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.

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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.)

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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 71: Lockdown Diaries: The Webs We Weave (3) – Afterwards

Before we left our bedroom in the morning, my father listened quietly to my account of what happened the previous night (FC 70). He asked me about the photographs and journal that were still in the loft.

“Did you read the diary?”

I was embarrassed at how bad I looked. “No-no. Bobby found me by then.”

My father’s mouth tightened and his eyes bulged. He took a deep, noisy breath through his nose. Was Appa going to thrash me like his father did? “Keep away from Bobby.” Appa’s hands gripped my shoulders tightly – his face close to mine, looking deep into my eyes. “Don’t let any man touch your body. No one should touch your chest or in places that make you uncomfortable, understood?” My face burned, but I nodded.

My parents eyes met, their faces grim. Soon, my mother left our bedroom for the kitchen. All the women were expected to start chores early in the morning. Appa caught my hand and pulled me to a corner of the room. “Mol, this area,” he pointed at his groin, “is a sensitive area for men. If someone is attacking or touching you and you don’t want them to, punch hard here. Ball your fist, like this, and slam this area or grab and squeeze hard. You have my permission to do that to Bobby if he touches you again. Okay?” I nodded, wondering how I would ever grab a man’s privates. “Shout loudly that he’s a bastard and should keep his hands to himself. Make a noise, scream. If someone grabs you from behind, what will you do?”

I shook my head.

“Bite, kick, scratch. Keeping biting. Bite anywhere. Bite like your life depends on it. Tear out flesh, inflict as much pain as you can. Kick the knees, punch the Adam’s apple, punch their noses upwards, my darling, anything to free yourself. Don’t be frightened. Be calm when someone is attacking you. Think and plot attack. Also, him grabbing you is not your fault. And, it will happen again and again.”

“What?”

“Yes, mol. Men are like that. Any woman or child is fair game. Hit, fight, scream, bite. Throw stones and run like mad. Be smart and cunning. Hurt the bastard and make him scream.”

I nodded, unable to make much sense of it. My gentle father was asking me to inflict pain on another human being. And I was relieved. What Bobby had done was wrong (FC 70).

The bedroom door flew open and Sarayu Aunty charged in. She planted her hands on her hips, her face was red and her eyes burned into me. “What is this I hear that you are saying my son touched you.” Behind her, my mother’s eyes bored into the back of my aunt’s head. My grandparents were pushing each other to fit into the doorway.

My father put his arm around me. “I will thrash Bobby if he so much as looks at my daughter again, chechi (older sister).”

Sarayu Aunty screamed a volley of abuse and her husband mouthed something incoherent. My father pushed me behind him and my grandmother pushed my mother out of the door, jabbing her in the chest with her elbow. My mother’s mouth opened in pain, but she barged in through the crush of people, her hair askew, furious. She stood in front of us, her arms stretched wide.

The air was full of tension. Some people stood with arms akimbo, others were ready to pounce. Everyone looked unsure.

The silence stretched and then my grandfather said, “Teach your daughter some manners! Teach your daughter to behave herself around boys!”

My father leaped at the group of people standing near the door, an angry wordless roar reverberating around the room. My mother ran after my father and Bobby’s father and mine were scuffling and wrestling, Appa seemingly trying to push him out of our room. My grandfather shouted abuse at me, his eyes full of venom. I threw myself into the scrum, landing an explosive punch into Mathan Uncle’s lower back. He screamed in pain, arching backwards. He let go of Appa, his hands trying to reach his back to stanch the pain.

Sarayu Aunty shook me roughly, hitting me a couple of times until my mother grabbed her hand and held it tightly skewering my aunt with an icy look. Aunty pulled her hand out of my mother’s and rubbed her husband’s back, all the while glaring at me. My arms were around my father, his shirt torn and hair messed up, all of us breathing hard.

My angry grandfather pushed his daughter, son-in-law and wife out of the room. “Teach your daughter some manners… hitting elders!”

Appa pulled me closer. When the last person was out of the door, he murmured, “Good punch, mol. That’s the way to do it.”

                                                            ******

Things did not get better. The three of us were suddenly out in the cold. When the rest of my father’s siblings and their families arrived, we were left out of conversations and activities. No one talked to us and the children refused to let me play with them. Snide remarks were passed in my hearing. Only Roma talked to me when the others weren’t looking. A couple of days after their arrival, she asked me what had happened.

But the look of disbelief on her face and the doubts she voiced humiliated me all over again. She thought I was lying! I raged at her, angry at her reaction and we stopped talking. All the while, Bobby smirked at me. I stayed far away from him.

I felt sorry for my parents. They were being punished because of me. Something as innocent as wanting to look at the photos and journal in the loft had taken a horrible turn.

And its cause, Saroj Aunty, was sitting pretty and looking scornfully at us, and judging us. She had no clue what had led to the skirmish in the loft. The photos and diary were still in the loft. I had to get them out now, and have a good look. Now I had to know what was written in the diary. I wanted to punish them all.

A few days later, the family was readying for a baptism in church and I had the runs. My parents did not want me to be alone at home and were planning to stay back when my grandfather began to shout at my parents. Appa cut his father off midway, unusual for my obedient father. “She will sit alone at home.”

The others smirked and I went back to sit in our bedroom. “Lock the door and don’t open for anyone unless it is your mother or me, okay?” Appa said.

I read a book near the window. Sometime later, I unlocked the door, my heart beating insanely fast, and turned the door handle of Sarayu Aunty’s room. The door squeaked open. No one was there and I breathed deeply to ease my tension.

I listened for sounds in the house and tiptoed along the corridor. I ran lightly through the house to check for the dregs of humanity that might have lingered. No one.

I quickly climbed the table in the store room and hoisted myself into the loft. I looked for the photos and diary. I checked all the bags and holdalls – they were gone!

In one of the bags I found an old slingshot – the rubbery portion could still stretch. I took it and climbed down, ran to my room and locked the door.

Fear chased around my being. Who had the photos and diary? I was certain my grandfather didn’t know about them. I couldn’t believe Bobby might have them. I hadn’t heard him boasting or making fun of the photos with his male cousins. I lurked around all the time, I knew what was going on. Maybe I didn’t know my cousin enough.

My parents returned home early, before the others. My mother came around the house to the window of our room to check on me. I opened the kitchen door for them. 

“All okay, mol?”

“Yes, Appa.”

(Continued in the next episode)

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This is a fictional series following the Mumbai-based narrator. She is recounting a story about her aunt Saroj during a childhood holiday spent at their ancestral home in Kerala. Read the previous episodes here and later ones here 70, 71, 72, 73, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78, 79, 80, 81, 82, 83, 84, 85, 86, 87, 88, 89, 90, 91.