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 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

Fishy Chronicles 29: Bad Made Worse

I woke up with a start.

Eva was talking in her sleep. I could see light streaming in through the windows and Fish looking fed up. They were massed on the couch in the tank, with ear plugs and ear phones, either trying to block the sounds from the beds or drown them with music. 

My watch said 5.45am and I could see the sky lightening. I got up, took my towel and went for a bath.

"Wait!" Penaaz swam to the top of the tank. I went closer. "I just realised we could have slept in the bathtub and closed the bathroom door."

"That's not a bad idea. Though I think my body would be crooked forever."

Bath over I messaged Genie if he wanted to have morning tea with me. I wheeled the tank out of the hotel room door and Fish let out a torrent when they saw Genie. 

"You won't believe the hell we've been through..."

"An evil, evil business..."

"It was like being tied to a hyena in constant pain..."

"They need to be put down..."

"... need their oesophaguses checked..."

Genie crouched on his haunches to listen to Fish. "Check their oesophaguses... why?"

Gregory pushed the others aside and filled his chest. "Hideous, guttural moaning all through the night! It was violent, unadulterated torture!"

Genie grinned. "Well, you'll have to get used to it. There's no way out."

Penaaz shoved Gregory aside, "Can't we move in with you, Genie?" she begged piteously. I was surprised at her. Eva and Nidhi must have traumatised them. I had been dog tired and slept immediately and deeply. I suspect that was why Fish were annoyed with me and sucking up to Genie now.

"You're stuck, I'm afraid. The guys snore too."

I tried to keep from smiling. But my amusement died soon. Only if I ran around Lonavala's perimeter, played table tennis like crazy and swam 50 laps might I pass out at night and stay comatose. Tonight seemed a grim business.

                                           ******

This is a fictional series about the narrator, her former manservant and now friend, and former pet fish. They have followed the narrator on a holiday with her relatives and have spent a miserable night with roommates from hell. Though she brushes off the previous night's irritations, the narrator is headed for more trouble.

                                           ******

At nearly 10am, and because Georgy, his mother and Ashok banged their door, the two women came down to the dining room for breakfast. Almost all the food was over and the hotel staff shrugged their shoulders. They did offer to get sandwiches for the two women.

But Uncle had other ideas. "They will eat what is available. Tomorrow they'll set an alarm and come on time for breakfast," he said coldly and shook out his newspaper. He was stretched out on a stately hardwood armchair, similar to the teak wood ones we had at our home in Kerala. 

So Eva and Nidhi ate cold soggy toast, relieved by the taste of butter and marmalade. Arief, Ashok and I played table tennis and when Eva was near me, I grabbed her arm and pushed a bat into her hand.

"Hey!" Nidhi said. I didn't understand the affinity Nidhi was showing her sister-in-law, my cousin, Eva.

"Give Nidhi a bat someone," I said. Nidhi hated sweat. I had never seen her run and right now, even on holiday, she tottered about ramrod straight on a pair of stilettos. I felt like whacking her, but it was not lost on me how much interest the men were taking in her. Ashok, pushed his bat into his sister's hand and muscled her into place at the table with Arief.

Arief looked at Nidhi's feet, "Are you sure you'll be able to run in those?" he smiled, all sexy and gooey. She opened her mouth defensively, but with the warmth of Arief's gaze she soon slipped off her sandals daintily, making a great show of it. I could see my no-nonsense uncle and the other conservative Syrian Christian elders watching it all. 

I hit the ball to their side of the table and it bounced and shot past Nidhi's ear, making her drop her bat in fright. Even though I nonchalantly fiddled with my table tennis bat - like tennis professionals did while concentrating but secretly plotting the routing of their rivals - I could feel my uncle glaring at me. I wondered why Nidhi's parents hadn’t stopped with Ashok and whether they knew about family planning then, but...

"Ouch! Asshole!” I glared at Arief. He’d served and the ball had smacked and bounced off my collarbone. I dropped my bat and grabbed the stinging portion of flesh and bone, feeling an absolute fool. The goat was looking at and fiddling with his bat. People laughed. I glared at those assembled. Genie grinned and Fish watched with interest.

Some people moved closer to the table and when Arief looked away I served. It hit him under his chin. He glared at me while rubbing his chin. I could see Ashok and Genie move nearer to me, on either side. Now I felt some panic. 

“That was unnecessary,” said Mr Hot Uncool Guy from across the table. 

“Yes. My aim was really off.” I moved to my left, shouldering a bewildered Georgy into my place, to avoid having to deal with Arief's next volley. Nidhi looked at me witheringly. In response, I said, “You think you’ll be able to run without your stilettos, Nids?”

“My name is NID-H-E-E.”

“We’ll make sure we win the game,” Arief butted in.

“At this pace I won’t make it to the Wimbledon finals,” I said.

“Unlikely you’ll even get a wild card or be allowed to step on the grounds. You're too much of a kook to be taken seriously.”

I could only suck in my breath in shock at his rudeness. I felt worse at the burst of laughter around me and felt the burn of humiliation. My eyes filled.

“That’s enough, you two!” Ashok said, bewildered and upset. I could feel Genie's arm around my shoulder and angry cries from the tank. I couldn’t bear to look at anyone. I put my bat down and walked slowly out of the hotel. 

I could hear Roma's raised voice. But I didn’t care, I sprinted out into the road as soon as I was out of sight of the door. What a huge mistake I'd made coming here. With people I didn’t care for, always making up someone's numbers and being an idiot and overdoing the pettiness. I felt foolish and ashamed of myself. 

“Quit the pity party,” I heard Aunty Glory say. “You asked for it,” was probably what my dad would have said. “He could have done it better,” my mom would have said. Or, in this instance, “You deserved it.”

I heard him before I saw him. Nobby, my mosquito friend, sat at eye level on a leaf of a bush. I was sitting on a bench in the garden of another hotel. It would take the hotel's staff a while to discover me and longer to figure out I wasn't a guest.  

“Are you okay?” Nobby asked. He didn’t attempt to sit on me or hover.

“Yes.”

“Your nose is red.”

“Okay.”

“Why were you so rude to Arief and Nidhi?”

I opened my mouth to defend myself but I couldn’t. I’d just been rotten to both for no reason. I shook my head and hunched. I couldn’t look at him.

“You know, Fish shouted at me to bite Arief. When I didn’t they threw water out of the tank. But worse, everyone’s upset and your rudeness has spoiled the holiday atmosphere.”

I nodded, tears spilling. I’d been an idiot, with my antagonism for Nidhi getting the better of me. I felt inferior sometimes, the way she looked down on me and never had a nice thing to say to me. Still, spitefulness had not been the solution. 

My phone rang. It was Roma. After several rings I picked up. She gave me an earful and ordered me to return to Pretty Villa. 

“N-No, Roma. Not just now. I’m going to the market. I’ll be back later.” I cut the line before she could reply and didn’t pick up her call again. I was a fool through and through. I didn’t have any money in my pockets, but I was damned if I was going to go back to the hotel now.

                                             ******