, unripe and budding mangoes.

I saw others nod in agreement, though the girls stayed silent. It must have been the result of sharing my mangoes with Rita, and indirectly them, this morning.  

“Go and get your slingshot! You can’t be allowed to play or behave like a boy!” Ammachi (grandmother) shouted. My eyes were glued to her hairy double chins quivering dangerously. Her jaw looked like an ultra-shaky caramel custard.

“Go on,” Appa nudged me.

“I don’t have it.”

“What?”

“Someone’s flicked it.”

“Liar! You filthy, lying child!” Sarayu Aunty raged, taking several steps towards me.

My mother was instantly behind me, her hands tight on my arms. But Appa pre-empted Amma. “Don’t call my child names.”

It was clear people wanted to say more, but they were unwilling to cross swords with Appa.

“Get your slingshot, child!” Appachan roared.

“B-but I don’t have it. S-someone’s taken it.”

He got up from the old teakwood armchair and walked towards our room. All of us followed. He ordered my father’s brother Joy, younger sister Saroj and her husband Pillipochyan to check our room. They rummaged through our things and cupboards. 

I felt numb watching the shabby exercise unfold. I looked up. Appa's lips were in a thin line. The three searchers were egged on by the onlookers, but there was no sign of the slingshot.

“Look through the whole house,” Appachan shouted, and more people were pressed into service. Other relatives went through Saroj Aunty’s, Joy Uncle’s and the children’s rooms, the dining room, the study and storerooms.

I braved the angry looks. I felt I looked guilty, even to my parents.

“Where is it, mol?” Appa asked, the room seething with tension.

I shook my head, wondering how to make them believe me. Then I heard the low, nervous, boy-man voice. Rajiv, Rita’s brother and Appachan’s favourite grandson, said, “We haven’t checked Sarayumama’s room.”

“She’s the culprit! She’s hidden the slingshot somewhere. BAD GIRL, BAD, BAD GIRL!” Sarayu Aunty screeched.

“Afraid, chechi?” I couldn’t believe my mother said it. It was like we were all forced into a room, once a close-knit family but now everyone a stranger to the other and all of us teetering on the edge of an unimaginable and gaping precipice.

Appachan and Ammachi gave my mother filthy looks, but Appachan said, “Go check Sarayu’s room.”

A churlish scream rent the air, but the mass of bodies moved quickly to Sarayu Aunty’s room and began to search. And there, at the back of the bottom drawer of the dressing table and wrapped in a Malayalam Manorama newspaper was the slingshot.

Rajiv gestured to Roma to come closer and pointed at the potted plant on a corner table. My grandfather moved to look at the plant, a mix of disbelief and fury spreading across his face. We all pushed around him to see. There were smooth, medium-sized white stones placed in a ring around the plant.

My grandfather began to shout at everyone. Most of his ire was aimed at Bobby and his parents, but everyone got a lambasting.

I sneaked out, but was grabbed by my collar and given a good shaking. A few seconds later, my father dislodged my grandfather’s hand from the back of my neck and they stood facing each other for an eternity – with only their faces betraying corrosive emotion.

I squeezed myself between them, my eyes closed – muttering a prayer I didn’t believe. I didn’t think God would forgive me for what I had done. Pitting father against son, being violent with a cousin, inflicting injury on a pervert, being hard headed, stubborn, etc, etc, etc – all vices that had no place in a good Suriani girl. I was bad and would go to hell.

I felt cool air. Appachan was walking away, banging his stick on the ground. Sarayu Aunty screamed at everyone to get out and people moved out and into their own rooms.

                                                        ******

My parents were angry with me for several days and I lurked around the house, avoiding everyone. I stayed away from the mangoes for a couple of days, but soon I hankered for them and tried pulling them off with the long stick with the loop at its top end.

Ammachi had thrown my slingshot into the flames of the stone stove in the kitchen and the burning rubber spread acrid smoke through the house, forcing us to open all the doors and windows. It had led to a fresh argument between my grandparents.

My cousins stopped taunting me, but still wouldn’t let me back into their fold. I knew they suspected me of attacking Bobby, but couldn’t figure out what had happened. Only Rita kept me company when everyone else was having their afternoon nap. 

One day I noticed a glint on her finger and held her hand closer to my face for a better look at the ring. “Where did you get it?”

She looked embarrassed. “A-Appachan and A-Ammachi gave it to me.”

“When?”

“A few days ago.”

“Oh.”

“Didn’t they give you one?” Rita asked. I looked at the ring again – a thin gold band, with a blue stone in the centre. “Ammachi made it from the big stone in her pendant.”

“Did Roma get one too?” I asked.

“Er… y-yes.”

I felt a weight press my chest. “Only you two got rings? Not the other girls?”

Rita squirmed. Her face turned red and she looked at the ground. She tried to pull her hand out of mine, but my hold was fierce. I let it go when my vision blurred.

“Go home, Rita. Your mom will be looking for you. I’m not fit to be around you,” I pushed her towards the house. I turned to the mango tree and my tears fell freely. I picked up the long stick and hit the leaves several times and managed to dislodge a mango. I stayed looking up at the tall mango tree until I heard Rita go.

                                                        ******

My parents looked my way many times during dinner, but I was sitting with my cousins at the end of the dining table. The men and children were eating first.

I ate with disinterest. All my female cousins sported new rings. The styles were the same, plain solid gold bands set with one, two or three sapphires. My grandmother’s pendant had been huge. I could see bulky sapphire earrings, set in gold, in Sarayu Aunty and Saroj Aunty’s ears.

I watched my cousins and then looked at my grandfather. I felt hurt at being left out. I looked away and, despite my best intentions, tears fell into my plate.

I felt a little hand squeeze mine and a whisper against my neck. “Stop crying, chechi. You can have my ring… please stop crying. Everyone is looking at you.”

After I had composed myself as best I could I looked up for a fraction of a second. Indeed, there were people looking at me. My father’s sisters had knowing, happy looks. My parents seemed upset, their eyes boring into my face, and I didn’t want to look at the rest of my family.

I tried to eat but the food had become difficult to swallow.

Something made me look up and I saw Bobby wink at me with his good eye and wiggle his left hand’s ring finger and wink again.

I wanted to throw my steel glass at his head. Instead my eyes crawled over his swollen maroon eye, the fat bandage around his head, the scratches on his face, the bruises on his arms and I wondered if his groin still hurt from the biggest stone in my jhola that I had shot at pointblank range. And then I wondered how the slingshot I had tossed under my bed had found its way into Bobby’s mother’s dressing table. Someone had saved me from an inevitable, and irreparable, fall from grace. Someone here was on my side. But who?

I smiled sweetly at Bobby, balled my left fist over my plate and simulated the stretching back of a sling with a large piece of potato. The potato landed on my plate, splashing curry. The look of shock on Bobby’s face quickly changed to impotent rage. I wiggled my left middle finger at him and then pushed rice and chicken into my mouth. I didn’t look up, but ate my food with gusto and took a second helping of Ammachi’s spicy chicken curry.

When I did care to look, I saw sour looks of disapproval, but surprisingly no expression on Appachan’s face.

                                                        ******

This is a fictional series revolving around the 30-something narrator. She is reminiscing about a holiday with her father’s family in Kerala. This is the continuation of episodes FC69, FC70, FC71 and FC72. 

On her cousin Bobby’s insistence, the narrator’s family believes she has beaten him. There is a showdown and a surprise twist.

 (Find the rest of the episodes here FC69, 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91)

Fishy Chronicles 72: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (4) – Bobby

Being ostracised has benefits.

I became angrier, tougher. My male cousins called me names. The girls gave me haughty looks and locked themselves into a room, playing with dolls, clothes and makeup. The elders tolerated my parents, but looked through me.

I no longer felt close to Appachan (grandfather). We eye-duelled often, each refusing to look away first. One day my father caught me at it and took me for a walk into the fields.

“They are all treating me badly, even though I didn’t do anything wrong!” (see FC69, FC70, FC71) I slapped my hand against a tree trunk, imagining it to be Bobby, and my palm stung. Appa took my hand and rubbed it.

“Every experience is going to teach you something, mol.”

“What is this teaching me?”

“Patience. How to deal with a… a pervert. How to deal with elders who should know better. How to deal with love turning sour.”

“We didn’t seem to handle them well.”

Appa knelt in the wet mud, unconcerned about the dark brown mud staining his starched white mundu  and looked me in the eyes. “Yes. Not to make light of what happened… but it was an experience. Next time you are angry with someone, you know you can handle it better.”

“How can I handle this better?”

“Don’t say what jumps into your head and mouth. Think. Manage the situation.”

“Then, Appa, I’ll be just like every other girl filled with guile. Isn’t that what you keep telling me you hate in a woman… her needing to be manipulative because she doesn’t have the opportunities of a man?” I still hadn’t understood what it meant, but Amma assured me I would understand in time.

Appa opened his mouth and closed it. “No. Not the same. I was referring to a different person in a different situation. You know, I want you to be in a better place… to have choices Amma and your aunties didn’t, don’t, have.”

I was getting bored with this stream of thought and nodded vigorously.

“And Bobby?” I had christened him Bobby Bastard. I called him a bastard several times a day, mostly when he whistled and taunted me in the company of his cousins. Luckily, no one had heard me. Yet.

“Stay away from Bobby. You know what he is. In fact, you know that’s what all men are capable of.”

I wondered why Appa was telling me this. It scared me. “Why are the others siding with him?”

A drizzle began and we moved under a large rubber tree. “Lack of good sense. Your uncles and aunties are taking sides even before they know the truth. The truth can be uncomfortable.”

“Can we go back home to Bombay, Appa?”

“This is home.”

“No!”

“It is. It is my home and Appachan’s and yours. What happened was unfortunate. I tried talking to Appachan, but he’s an old-fashioned man.” 

“It is going to be like this for us… for me… for the rest of this vacation.” My mouth turned downwards. Every night Amma told me to adjust with my cousins. But I could see her get upset when they left me out of their activities. After a while she let me walk about alone in the fields and I played with the slingshot. I got better at knocking mangoes off the trees, and started following Appa into the fields with the workers. I picked kandaris, which were small vicious chillies, wild mushrooms and fallen cashew fruit.

My father had a childhood friend who lived near the fields and every day I drank a small glass of tea and ate hot salty peanuts from a paper cone, listening to Appa and his friend laugh and reminisce. 

Returning to Appachan’s household stressed me, but I counted the days.

                                                ******

I was lying in the shade of the guava tree at the side of the old house. The grass was damp but by the time it was time to go indoors, the back of my clothes would have dried. 

I had eaten some unripe guavas and my mouth felt like a scrap of sandpaper. I opened my eyes, blinded by the light shining through the leaves, and looked for the old mango tree in the adjoining field. I would have to get out of the compound and nearer the tree to get at its mangoes. 

I had tried a combination of shooting down the mangoes with the slingshot and using the long stick with a small noose at its top end to tug the fruit off. I knew the girls watched me often, salivating over the mangoes. So, I always got down just enough for myself.

“Don’t be greedy and selfish. Just because you’re angry with your cousins doesn’t mean you shouldn’t share your booty,” Amma had said, with a smile, when she saw me eating my loot in partial view of my cousins in the room they had kept locked despite my pleas. I knew they could hear my mother scolding me. I nodded, making appropriate grunting noises and keeping my eyes wide and innocent. When my mother disappeared I sat in the shade, my back against a dry patch of mossy wall.

I knew my cousins Roma, Rita, Eva and the others were watching me. After I had gnawed all the pulp off the mango seed, I licked my fingers, hands and arms. Then I washed my hands, face and feet under the tap near their window, not once looking at them.

I smiled at the memory and squinted at the mangoes swaying in the cool breeze, the swishing sound of the moving leaves making me feel lazy and contented. I lay there even though I heard my older male cousins talking. They were hiding behind a nearby shed and smoking.

I felt a hand touch my bare leg and sat up in fright. I must have dozed off and now there was a shadow bending over me – Roma’s sister Rita. “Please may I have a mango?”

I raised myself and wanted to say no, but Rita, about 10 years old, was asking so earnestly. “Sure. Wash it first.”

She looked doubtfully at the four damaged mangoes, resting on leaves on the ground beside me. I had not mastered the art of felling a mango without bruising or splitting it, even though I practised constantly. “They’ve broken open in places, but are all good.”

“May I take one for Roma too?” Rita said in a small voice.

I gritted my teeth, “Take them all.” And I lay back down again. I knew Rita was watching me, but I kept my eyes closed and a little later her footsteps faded and water gushed from the nearby tap.

I sat up with a sudden sense of foreboding. The boys had moved away from the shed several minutes ago and the girls were not at the window. My cousin Shyla had ordered everyone to the dining room to eat the mangoes.

A big red ant bit me and I stood up. I brushed off the large translucent insects from my clothes and skin. Their numbers had suddenly increased and hundreds of them were now marching up and down the guava tree’s peeling trunk. I grabbed my slingshot, wrapped my jhola’s (large open-mouthed bag) strap around my neck and shoulder and straightened.

Revulsion stole over me.

My cousin Bobby was watching Rita from behind the shed. She was washing the mangoes and bent to pick up another from the ground and Bobby lunged. He clamped a hand on her mouth and his other arm was around her stomach. He lifted her. Rita struggled and tried to scream, her legs flailing. Bobby loosened his hold and the mangoes rolled out of Rita’s hands. He turned and moved swiftly towards the shed.

Suddenly he screamed in pain and dropped Rita. “Run, Rita, run!” I shouted, shooting another stone at Bobby. I had a pile of stones in my bag. I preferred smooth, medium-sized ones and these were now pounding Bobby everywhere, each stone finding its mark.

“You bitch!” he bellowed. He was bleeding from his temple, the blood dripping down his face and staining his shirt. I panicked and then remembered Appa’s advice a few days ago. “Stay calm. Plan and attack.” I slowed my breath and the fuzz in my mind cleared. Bobby rushed towards me even though he could see me drawing back the sling. I let it go at pointblank range and Bobby doubled over, screeching. He fell to the ground and rolled in the dirt.

I heard running feet behind me. “Run, chechi (older sister), run,” Rita screamed, looking pale but peering from the front of the house.

I watched Bobby writhe. I wanted to remember this moment for eternity.

Then I turned and ran. I grabbed Rita’s hand and we sprinted into the house through the open front door. There was a ruckus and people were rushing out of their rooms and out of the house through the kitchen.

I pulled Rita close to me, “Not a word to anyone.” She nodded, her face wet with tears. I wiped her face with the end of my skirt and we followed the others out of the house.

“I don’t want to see him,” Rita hiccoughed, dragging her feet.

“He can’t do a thing to you now. And if we hide, the rest will know we had something to do with it. So act as though you know nothing. Else, we'll get a thrashing.” A crowd was forming over my cousin who was still prone on the ground. Sarayu Aunty was bent over him, his bleeding head on her lap.

“But I did nothing wrong!” Rita whimpered.

“I know, Rita, but neither did I and look where it got me.” Our eyes held and there was sudden understanding in Rita’s. 

Then we merged into the group. Rita and I held hands tightly. I felt terrified. Rita now had a look of concern on her face, and I forced myself to look the same way. Bobby stilled when he saw us. We continued to look at him with fake concern.

“What happened, Achacha (older brother)?” I heard myself say. Rita looked at me in surprise and then turned her face back to him. “How did you get hurt?”

I saw fury on Bobby’s face, and then his eyes darted around the crowd. They lingered on Appa and Joy Uncle – Rita’s father. When I glanced at Appa, he was looking from Bobby and Rita to me, and our entwined hands, with narrowed eyes – disbelief creeping over his face. From the corner of my eyes I could see Amma look at Appa and then at me. She turned away quickly and focused on Bobby.

The family members grouped around Bobby shoved us aside and the boys lifted the idiot and carried him into the house like a sack of rice. I heard an uncle tell someone to call the doctor. Neighbours yelled from across the dirt road, asking about the commotion. A couple of aunts moved to the low boundary wall to explain.

“What do we do now?” Rita whispered.

“Nothing.”

“But…”

I shrugged. “You can tell your parents what happened.” I saw the doubt in Rita’s eyes. “Either you tell your parents, or keep quiet.”

“What if they don’t believe me?”

I shrugged.

“What if Bobbychyan says we hit him?” Rita said.

I felt a sudden warmth when Rita said “we”. “There’s two of us to tell everyone what happened. But I have a gut feeling he may not want anyone to know.”

Rita buried her head into my shoulder and cried. I dragged her behind a tree and waited. I had not the slightest idea what to say.

“Thank you, chechi.”

I was thrown. I put my arms around Rita and patted her back. We stood like that until we heard people moving in the kitchen. Rita washed her face at the tap and we went in.

(Continued in the next episode.)

                                                ******

This is a fictional series revolving around the 30-something narrator. She is reminiscing about a family holiday with her father’s family in Kerala. This is the continuation of episodes FC69, FC70 and FC71. The narrator has crossed swords with members of her extended family and is facing isolation. But something disturbing happens and she addresses the problem head on.

Find 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

Fishy Chronicles 54: Trouble At Uncle’s Place

“Did Aunty ask you to cook?” Anjali asked, her body pressing into mine in the kitchen. I could feel her breath on the back of my neck. Despite the discomfort I ignored her and concentrated on the curry bubbling in front of me. I was acutely aware of Genie, leaning against a wall and watching me. At least he wasn’t increasing my feeling of suffocation.

I had been feeling low and disturbed about the impending weekend with my cousins. The jokes of the past few days made me feel worse and Anjali and Genie stopped eventually. Yesterday, I disappeared. I took the car and did not answer my phone. I drove to the beach and walked about. I sat in the sand, watching amorous couples and then wet my feet in the sea. When the sunlight and heat got brutal, I drove to the market and bought vegetables and groceries, having written out most of my list while sitting at the beach. Nearer home, I bought the meat.

Elsa Aunty was in a state of tension when there were guests at home. I was merely continuing my mother’s tradition of cooking in bulk so that there would be lots of food left over for the guests for days. Aunty always looked relieved at the sight of the food. Roma often told me they ate the meat leftovers sparingly to make sure they lasted as long as they could without spoiling. Now Roma and her kids usually wiped out the dish with a piece of bread, which is what we cousins did when we were little and spent the holidays at my home. The gravy that had dried out and stuck to the sides of the pan tasted the best.

The aroma of the cooking meat made me feel better. At our ancestral home in Kerala, my paternal grandmother had made me cut the meat. She had sat on a chair, made me sit in the light near a window and, perched on a tiny stool with a very sharp knife wedged between my toes with the sharp side facing upwards, I had trimmed away fat and parts unwanted and done as she said. My mother, cooking in the kitchen, would look my way often but didn’t interfere.

Grandmother was old school and made me stand near her when she used up every part of the animal. She explained things, made me fetch vessels, masalas and herbs and made me wash all of them. And wash them again if I hadn’t done it right the first time. She used hooves, tails, tongues and body parts that I have never seen Syrian Christians use since. The family had many farm animals then. My cousins gagged at the sight of raw meat and blood, but I lingered, enthralled by the sights, smells and processes. I was amenable, and my grandmother loved it.

I grabbed two handfuls of purple Madras onions from a tray, a big bunch of cilantro, ginger and garlic and pushed them into Anjali’s hands. “Peel and clean these and come back,” I indicated at the sitting room. But Anjali didn’t move. She began to peel the ginger standing near me. Genie took the cilantro, removed the decaying leaves and washed them thoroughly.

“You didn’t say,” Anjali muttered.

“What?”

“If Aunty asked you to cook for them.”

“She doesn’t have to. I will cook for them whether they want me to or not.”

“That’s impolite. That might annoy your cousins. Smacks of interference.”

“Not with a large group involved. Plus, Rajiv’s wife doesn’t help in the kitchen. Does nothing at all, which annoys Roma big time. And Elsa Aunty doesn’t move as fast as she used to. Gets tired quickly, and you know how Upappen* shouts. The whole business makes her very nervous.”

“Hasn’t Roma gone over to help?”

“Yes.”

“And?”

“She nearly bit my head off when I called her to ask her something.”

“Oh! What about Rita?” Rita was Roma’s younger sister.

“Doesn’t pitch in for anything and makes fleeting visits.”

“Oh, then maybe it wasn’t a good idea agreeing to stay.”

“Oh, no. Aunty has never had a problem with you or me. You know that! If she had to choose from the guests, she would choose to keep us. Aunty is genteel.”

“Say it.”

“What?”

“She’s too good for Uncle.”

“Never. What makes you think he’s not good for her.”

That silenced Anjali. Uncle was short tempered, but still charmed us. He was generous to a fault and when we were kids we had often hung around him and badgered him for treats – out of sight of our fathers.

I looked at Genie from the corner of my eye. He had listened to our conversation quietly. Despite the undercurrents and their misconceived notions about him, my uncle and aunt liked Genie very much. 

                                  ******

This is a fictional series about the 30-something narrator, who has been invited to stay at her uncle's home for the weekend. Genie, her parents' former manservant, and Anjali, the narrator's best friend, have been invited too. 

She finds unexpected visitors. Things become unpleasant. 

                                   ******
I filled my three largest Tupperware containers with the beef olathea. The kids helped us carry it into Uncle’s flat. I had made a salad and a couple of vegetable dishes too. Elsa Aunty hugged me in relief and smiled. Going by the surly faces around me, it was probably for the first time today.

I hugged Rajiv’s children Ira and Samir and Roma’s son Aditya. I kissed 11-year old Aarav’s head against his will and grinned.

I turned and got my biggest shock of the day. I tried to back out of the door, but I could feel Genie’s hard, muscled body stall my escape. 

An old woman glared at me from the other end of the hall, while her tiny husband's eyes twinkled. Why hadn't Joy Uncle told me his first cousin was going to be there?

The memory of an early thrashing returned. It had coloured my opinion of her forever, even though the memory had faded over time. The cause of that thrashing, my cousin Rajiv, was tucked comfortably into her capacious armpit. His wife Beauty stood up and moved to hug me. I felt someone shove me into the room and I fell into Beauty's arms.

When we had first got wind of Beauty, we had joked that it was a good thing that she was pretty and, hence, could live up to her name. She also had a second name she never used publicly – the old-fashioned Mariamma, or Beautymol Mariamma Chandy. Roma and I decided that she was called Beautymol because she was an only child and her parents had gone overboard as first-time parents.

Elsa Aunty pushed me forward and I walked unwillingly towards my aunt. I shook hands with her husband and then her, silently. Rajiv smirked at me and I stepped on his toe. He howled in pain.

"Ayaaah, I'm so sorry, Rajiv. I didn't see your foot there." I heard a laugh behind me and sharp intakes of breath. I had already started annoying people. 

“You careless girl, so absent minded. Can’t do anything right!” Betsy Aunty said, looking down at Rajiv’s foot and trying to bend over her enormous girth to touch it, and failing. Her husband’s expression became serious, but I thought he winked at me. How they had lived together for over 50 years was unfathomable. He was probably deaf. Or the sex was great. Some of my like-minded cousins, the ones she disliked and who disliked her back, called her Beasty. It rhymed well with Betsy and even if anyone heard we were unlikely to get into trouble.

“Massage his foot, you!” she hollered at the floor.

“Aiyyo, no. Chee! Him and his dirty feet,” I backed away into a hard chest and turned around to glare. I saw Genie’s face without expression, but his mouth turned down and his moustache quivered a little. Anjali was smiling broadly. No one in the world scared her. Including Beasty. 

I felt hands dig into my arm and pull me away – a very pissed-off Roma. She wasn’t pissed at me. Just at everyone else.

She dragged me into the kitchen and I hissed at her, “Why didn’t you warn me Beasty was going to be here!”

“Daddy knew you wouldn’t turn up and told us not to tell you.”

“When has that ever stopped you?”

“I’m sorry, sweetie. I couldn’t stand the idea of being alone with all these crackpots.”

“But why drag Genie and Anjali here?”

“That was Daddy’s idea. Frankly I don’t know why. You know how Anjali goes out of her way to say the wrong thing and rub Beasty and Rajiv the wrong way.”

“Is Uncle becoming a masochist?”

“Hey, that’s my dad you’re talking about!”

“True… maybe I’ll ask him later.”

“He’ll bite your head off.”

“So what’s new. Who’s the new banda* in the hall?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

I turned to look at Roma. Liar! “You don’t know who’s in your house? Rajiv and Beauty are talking to him and Beasty is being the very essence of sunshine.”

I turned back to the hallway to look at the lean, handsome man, who seemed to be staring at Anjali. She was seated on a sofa with Genie. Plus, it looked like the man’s parents were with him. I felt a sense of déjà vu.

Genie tilted his head at the seat next to him, where Aditya was sitting now.

He nodded his head and gestured too many times for my relatives not to be annoyed and I quickly went over and sat on the sofa, stalling Aditya’s protests by picking him up and putting him on my lap. I looked up to see the man’s gaze on me and I smiled involuntarily. He smiled back.

“Aren’t you going to introduce us, Uncle?” I said, when the room had been silent for too long and it looked unlikely no one would make the introductions.

“About time,” Anjali mumbled.

There were a couple of guilty looks exchanged and Beasty Aunty looked away embarrassed. Baby Uncle, her husband, looked at her in irritation and then smiled at me. “Mol, this is my nephew Aby, his wife Mercy and their son Danny. Also, Beautymol’s mother is Mercy’s cousin and we wanted you to meet Danny and talk to him.”

I stared in shock at Danny, who looked uncomfortable at being sprung on me. I opened my mouth to protest. But nothing came out. I had been hijacked, ambushed, bamboozled! I looked for Roma but she had disappeared and I felt rage bubble up.

There had to be a catch. I couldn’t remember my last marriage proposal. All of them had been divorced.

“Are you d-d-divorced?” I said.

Danny nodded.

“Maybe you should go down to the garden and have a private chat,” Joy Uncle suggested, trying to smile but failing. I felt my spirits plummet. This was not how I hoped to find love a second time. 

“Brilliant idea, Uncle! I’ll chaperone. Come on, darling. Let’s go.” Anjali grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. I hung on tightly to Aditya, my head fuzzy. Genie’s face was steely. He stood up too. I set Aditya on his feet gently.

“No need for your servant to go too. Why did he come along anyway?” Beasty found her voice.

I whirled around. “First, he was never our servant. Second, Uncle invited Genie and Anjali, so ask him why privately. If you know how to?”

There was a commotion and furious faces. “Don’t talk to your aunt like that!” Joy Uncle said angrily.

“Mol, none of that. Don’t be rude. She’s an elder. Listen and don’t react,” Elsa Aunty had her arm around me and was whispering in my ear above the angry noises. I turned to look at Beasty. She had heaved her overly healthy frame out of the sofa and it had sprung back up into its former shape.

I felt bad immediately. “Sorry, for being rude, Betsy Aunty. But there’s no need to insult my friends. They wouldn’t have turned up if Upappen hadn’t invited them.” I looked at Danny, who was standing now. “Come on, Danny. Let’s take a walk.”

I pushed my way out of the door, with Genie, Anjali, the kids and Roma following. I knew the others would spy on us from the sitting room window which overlooked the garden. I walked ahead to the garden and waited for Danny. He smiled, “We certainly ambushed you.”

I pointed at the gate and said, “Let’s go out.”

“What… and not let them spy on us?” 

This man surprised me. “Yes. They shouldn’t have all the fun. In fact, let’s take a drive.” I fished about my purse and found my keys. I led him quickly to my car and unlocked the doors. I could see Anjali doubled up and laughing, an unfathomable expression on Genie’s face and Roma and Beauty running towards us. 

“Hurry, Danny, get in!”

I jumped behind the wheel and locked the doors as soon as Danny shut his. Roma banged the windows of the car, startling him. I drove further into the building complex.

“I think the gate is behind us.”

“I know! I need to turn the car, and at the rate Roma is chasing us I won’t be able to turn around without running her over. What to do, she’s my cousin! Plus, when she’s not pissing the shit out of me, I love her madly.”

I stopped the car, reversed sharply and sped towards the gate. This time everyone jumped out of the way, including the kids. I pressed the horn wildly for double effect and sailed smoothly out of the building’s gate. I turned onto the highway and took a deep breath to relax.

I forgot the potential serial rapist/murderer sitting next to me until he spoke. “Is this like an everyday thing for you?”

My heart almost jumped out of my mouth. I glanced at Danny, “My life is boring. But the cast back there can guarantee fireworks every time they get together. Where would you like to go?”

“I’m not from Mumbai, so maybe you should decide.”

“How about the beach?”

“Sounds good.”

At a traffic signal, I tried to take a better a look at the man beside me.

I was surprised at my childish behaviour too. There would be hell to pay when I returned. A sudden thought occurred. “Will your parents be angry that we took off this way?”

“Maybe. It will be new for them. I’ve never been kidnapped by a prospective bride.” My mouth turned downwards. This was all going south. Danny kept talking, and smiling, “But, to be honest, they do not have expectations where Betsy Aunty is concerned. So, let’s just chat and enjoy the sea breeze and go back when it is time.”

“The beach is about 15 kilometres away... a-and there’s traffic.”

“All the better.”

                                   ******

* Banda is Mumbai slang for man
* Upappen is father’s brother in Malayalam