Fishy Chronicles 93 – The Webs We Weave (25)

As soon as my great uncles and their families left Rita got Appachan to agree to an after-hours party. First we helped organise a bridal suite for the couple and then Ammachi gave us the keys to her snacks cupboard reluctantly, while Appachan stood nearby watching her. Ammachi’s mouth stayed open as she watched us fill our arms with snacks and concentrates. One of the boys got a music system and another candles.

Rita ordered us all to reorganise the furniture of the room furthest from the bedrooms, one in which some of the children slept. We pushed the furniture to the sides of the room and emptied it of unwanted stools and chairs. We decorated it with tinsel leftover from Christmas that we found in the loft.

Surprisingly everyone took their orders from Rita without a murmur, save for Roma. She dawdled at her duties as much as she could and at one point earned a brutal poke in the back from Rita. Roma glared at Rita’s disappearing back and flopped on to a nearby bed. 

“What’s with you?” I asked.

“Why does Rita get to set up the party?”

“Er, because she came up with the idea, and Appachan agreed!”

“Yes, but he agrees only when she asks.”

That was true.

“Smacks of partiality,” Roma continued.

I took a deep breath and walked off. My cousin was suffering a case of sour grapes. Her family was in Appachan’s A-list, they got what they wanted, everything they did was applauded, etc, etc. But I had not seen Roma’s resentment at being overshadowed coming. Roma only ever saw Rita as an irritating fly. But here in Kerala, at our grandfather’s house, Rita was in with the crowd that mattered. The elders found her charming, and so did our oldest cousins who found none of the younger cousins fun to be with.

I hurried to the large backroom because the music had started and the bride and groom were already dancing with each other, with more spectators than dancers on the floor. They looked beautiful.

Sarah danced with young Tomo and slowly the floor started to fill. I stacked the food on the table in the corner and jumped in. I gestured to Roma and after ignoring me for a while, she stood at the door and sniffed at the scene in front of her. Mobby suddenly pushed his way in, dislodging Roma from the door and she stumbled into the room. I righted her and we started dancing. Soon she was grinning and her poor mood disappeared.

When I crawled into bed at near 4am, my father was awake. “Forgot to watch CSI?”

“For once, there was something more fun, Appa.”

“I hope nothing’s left of the snacks.”

“Nothing. Ammachi insisted we clean the room before we go to bed.”

“Did you?”

“No.”

Appa chuckled. I wondered whether to set my alarm in time to watch Ammachi’s fury in a couple of hours. Nah. Sleep was more important than Ammachi’s torment and this family’s disobedience movement. I put back my clock on the sidetable.

                                     ******

“But why?” Rita mewled.

“Because that is the tradition, mol,” Joychayan smiled, trying to reason with his daughter.

“But what if I talk to Appachan, he’ll agree.”

“Rebecca is now part of another family, so she has to spend time there too.”

“No!”

“Yes!”

Next to her my cousins Rebecca and Roy looked amused. Rebecca had had an argument with her mother in the morning. She had worn a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt to breakfast, and Ammachi had blown a fuse about being a bride and something about a period to wear silks and jewels. Anniemama had hurried her daughter to her room and after an inordinately long time, a grumpy Rebecca came back to the dining room in a green silk sari, with several gold chains around her neck and her arms glinting of metal. Roy winked at her and her mood lifted.

“What’s going on?” I asked Roma, currently my fount of all knowledge related to Syrian Christian weddings and practices.

“Chechi has to dress the part for a few weeks. Look bride-ly. Gold jewellery always, silk saris, etc, etc.”

“What about the groom?” I eyed Roy, who was wearing a white shirt and grey trousers.

“Someone must have warned him, else he’d have been in track pants.”

“What was Rita crying about back there?”

“Roy and Reb are going back next door tomorrow. Rita wants them to stay till we return to Mumbai. She’s full of crap. Does she expect people to dance to her tune always?” Roma poked a boiled egg viciously, breaking it in half. Her fingers ground the appam and curry agitatedly.

“Why are they going?”

“I don’t know!” Roma snarled, bits of egg white flying from her mouth.

Silence was best, I felt. All further queries could be answered by my parents.

To escape my grandmother and her list of chores, I followed my father into the fields. “Why is Rebecca chechi leaving us?”

“She has to spend more time with her husband’s family now.” My father stopped and stroked my head. “She’s part of that family now.”

“Er, we’re her family.”

“Not really. She’s married into Kunjappachan’s family and that is now her family.”

“And Georgiechyan, Anniemama and Sarah chechi?” I said, feeling disquiet build. “What about them?”

“They’ll get used to it.”

I stopped midstride, wondering what this was all about. My father put his arm around my shoulders and nudged me forward. “See, mol, a girl is part of her husband’s family once she marries. She has no say in her own family.”

“Nooo…”

“Yes. It is a kind of unofficial family law.”

“But Amma visits her family.”

“Yes, but she’s considered an outsider now.”

“Is that why she cries everytime she leaves after we visit?”

“No,” Appa laughed. “She misses her parents, brothers and grandmother badly. Thinks Bombay is too far. Phone calls are expensive, you know. But she is considered part of my father’s family now – after marrying me.”

I felt glum – I couldn’t understand why. My aunts worked silently in the kitchen like work mules, while only their sisters in law and mother in law spoke. They were always going to be the outsiders, no matter what.

“What happens when I get married?” I was an only child after all.

“Well, you will be part of your husband’s family.”

“And you and Amma?”

“We’ll visit you every now and then. You’ll visit us and stay on holidays.”

“What if I want to stay with you permanently.”

Appa slowed and took a deep breath. “It doesn’t work that way. You’ll have to do what your in laws want, or fall in line with what they say.”

“I rarely do what you tell me.”

“Yes, I am always hoping that will change,” Appa grinned. “Shall we have puffs and chai on our way back?” My father was trying to change the subject.

But I had a burning question. “Who takes care of Georgiechyan and Anniemama when they are old? Like Roy will take care of his parents. Who will take care of Uncle and Aunty?”

Appa looked unhappy for a moment and then the expression vanished. “Oh, they’ll manage. The girls are smart, they will pitch in.”

“But... they will not be living with them...”

Appa walked off, not hearing me. I stood rooted to the spot, a thousand questions filling my mind and wondering why Appa was not keen to tell me the truth – something I had realised over the years but hadn’t really made peace with – daughters weren’t important, only sons were.

Appa turned around and held out his hand to me. I went to him feeling the burn of the sun on my bare head. I wanted to tell Appa I’d always be there for him, but suddenly I wasn’t sure anymore.

“Appa, yesterday someone called for Sarah.”

“Okay.”

“It was a man.”

Appa turned and stopped, his eyes widening. “He came to the house? Who?”

“Er, no, no. When everyone was in the sitting room, I picked up the phone. The man asked for Sarah chechi, but put the phone down when I asked who he was.”

“Johnny?”

“No.”

“Okay.”

“Do you think it was a friend of Johnny’s? Maybe he wants to get back with Sarah chechi.”

Appa sighed, “Johnny and Sarah are not going to get married. So stop discussing it or bringing it up. It will upset your cousin some more. She’s a bright girl and will find someone else soon.”

“Er, ok.” I could feel Appa’s irritated look on me, but I kept walking.

“You should go back in a while, Ammachi will want you to do chores.”

“I can do chores here in the field, there must be something I can do.”

Appa shook his head, “Not here. At home.”

“But you promised me puffs and chai!”

“Ah yes. From tomorrow then.”

We’d see.

                                     ******

I was relieved when Appa decided to return home. The menfolk and workers were now at the field and work was in full progress.

True to his word, and despite our heavy breakfast, Appa stopped for puffs and chai. I bit into the meaty puff and disappeared into another realm. The air stirred, feeling cool, and all about us people moved in slow motion, tending to their daily business. The shopkeeper next door watched us eat with interest. Nobody, absolutely nobody, ate puffs in full view of other people here, only outsiders – only Bombaywallas.

I chattered to Appa all the way past the bridge. Once we were at home, I wouldn’t have his ear until late at night when he was tired.

We were almost at the turn near the house when I noticed the white car. It had slowed just past our gate and come to a stop. I could see the man in the passenger seat look at the house, where a boisterous game of volleyball with a plastic ball was in progress but my cousins Rebecca and Sarah were standing at the sidelines holding each other and giggling.

I began to run to the car. The driver looked back at me and then started the engine. It failed. I tried to run faster. Appa shouted for me to hold back, but I hoped I could reach the car before it started. The tin tub revved into life and moved forward, attempting to drive off at full speed. It jerked and stalled and then started again. It was Rasool and he had broken into a sweat – and all because a 14-year-old girl was chasing him. But my eyes were on the man beside him.

I wanted to shout to him, but didn’t want Sarah chechi to know. So I took a stone and aimed it at the back of the car – hitting the fender. My father, gasping, caught up with me, grabbed my arm and raged, “What is wrong with you! You cannot throw stones at cars!”

“I can if Johnnychyan’s in it.”

Appa stared. “You still can’t, even if you hate him. Throwing stones is not a solution. A-Are you sure it was Johnny?”

“Appa, I’m 90% sure, and I don’t hate Johnychyan. Why did they run? It was Rasoolchyan’s car and he was driving. Why did they speed off!”

Appa caught my hand tightly, taking a moment to compose himself. He looked across the road at Sarah and Rebecca. “Don’t ever throw stones at anyone again. Promise?”

“Okay.” I had my fingers crossed at my side. My compliance with this latest dictat would depend on the situation. From the opposite side of the road we watched my cousins play for several minutes and then crossed it.

                                   ****** 

The Webs We Weave series follows the travails of a 14-year-old narrator on a family vacation. An innocent deviation spirals out of control and one thing leads to another. 

You can read the full series at 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

#lovemarriage #marriage #sarah #roy #rebecca #rebeccaandroy #cousins #kissingcousins #joy #love #grandparents #humour #kerala #keralavillage #keralastories #fiction #loveinkerala #cousinsinlove #cousins #puff #chai #summervacation #bride #groom #appam #eggcurry #gold #goldjewellery #phone #caller #syrianchristians #youngadult #secondcousins #bombaywalla #snacks #christmas #music #appam #curry #eggs #boiledeggs #fishychronicles93 #websweweave25

                                    ******

Fishy Chronicles 92: The Webs We Weave (24) – Rebecca

People shoved each other trying to push through the narrow dining room doorway. Others ran to the one opening into the study and out into the sitting room – I was one of them. Through the sitting room window we watched Thomaskuttychyan, Roy’s dad, slowly get out of the front seat of the car. His father Kunjappachyan was walking up from the road with his youngest son Mathaichyan and my other great uncle Eapachyan from opposite the road, their wives following at a modest distance.

Despite the crowd at the windows there was pin drop silence and I began to feel tense. I could see Roy… and Rebecca… in the back seat of the newish-looking red Maruti Esteem, wedged in with Roy’s mother Meenamama. The car had gauzy gold bows on its handles and small bunches of roses stuck to its body. The air was somewhat cool because it had just rained heavily and the fragrance of wet earth, mixed with that of Appachan’s roses and a neighbour’s chicken curry, was in the air. 

I had not expected Rebecca to come bride-like with Roy or with reinforcements and this seemed to change everything. The elders in the house stood at a distance from the windows staring out uncertainly, while there was a terse exchange between my grandmother and her two daughters. Pilipochyan looked coldly at his wife, almost as if he was exasperated with her. Sarojmama stopped talking and looked away.

Someone opened the front door, but there was an incoherent bark from the back of the room and everyone stilled. Appachan shuffled over to the door, but made no move to step out.

“Rebecca chechi is here!” Rita said happily, looking at the crowd puzzled. Had no one told her? Didn’t everyone know that our first cousin Rebecca had married our second cousin Roy from next door. That just couldn’t be… everyone was standing frozen to their spots, expectantly, almost as if they feared the worst. Georgiechyan and Anniemama hovered beside the door looking stressed, and shooting glances at Appachan.

By now Appachan’s brothers and their wives were at the doorstep, waiting to be invited in. It looked like a standoff. Appachan’s face was thunderous. Years later I would overhear a conversation between my father and his two oldest brothers about how Appachan was determined not to bend, especially suspecting his brothers of trying to force him to give his blessings to this unholy union.

Only Rita had had enough and with an exclamation she was out of the door and at the car tugging the door handle. When it finally wrenched open, she crawled in.

A gasp resounded across the room, and all the younger children were now wedged in the main door, trying to reach the car before the other, despite their parents hollering at them to stay in the room. You must know that Rita is Sarah and Rebecca’s favourite cousin – always following them and, surprisingly, being allowed to tag along. I imagined it was because she was quiet and sensible, and had a charm that overrode elder-cousin concerns (Rita handled them), while the rest of the girls were noisy and stupid. Despite Roma’s smartness and intelligence the George sisters didn’t care much for her, and that stung. I suspect they saw in her an equal – brilliant, and smug about it. I turned to look at Roma, she tilted her head sharply in the direction of the car and we raced out even though I heard my mother calling out to me. I was already in deep shit, some more, especially in the company of my cousins, couldn’t hurt.

We swarmed around the car and our cousins came out and were hugged and patted on the back. Rebecca was in a fuchsia pink silk sari and jewellery, sweat on her brow and looking flushed. “How did she get all that?” I whispered in Roma’s ear, eyeing Rebecca’s heavy-duty gold furnishings.

“Thomaskuttychyan would have paid for everything.”

We heard a roar from inside the house and stood still for a minute, but the chatter continued unabated. We saw our grandfather stand in the doorway watching us, first in astonished silence and then he almost fell trying to hasten down the three steps of the house. We hushed and flattened ourselves against the car, while some of the kids moved behind it. Would he use his walking stick to thrash us, but if he did how would he keep his balance?

He tottered towards us and stood for an eternity in front of Roy, who towered over him, while Appachan’s gaze roamed silently over the renegade couple. Roy looked nervous but Rebecca met my grandfather’s gaze head on. Finally he raised one of his arms and she walked into his embrace, while with his other he held Roy’s hand, ostensibly shaking hands with him, thereby cleverly balancing upright. There were shouts and my family laughed, pushing and shoving and trying to share the joy of the moment. The group moved itself up the house steps and into the sitting room, floating just above the ground like the swarms of ducks that frequently navigate Kerala’s farmlands. In the end, there was only standing space in the room. My aunts made several rounds of tea, while the couple were forced into the dining room. People hovered over them, dropping snacks into their plates, some hands pushing food into Rebecca’s mouth and tears, of joy, running down Anniemama’s face. Georgiechyan, with Sarah’s arms around his waist, looked overwhelmed, but happy, his eyes and Sarah’s focused on Rebecca.

And Ammachi? She stood at the side of the dining room, seething but intimidated by the adulating boisterous crowd. She tried to push through to the couple, but it was impossible.

I watched a hand shove an etheka appam into Roy’s cheek. An elbow shoved the hand aside and another hand with a handkerchief pressed against Roy’s nose, trying to wipe away the food. Clearly no one could see what they were doing to him. I was surprised Roy didn’t get up and run.

“Is this handfeeding business normal?” I asked Roma.

“No. Hugely abnormal. But what here is normal – not even our cousins!” she said in a super low whisper.

“Do you think any of them have washed their hands?”

“No.”

“Where’s Sarayumama?” Sarojmama and Pilipochyan were watching the couple from the side, the former’s mouth pursed and the latter leaning over a chair and smiling.

Roma turned around to look. Our older aunt was missing, but her husband and sons were in the dining room. “Well, she can’t put a stop to anything. Appachan will fix her if she says anything silly,” Roma said fiercely in my ear.

“Where do you think she is?”

After a long pause, “Probably checking if there’s a dowry to be given and how much.”

I looked at her in disbelief. “But these two had a love marriage. They eloped! The deed is done, how can you get a dowry after?”

“Sab hote hai* (everything goes).”

“Bullshit!”

A few seconds later, I began to move away from the dining room because my aunt’s absence had piqued my interest.

As Roma had said, Sarayumama was hanging on to every word being said by her father’s brothers and their families in the sitting room. There was not a mention of a dowry. I watched Sarayumama clandestinely – while her face smiled, her eyes were narrowed and it seemed an effort for her to look affable.

I remembered what my uncle Rajanchyan told me at tea time (FC91) just a little earlier – there was nothing anyone could do about Rebecca and Roy’s marriage. They were a done deed. And Sarah looked happy even though her younger sister had married before her. Probably there was no pressure for Sarah to marry now. No Johnny either.

I crept nearer Amma and slipped my arms around her waist and murmured, “Does this mean all is forgiven?”

“We don’t know, mol. For the time being, yes,” she murmured back.

“You think Ammachi has forgiven them?” My grandmother was in the sitting room, looking defeated, trying not to look glum and failing. One of her nieces got up and gave her her seat. Everyone was trying to avoid the elephant in the room, and only concentrating on positive topics. The conversation seemed forced.

My mother stayed silent. Some silences say a lot… and some nothing.

The phone in the study rang. Appachan was listening raptly to Thomaskuttychyan and so I picked up the phone.

“Sarah?”

“Er, no. Who’s speaking?”

The person cut the line.

******

* translated from Hindi

This series is fictional and follows the narrator recalling a childhood vacation with extended family in Kerala. The narrator’s cousins who eloped appear at her ancestral home and there’s a standoff.

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

#standoff #elope #lovemarriage #marriage #sarah #roy #rebecca #rebeccaandroy #cousins #kissingcousins #joy #love #hope #grandparents #shit #humour #kerala #keralavillage #keralastories #fiction #loveinkerala #cousinsinlove #cousins #holyunion #maruti #marutiesteem #redmarutiesteem #roses #wetearth #fragrance #rain #keralarains #summervacation #bride #groom #ducks #keraladucks #ethekaappams #appam #gold #goldjewellery #dowry #elephantintheroom #phone #caller #hindi #syrianchristians #secondcousins #brilliant #smug #snacks

Fishy Chronicles 80: The Webs We Weave (12) – Sarah’s suitor

Sarah, Johnny and I returned to Appachan’s (grandfather’s) home through the field at the side of the house – under the barbed wire, through the tapioca crop and in through the side gate.

When her holdall and knapsack wouldn’t squeeze through the window bars of my room, I went in and Sarah unpacked and handed me her clothes and then the empty bags. I saw Sarah and Johnny have a short conversation and she watched him go back through the field. If anyone saw…

I couldn’t stop thinking of the crossword puzzle in the newspaper (FC79). At the bus stop and after, I was certain there was a conversation in progress on the sides of the newspaper under the guise of deciphering a crossword puzzle.

Normally the newspaper disappeared in the afternoons and was returned to its pile in a corner of the sitting room in the evenings. While everyone was nursing their tea and snacks I decided to look for the newspaper. I couldn’t think of who to ask to decipher the scribbles. There’d be too many questions. Finally, I decided, my mother was the best person. She’d give me a lecture, but keep my secret.

But the paper wasn’t on the side table. That was strange. It was today’s paper and no one was allowed to keep it in their rooms.

“What are you looking for, mol?” Pilipochyan, my father’s younger brother-in-law, asked. He was my favourite relative this vacation – I felt safe being myself with him.

“Er, today’s paper.”

He lowered further the newspaper he was reading. “You don’t know how to read Malayalam.”

“Uh, yes. But I only wanted the crossword.”

“That’s in Malayalam too.”

I stared at Uncle. He was looking at me somewhat blankly, but there was something else.

“Y-Yes. I think there was a cartoon I w-wanted to look at.”

“You know, I never noticed cartoons in the newspaper.”

Neither did I. Only grey unclear pictures that were probably clarified by the article they were banged into. “Is that today’s paper, Pilipochyan?”

“Yes.”

“May I have a quick look at it?”

He brought the two edges of the newspaper together and held it out to me, watching with interest as I placed it on a nearby coffee table and quickly turned the pages.

There was a quarter page hole in the page – where the crossword had been torn out roughly. When I got over my shock, I noticed some words at the sides of the tear – half words, it seemed. I didn’t have the courage to ask Pilipochyan to read them to me. I’d have to come back when no one was around and tear out the rest of the page.

Pilipochyan’s voice sounded softly over my head, his breath rustling the hair on my head, making my scalp tingle, “Do you know where that quarter page went?”

It was not said in an intimidating way. He just sounded curious. He went back to his armchair and sat on the edge, waiting for me to reply.

“I-I don’t know.”

“Isn’t it strange? Just that part of the newspaper disappearing,” he lowered his reading glasses to look at me better.

“Y-Yes.”

“Do you know anything about it?”

“… No.”

“What I don’t understand is why you’d be interested in a Malayalam crossword when you don't know how to read Malayalam?” he grinned suddenly. I backed away and bumped into a body. “Someone got to the crossword before mol. Any idea who, Sarah?” the grin broadened.

I felt my cousin Sarah’s hands tighten on my upper arms, holding me still. “No, Pilipocha.”

“Hmm. Did you manage to do it?”

“Yes.”

They looked at each other, Pilipochyan smiling at us expectantly and Sarah and I silent.

Suddenly I was released and Sarah moved into the dining room, picking up dishes and walking straight to the kitchen sink. I turned to follow her but held back when I saw the baleful looks of my grandmother and her daughters, who were sitting at the dining table. I turned the other way and skipped out of the front door, making for my guava tree. Romeo, my favourite rooster, was in my spot, fast asleep.

                                                       ******

The general mood that night was upbeat. People joked about a wedding in the house, but piped down every time Sarah came into view. The women chattered about it and my cousins, boys and girls, lurked unobtrusively to listen. When I stood near the adults, I heard little of interest. So I went to my room to read an ancient issue of the Women’s Era magazine.

The door to Sarah’s room was open and she was sitting at the dressing table and staring into the mirror vacantly. I slowed, wondering why she was sitting alone and wanting to talk to her. On our walk back from the bus stop (FC79) she was near human and I felt we were almost back to how we were.

Her eyes widened when she saw me and I scooted towards my door. “Wait, mol. Come here. I want to talk to you.”

I stood where I was and Sarah came to her door. She held it open for me. She latched the door after me, and grinned, “Too many nosey parkers about.”

She showed me to a loveseat in the corner. “Just to confirm… we’re not talking to anyone about what happened today, right?”

“Right.”

“I have to choose a sari, help me pick out one that matches that blouse,” she pointed at a white and pink blouse on the seat of a chair. I was surprised… and elated. Sarah never fussed about clothes or asked anyone for advice or help. We went to her mother’s cupboard and looked through. We pulled out the beautiful silks, but nothing matched the blouse. Then we opened Sarah’s suitcase and she pulled out a cotton sari that matched the blouse.

“Chechi, here’s the matching sari, and it’s beautiful. Why do you want to match the blouse to the silks? It doesn’t seem to look good with any of those.”

Sarah sighed. “Amma wants me to wear a silk, but I didn’t bring too many saris. The only silk blouse I have is this.” She pulled out a scarlet blouse. I had seen her in the bright red sari at an engagement party. She had looked great in it, but for some reason it had annoyed the elders. “And Amma and Ammachi don’t want me to wear it.”

“Okay. Shall I ask my mom for a sari and blouse?”

Sarah shook her head slowly, a smile forming. I knew the pink sari was a Maheshwari, because my mother favoured them. “Your Amma gave me this sari,” Sarah said. I nodded. I knew that.

She laid out a maroon dupatta on the bed and pulled out several jewellery boxes from the cupboard and opened them. I felt excited. She pointed at two large velvet boxes, one had an elaborate gold necklace and the other a simpler one, both with matching earrings and bangles. “Well?”

“The sari goes well with pearls.”

She looked surprised. She got up, and reached into her mother’s cupboard looking for something. She emptied out a worn silk pouch. An old pearl choker, with three thin strands slipped out. Another pouch revealed matching earrings and tasteful old gold bangles with a few pearls inset, individually wrapped in soft cloth.

Sarah draped the folded sari across her shoulder and chest and sat at the dressing table. I closed the clasp of the choker at the back of her neck. We nodded involuntarily – the pearls and sari paired well.

“Ammachi won’t be happy you’re wearing pearls,” I said. Only gold was an accepted form of jewellery among us Syrian Christians. Middle class malayalis frowned on precious stones.

“Then we must make sure we annoy Ammachi,” Sarah murmured, looking at herself in the mirror critically.

She folded the sari carefully and hung the blouse and sari on a hanger in the cupboard. She began to put the jewellery back into their boxes. When she reached the sapphire ring and earrings Ammachi had made especially for her granddaughters (FC73), her hand stilled. She held out the earrings and ring in the palm of her hand. “Choose what you like.”

I was stunned. “N-No. No.”

“I insist. Ammachi should have given you a ring like she did the others. Leaving you out was cruel. So take whichever one you like – I have one too many.”

“No. Ammachi and Appachan will get angry.”

She shrugged, caught my hand and tried to put the ring and earrings in my hand, “They don’t need to know.”

My fingers closed into a fist. “I don’t want something they didn’t want to give me,” I said through clenched teeth. I didn’t want to touch the dark blue stones. I still felt raw at being left out.

“Don’t be silly, mol.”

“You’d have done the same if they had done it to you. Besides, if they didn’t want me to have it, I don’t want it.” I got up and started hurrying to the door, my eyes filling.

“Wait. Wait. How about this rin…”

I wasn’t looking back, I had reached the door and was moving the latch back when Sarah’s hand closed over mine and I felt her arm around my neck, squeezing me into her body. My tears started to fall. I refused to turn.

“Sorry, molu, so insensitive of me. I really want you to have a pair of earrings or a ring.”

I shook my head. “How can you bear to part with a gift that your grandma gives you? I don’t like some of the things my other Ammachi and great grand Ammachi give me, but I love that they want to give me those things. I love that they’re old and have their history in it. And Amma says I’ll think about them differently some day!” I turned and looked at Sarah, at this moment annoyed at her many transgressions.

She looked thoughtfully at me, cupped my face and wiped my tears slowly. “You’re right. I never thought of it that way. I just think of Ammachi as a silly woman, clinging to her traditions from the dark ages – not that I’m trying to diss her gift. Gifts.”

“Also, Chechi, my parents would be angry with me for taking it from you. And how would I have ever worn that ring or earrings knowing what had happened (FC73).”  

Sarah pushed my hair behind my ears. “I never took you for a thinker. Though, now it makes sense why Pilipochyan prefers you to everyone else.”

I pushed my cousin’s hands off me, gently. She had no idea how much torment I had suffered in the last few weeks. One night I had crawled into my parents bed, in between them, and grumbled labouriously. Appa had asked me a strange question – whether I had a takeaway from my experiences. I had to ask him what he meant.

“What has all this shown you?”

“That people are cruel.”

A sigh. “What else?”

“That they don’t think before they hurt. That you think people are kind and wonderful, but they can bank on a lie and turn evil instantly.” My parents were silent. I poked my father. I wanted him to hear about everything ailing me. “Are you sleeping?”

“No, mol.”

“Why are you silent?”

I felt him shrug. “I’m sorry all this is happening. They all seem shallow and silly. I hear a lot of complaints about you, but I’d rather you had a spine and could think for yourself than just be part of the crowd. I don’t know if things will change, mol. But until then, be brave, be yourself… you’ve already started making tough decisions.”

“It feels like hell.”

“Do you think everyone hates you?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Er, not Rita, or Roma... Or Pilipochyan.”

“See.”

“But they won’t help me in any way.”

“Why expect them to?”

“Then what use are they?”

There was more silence. My mother had been holding me tightly for a long time. Now my father’s hand combed my hair. My universe, so far, had no answers.

******

The children were ordered to wear their best clothes and stay in the inside rooms.

So I wore my Sunday church kurta salwar, a ‘ping’ affair, and hung about. But I felt a niggling tension. I wanted Chechi to be married to someone nice. Someone like Appa or Pilipochyan – but livelier… and, of course, more handsome. In the middle of the night, I had hunted for the newspaper and tore out the edges around the hole that represented the erstwhile crossword. I went back to sleep, somewhat at peace and sure that I would get to the bottom of the crossword business.

Everyone in the house was on tenterhooks. I didn’t believe it was possible, but my hairy cousins had all shaved and had haircuts in the past few days. And today they wore gold-bordered white mundus and starched white jubbas. The order had come from Appachan. I thought the only reason the boys obeyed was because they were curious about the boy Sarah was going to meet.

My cousin sisters were forced to switch to cotton saris, from silk, because Sarah was wearing a cotton sari and she was the one that was supposed to be in the limelight today. My cousins were expected to look pretty in case they caught someone’s eye.

Yeesh!

In the preceding days we had changed all the covers on the sofas and armchairs and washed and ironed all the curtains, and my father’s sisters’ (Sarojmama and Sarayumama) embroidered tablecloths from a 100 years ago were fished out and they looked like they were starched to their eyeballs. Plus the furniture had been repolished and unsightly pieces of furniture moved to other rooms. All the nest tables in the house were collected and stacked tastefully in the corners of the sitting room and the boys rearranged the furniture several times until Appachan was satisfied.

We were taken aback when several cars rolled into the courtyard. Some older couples and younger men entered and sat in the sitting room.

Our best cutlery, and some more from granduncle’s house next door, was stacked on the dining table and all the snacks were ready – all home cooked. There was water and milk on the boil, with my aunts tending to it.

I wanted to see if I knew the 'boy' and tried to push my way into the sitting room. There was a wall of smiling humanity crammed into the doorways of the dining room, the corridor and even of the study. I decided to push through like I did in the buses and trains in Mumbai. I spotted Sarayumama smiling at someone and poked her ample bare midriff with my index and middle fingers. She gasped and jumped to the side and I pushed through… only to enter a room that had just gone silent.

And there he was. Handsome. And smiling at me like we were best friends. I beamed back.

I felt a hand grab the scruff of my neck and another violently shove it away.

“Come here, mol. Meet my parents, grandparents and uncles and aunts,” Johnnychyan said. Sarah chechi was sitting next to him on the sofa, a wide space between them, her eyes focused on the floor and her face pink.

I tottered into the room, feeling drunk. It was Johnnycha! Johnnychayan was Sarah chechi’s suitor! No wonder he was so insistent on her returning home. I opened my mouth to say something, but heard a throat clear. It wasn’t my father who had cleared his throat, but he had that look that said ‘behave’.

Sarah’s mother Anniemama, seated nearby, murmured in her direction. Sarah stood up, moved towards the dining room and held out her hand to me, “Help me get the tea?”

I smiled again at Johnnychyan and followed Sarah. My cousins suddenly swarmed around us, piling the snacks on to serving plates and pouring the tea into the cups. Nina carried the tray of tea to the doorway of the dining room and handed it to Sarah. Suddenly my cousins felt shy, so someone pushed a tray laden with eats into my chest and several hands pushed me into the room.

I felt stricken with embarrassment. Traditional stereotypes were not for me. I wanted to dump the tray and disappear. But I inched forward uncomfortably. Sarah served the tea and I followed her while she served the guests snacks and placed their quarter plates on nest tables that Rajiv moved nearer the guests. When I was done, I stood next to my mother and watched.

After an eternity, the guests left. It appeared that things were sealed.

******

In the next few days, there was a quick engagement with only close family invited and a marriage date was debated and set.

Johnny returned to Mumbai almost immediately. The words I had retrieved from the crossword meant nothing – they were alphabets missing the words. And Sarah was let off the hook for most chores – but she had to prepare one traditional dish every day or prep the makings of others under Ammachi’s watchful eyes.

Sarah looked happy, but disappeared after her efforts in the kitchen. I was bursting with questions but was unable to get Sarah alone.

But, eventually, I discovered something else.

                                                            ******

This series is fictional and follows the narrator who is remembering events related to a family vacation in Kerala during her childhood. Her cousin Sarah is being forced to meet a suitor, but things end surprisingly. 

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

Fishy Chronicles 46: Appams And A Lot More

“What are those?” Genie asked.

“Place card holders. I found these in one of Uncle Nigel’s boxes. I wondered if I’d ever have a chance to use them, but now I think they’d look classy on this table.”

“Why now… exactly?”

“Oh, I can’t remember when such a large group came over.”

“I remember many occasions… with Papa and Mummy and all your friends.”

I nodded. Now it was like walking a barren land. My friends were in different places, with young families and no time. My office friends had slowly stopped calling. I was now a statistic of the forlorn.

I felt Genie lean into me. “You should stop thinking. Period.”

I wrote out the names on little cards and stuck them on their stands. Six were tall, brown hills with conical tips, flanked by smaller, round hills. There was a slit on the top of the tallest peak for the cards to sit in place. The short hills were covered in dark brown grass. I suspect the place card holders were custom made. The designs were at once creative and extremely fruity. There were a couple of other holders designed as men and women playing or picking flowers in tall grass. Genie took up the three different place card holders, there were 18 in all, and looked at them carefully. He slowly turned them about and then put them back on the table. How lucky was I to have these. I’d found them in a large filigree box in an old trunk, but had never thought of using them. Until now.

I had a sudden thought. “I haven’t looked at most of those boxes in the loft, Genie. Would you help me go through them? I feel overwhelmed whenever I take a look.”

“Sure, we can look at the boxes together.”

                                                        ******

This is a fictional series about a 30-something Mumbai woman, her former pet fish and her parents former man servant Genie. Fish and Genie have returned from their travels to spend time with the narrator. 

The narrator's friends and family arrive for lunch. She attempts to pay back Genie for inviting Zeba, but karma intervenes with a resounding karate chop.

                                                        ******

“You haven’t put out the place cards,” Genie reminded me when most of the guests had arrived. 

I was surprised to see Arief. He looked at me in shock, “Jeez, what happened to you!”

He touched my eye, which was now open but still black (read about it here). There were other bruises on my face and I had asked my cousin Roma to prepare her children for it. Aditya, my little nephew, had cried until I assured him and his brother Aarav that though my bruises still hurt, my wounds were healing fast. They hadn’t seemed convinced, but felt a little better when Genie pulled up his shirt and showed the boys the bruises on his midriff and arms. Their father Georgy was almost pop-eyed at the display of naked, hard, toned flesh and stood in front of Roma to protect her from the view. Genie gave Roma a winsome grin and winked at her, pulling down his shirt very slowly. Georgy’s arms rose higher involuntarily. 

“The bust up at the bank. Didn’t you see it?” I told Arief.

Arief looked shamefaced. “Sorry, I left as soon as the mob turned violent. I didn’t think you’d get hurt… you were with Genie…”

I opened my mouth to say something, but what was the point. I’d always think of him as the guy who ran when the going got tough. No point crucifying him for it. None of the churchwallas had hung around to see if we were fine. They now avoided me on the street, acting as though they didn’t see me.

“It was reported in the news,” Arief said.

“Er, what was?”

“Police turned up and arrested some of the people and the guy who drove his car into the bank.”

“Yes, it was crazy. Genie and I were arrested and marched into a police van…” I straightened the table cloth.

Arief caught my hand. “What?”

“Yes. Well, I climbed into the van and then was ordered out,” I lied.

Arief looked shocked. “And then?”

“Then Genie’s connection – a sub inspector – let us go. He ordered us to visit the police station for questioning.”

“Oh!”

I moved around some of the cutlery – a housewarming gift from my father’s cousin. My mother used them every time there were large family gatherings or virinde chor*. Even in the age of Google, I hadn’t researched the different forks.

I felt a nudge, Arief was talking to me. “So, what happened at the police station?”

“Eh? Police station?”

“Yes. At questioning?”

“Oh. No one called us. I don’t know if we’ll be summoned. SI Jeevan seemed to be good friends with Genie.”

“Oh!”

I could see Arief opening his mouth to ask more questions. “Can you get that big brass vessel, please? The one on the kitchen platform.” Arief hesitated. “Quick!”

He moved into the kitchen and struggled with the big brass urali (traditional urn). I hid a smile. Usually, Genie and I lifted and moved it about together. Today it was half filled with fragrant jasmine and roses. I pointed at the marble window seat. “Set it over there.”

I watched Arief struggle and felt guilt strike. I went up to him quickly and helped him carry it. We placed it in the middle of the seat and I filled it with water and admired my handiwork.

The next guest was Zeba, our next door neighbour, who clasped Genie tightly and tried to kiss him on the mouth but got his jaw instead. I am not sure who was more pleased, Zeba or the group watching, which included Aunty Glory and Uncle John. They were beaming.

Ashok and Eva came in soon after with Nidhi. They brought with them a bottle of Australian wine, which I considered forward for Syrian Christians. 

I looked at my makeshift dining table. I was able to extend it with the help of another table whose sides could be unfolded. I had borrowed Aunty Glory’s chairs and now my beautiful light lemon yellow table cloth was stretched across both tables and the crockery and cutlery were laid out. From a diffuser in the corner, lemon grass fragrance gently wafted out into the room, making it feel restful. I had fed Fish shrimp earlier in the day and they were sated and lounging about the tank, watching and waiting for action. Last night, I overheard Penaaz tell Fish, “With that crackpot group, tomorrow’s going to be like the Republic Day fireworks going off in our balcony.”

I quickly set the place cards on the table, listening to Zeba lead the conversation. But when there was a sudden lull I turned around. Genie had got up from the marble seat near the window and was murmuring in Aunty Glory’s ear, and was now balanced on the armrest of her chair with his arm around its back. I could see all the women watch Genie carefully and the men look at the women and at Genie. In the chair next to his wife, Uncle John’s eyes twinkled.

I dragged my sight from the group and wondered what was wrong with the holders. They looked odd, at once pleasing but something was off. I turned to look at the group again. Genie smiled broadly and nodded. That was strange too. He had been watching me for a long time. Was he worried I wouldn’t treat Zeba or Nidhi well? Humph.

Roma joined me in the kitchen and we set appa chattis on all four burners and started making the first batch of appams. Roma had told Genie to sit at the dining table and that she and I would serve the guests. When he had refused, Roma told him that Georgy would be upset if Genie stood in the kitchen with us. Genie hadn’t quite believed her, but hadn’t argued more. Genie got the guests to sit and then came into the kitchen. “There seems to be a mistake in the seating arrangements.”

“Really?”

“I’m next to Zeba,” he said. I could hear irritation.

“Okay.”

“Are you playing games with me?”

I whirled around. “Oh! I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Then why did you do it?”

“Didn’t you tell me a few months ago that she was a beautiful and interesting neighbour and that you were keen to fraternise with the enem… er… her?”  (see story)

Genie’s eyes bore into mine and finally one eyebrow rose. “Really?”

“Really! Be a dear and talk to her. I don’t want her to feel we’re neglecting her. Nidhi can be a dragon.”

“Nidhi’s sitting on my other side... not that you didn’t know, considering you placed the name plates.”

“Oh,” I tried not to smile and turned back to the appa chattis. I removed the appams and poured in the batter. I could feel Genie staring at me. After a while he left.

Roma peeped into the dining room and asked me, “What’s going on?”

I handed her the plate of appams and followed her into the dining room to serve the chicken stew. I worked quietly and quickly and returned to the kitchen without making eye contact.

“I believe you are playing with fire, my dear,” Roma said as soon as she returned.

“I’m at the stove. Playing with fire, for sure.”

Roma pinched my ear hard. “Ouch! Stop that,” I pressed my ear to the side of my head, willing the pain to stop.

“You fooling around with Genie that way isn’t a good idea.”

“What do you mean?”

Roma glared at me. “Genie strikes me as someone who will retaliate.”

I felt fear creep into my being, but shook it off, and stacked four appams on the plate. I peeped into the dining room again. Both Nidhi and Zeba were talking to Genie. Aunty and Uncle hung on to their every word. Arief had tried unsuccessfully to have a conversation with Nidhi, who sat next to him, and darted Genie a few hard looks before turning his attention to Eva, Ashok and Georgy. The latter was forced to feed his children and watch his wife, and his food grew cold on his plate. My eyes moved involuntarily from Genie to Arief and back. Genie was smiling and enjoying the attention. While Arief was handsome, Genie looked rugged – like he wrestled wild bison and chopped large blocks of wood with one hand to keep his home fires burning everyday… and yet took the time to groom himself.

He looked up and our eyes connected. I moved back into the kitchen and wanted to bang my head on the wall. This was tit for tat, I told myself. The day he issued the invite to Zeba (refer to), he had invited this on himself. But why didn’t I feel happy about quid pro quo. And how was he enjoying himself so much with both women?

A few minutes later I heard Georgy talking angrily to Aditya, and his little son wailing, and Aarav trying to explain but being told to shut up. There was an angry exchange between Roma and Georgy and Aditya cried louder.

I rushed into the dining room and Aditya jumped off his chair and held out the place holder. Georgy looked magenta and I picked up Aditya. “What is it, my darling? Why is Daddy angry?”

Aditya took his wet face out of my neck and showed me the place card holder. “I told Daddy it looked a peepee and kokums. But he wouldn’t listen. See…” He pushed the holder into my face and now I understood what had bothered me for so long. Little Adi, being a doctor’s son, had got the anatomy right but the pronunciation wrong. Aarav came towards me and handed me the other place card holder. I almost dropped Aditya in shock. It wasn’t two people looking for flowers, but two men being intimate in the tall grass. I closed my eyes trying to rein in my shock. I dreaded looking closely at the third set.

I opened my eyes and saw Genie’s eyes laughing at me and his mouth in a broad grin. The rest of the group were in deep shock and all of them were looking at their place card holders carefully. I could see looks pass between Arief and Ashok, and Nidhi giving me a dirty look. Judging me!

Georgy burst out. “The filth in your house! It’s amazing you would put that shit on the table.” Shit was a strong word for the ultra-pious Georgy. He raged angrily, until his cousin Ashok told him to pipe down, while trying to keep a straight face. But his wife and my cousin Eva were not so amused.

I felt angry listening to Georgy mouth off his indignation. But I could see Roma ready to burst and I stood between Georgy and her. Uncle, Uncle, Uncle! What a sly, crazy man you are. Were. I love you. I love your crazy gift. I just wish I’d looked at them long enough before I set them on the table. I smiled involuntarily, making Georgy even more angry.

“Shush, son, shush!” Uncle John said. Georgy wanted to rage on but was too taken aback by the gentle remonstration. “Can’t you see she had no idea what it was? Did she willingly want to corrupt your children? Absolutely not! Calm yourself.”

Aunty Glory reached out and plucked the third card holder out of Nidhi’s hand and stared at it. She and Uncle John leaned into each other and started to giggle. Then they started to laugh loudly, rolling about, pummelling the table and crying with the entire effort. Shit, shit and double bloody shit!

My eyes settled on Genie. He was laughing too, as were most of the guests seated. Genie had known all along and yet he had let me place the name plates on the table. And I, in my haste to exact revenge, hadn’t noticed what I was handling. The universe was giving me a royal kick in the rump. I saw the prepubescent, but precocious, Aarav explaining to Aditya what the third placeholder was about when Georgy reached out and smacked the older boy across the head.

All hell broke loose. Roma screamed at Georgy and lunged at him. I, standing between Roma and Georgy, crashed into Georgy and we fell onto the table and rolled on the ground. When I was pulled up, Genie was between us, making Georgy and me sit and ordering us both not to get up. I glared at Georgy for making Aarav cry. His mother was holding him, but he was stiff, with silent tears rolling down his face. Next to him Aditya wailed bitterly. Genie picked him up and grabbed Aarav by the hand and pulled him along.

“Not my sons, you don’t!” Georgy shouted.

“Sit down!” Ashok roared.

Georgy jumped up and ran into the bedroom. He stared at the scene in disbelief. I was right behind him. Genie was wiping away Aarav’s tears and handing Aditya tissues to wipe his face. All through he murmured, but Aarav stayed sullen.

Georgy opened his mouth to shout, but Aunty Glory said, “Please keep quiet, Georgy. You could have just explained things to the boy – the birds and the bees in advance. What makes you think Aarav doesn’t know what those card holders are about anyway?”

Georgy turned on me. “It’s all your fault, putting little sculptures of private parts on the dining table. Corrupting my children!” 

“Stop it, Georgy, that sounds gross,” his cousin Nidhi smirked at me, enjoying my discomfort.

“I wondered where I saw them… at Mr Poonawalla’s!” Arief grinned at me.

“It’s called erotic art. Can find its way into everyday ordinary household articles,” I tried to justify, involuntarily thinking of how Roma, my best friend Anjali and I had sniggered over household articles that were made in the shapes of fornicating couples at the Kelkar Museum in Pune and later in a market on a trip to Jaisalmer. 

I went to Aarav and hugged him. I rubbed his hands and kissed them. “My darling, people are obsessed with sex and it is a natural thing between people. Those place card holders are erotic art. Some people love them and can fill their homes with them.” I heard an angry Georgy being ordered to shut up. I sighed and pushed Aarav’s hair off his forehead, “Maybe not the ideal thing to put out on the dining table at a gathering with children.”

“Genie Uncle said they were a gift to you… from  Nigel Uncle. Is it true?”

“Er, yes. They are mine now.” I wondered what else I’d find in my loft.

“We really should have a proper look at those bits of art, shouldn’t we, John?” Aunty said.

“Yes, my dear.” There was an instant rush to the dining table.

Roma held out her arms to her sons and they went to her. She shielded them from their father, who was still angry. I went back to the dining room to find everyone examining their name holders. Some were staring at them in disbelief, others were sniggering. I could see grudging respect from Zeba, which stumped me. She smiled and nodded.

“It’s quite beautiful... in an aesthetic way,” she smiled fulsomely at Georgy. His eyes slid from her smile to her cleavage and he looked up to see Roma looking at him without expression.

I listened to the buzz around me.

“Do you think this is in someone’s likeness, Glory?”

“Something’s likeness, you mean.”

“Put these away right now!”

“Shhh, Georgy! You’re killing everyone’s fun!”

“So what!”

“… definitely hippy era…”

“How can you tell?”

“Maybe there’s some information on the bottom.”

“His or her bottom?” 

Roma said to me, “You said these were in the boxes Uncle Nigel gave you, right?”

“Er, right.”

“May I look through them with you?”

“Roma, you have children!” Georgy burst out.

"Apparently. May I help you sift through the boxes, baby?" Roma was at her most appealing.

“Is it okay if I join too?” Uncle John asked.

“Er, can we come too, Aunty?” Both children were on their feet, looking at me eagerly.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?” Nidhi asked.

“They’re gifts from Uncle. I don’t want people laughing at them. He gave me his art and things close to his heart. I hope it is because he thought I was evolved. I can’t stand the idea of him being the butt of someone’s jokes. So, I respectfully decline all offers of help to go through his boxes.”

There was a long silence, until Uncle John broke it. He stood up and put his hands on my shoulders. “Of course, my dear. You are right. It’s not appropriate for us to go through Nigel’s things. Glory and I were charmed by Nigel and thought very highly of him. Are we offended by the card holders? Of course not! He’s made an otherwise dull day come alive.”

Uncle kissed my forehead. I knew Uncle John and Aunty Glory had known what the holders were as they had made a beeline for the dining table as soon as they came in. The erotica that had masqueraded as place card holders had been the icing on the cake for them. 

Bless you, Uncle Nigel. You livened up this lunch, and now I’m not going to feel bad opening all those boxes in the loft. 
                                                                    

                                                      ******  
* Virinde Chor - Traditional meal offered to newly weds by close family.